Sleep has always been difficult for me at the best of times, but I go through phases when it's downright maddening. Some nights I'll lie there for two hours or more and still be wide awake.
I've learned that there is a physical "sleep zone" that I need to reach. In this zone I feel mentally drowsy and comfortable, the real world starts to retreat, the images in my head take on a hazy quality. Once I'm in that spot I can happily congratulate myself and be unconscious in a few minutes.
GETTING to that zone has always been the trouble, because there are "things" in the way. Sometimes these things are physical -- like a high energy level, an uncomfortable sleeping area, or blood sugar that's out of whack. But most of the time the obstacle is a mental one. I have "things on my mind" and my mind won't let them go without a fight.
One technique I've used for a long time is to let each mental "thing" appear in front of my eyes -- like a future task that's worrying me or an activity I'm looking forward to -- and then I mentally burn them in a quick flash that instantly disappears. If I can do this fast, for all those things, then there are no mental left-overs. But the difficulty is that the very mental process of imagining these flashes is ANOTHER "thing," and I must make sure not to dwell upon it in any way: just let the flash happen and instantly forget it happened.
When that doesn't work I try something I discovered last year: I visualize a bright white "square wave" -- a blocky line with a few 90-degree angles in it -- accompanied by a deafening, clean, unmusical tone. My brain instantly starts to whip around to concentrate on those other things," and each time it starts to grasp one I intensify the tone and bring the square wave in again. This works for more bothersome "things" but is easy to get tired of...if it doesn't work after ten minutes or so it just won't work at all.
For the past two weeks I've had A LOT of trouble sleeping, because I'm experiencing this burning creative urge: a need to devise new projects and consider old projects. I'll go to bed and instantly start writing blog entries in my head, or considering musical possibilities, or sketching out storyboards. When this happens I start to lose more and more sleep, which is ironic because if I actually GOT enough sleep I'd have the energy to follow THROUGH with all those plans.
All these visualization things I've mentioned are ways of turning abstract mental "things" into nearly physical objects, because physical objects can be destroyed or ignored or -- even better -- turned off.
So now, in this time of sleep-crisis, I've been trying out a new technique. I imagine a little cave full of filmstrip machines -- remember those? -- and each one is showing a different basic TYPE of "thing." Rather than projecting SPECIFIC things, like "I can't believe I said that thing to so-and-so last year" -- as I've always done before -- I now lump all those "things" into categories -- like "regrets," for instance. I let them play for a while and then, one-by-one, turn the filmstrip machines off until finally the cave is dark.
Besides "regrets" I commonly have an "anticipated worry" machine, and a "reruns" machine for all those times I obsessively re-run recent events in my head. I have a "chores" machine devoted to the things I haven't done yet (like clean out the litterbox) and a "work" machine for stuff I've neglected at work. I have a "self worries" machine for agonizing about my own shortcomings and another machine for "grudges."
Not all of them are negative. There's a "creativity" machine for all the projects I'm working on, and an occasionally-active "state of the world" machine that speaks for itself. There's one for "worrying about others" and one for "remembering neat things," and of course a "song in my head" machine for those pop songs that just won't let me sleep.
The one problem I've had with this new routine is that, as I'm walking around turning off these machines, I'm often thinking "I'll need to blog about this activity I'm doing," which is a sort of inconceivable meta-machine that can't be conceptualized and can only be ignored. Now that I HAVE blogged about it, I hope that hurdle can be overcome and that I'll sleep like the dead tonight.
Showing posts with label diabetes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diabetes. Show all posts
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Lazy, Crazy Day
Exhausted, not enough sleep. The cat wakes me up and I give her some food and by then it's too late to go back to sleep again.
So I go downstairs and lie on the couch and stare out the window. It's snowing terribly, a solid sheet of white that's falling and covering everything. I pull up the afghan and the cat comes to lie beside me. When I finally feel like getting up I don't want to because it would wake her.
The snow keeps falling, it's amazing, beautiful. The cat snores, cuddled against my hip. I've begun sinking into a sugar-low; an imaginary man on a tricycle is circling around in my head, yelling at me, peeling back the layers of conceit and society to reveal the base reality of the brain damaged diabetic. I sink down, further and further. The cat snores. I eventually realize what is happening and I get up and eat an early lunch.
Back to the couch, searching for something to distract me from that tricycle demon, I start to read Stephen King's "Dreamcatcher." It is the perfect cure for my early morning plague. I've forgotten what it's like to read a mass-market paperback, a well-written and straight-forward story whose only purpose is to pull you in and keep you reading.
After a hundred pages I feel a burst of energy: I will do something! I take a shower and wash the curls out of my hair, and then my energy is gone and I return to the couch. The snow has stopped but the wind is intense, picking up entire banks of snow and shoving them into the air. It's like the tricycle demon has gone outside to stir up things there instead. There are two inches of snow heaped upon the power line, and I watch as one long section of snow peels off, falls down. The cat is snoring, paws out, uncomfortably warm.
After two hundred pages another section of snow is gone from the power line. I've lost track of time. I'm enjoying the book.
After three hundred pages the cat wakes from a dream, meows, turns around, and falls asleep again. Small tractors are moving up and down the street, clearing the snow. The tricycle demon is almost gone from my brain. It's a strange, lazy, crazy day. It has a suspended beauty, it's like living in a snowglobe, just me and a cat and the book that I'm reading.
So I go downstairs and lie on the couch and stare out the window. It's snowing terribly, a solid sheet of white that's falling and covering everything. I pull up the afghan and the cat comes to lie beside me. When I finally feel like getting up I don't want to because it would wake her.
The snow keeps falling, it's amazing, beautiful. The cat snores, cuddled against my hip. I've begun sinking into a sugar-low; an imaginary man on a tricycle is circling around in my head, yelling at me, peeling back the layers of conceit and society to reveal the base reality of the brain damaged diabetic. I sink down, further and further. The cat snores. I eventually realize what is happening and I get up and eat an early lunch.
Back to the couch, searching for something to distract me from that tricycle demon, I start to read Stephen King's "Dreamcatcher." It is the perfect cure for my early morning plague. I've forgotten what it's like to read a mass-market paperback, a well-written and straight-forward story whose only purpose is to pull you in and keep you reading.
After a hundred pages I feel a burst of energy: I will do something! I take a shower and wash the curls out of my hair, and then my energy is gone and I return to the couch. The snow has stopped but the wind is intense, picking up entire banks of snow and shoving them into the air. It's like the tricycle demon has gone outside to stir up things there instead. There are two inches of snow heaped upon the power line, and I watch as one long section of snow peels off, falls down. The cat is snoring, paws out, uncomfortably warm.
After two hundred pages another section of snow is gone from the power line. I've lost track of time. I'm enjoying the book.
After three hundred pages the cat wakes from a dream, meows, turns around, and falls asleep again. Small tractors are moving up and down the street, clearing the snow. The tricycle demon is almost gone from my brain. It's a strange, lazy, crazy day. It has a suspended beauty, it's like living in a snowglobe, just me and a cat and the book that I'm reading.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
My Little Black Cloud of Mishaps
Sometimes it seems like the world is out to get me. You know this is leading to a story about intense frustration, so let's get right to the point.
Sunday, December 16th: a tremendous snowstorm -- the second in three weeks -- wallops my little town.
It's the night of Club Abstract's Christmas party. Since the party is mainly for staff members, they insist you arrive before 10pm so all hands can lock the doors and retreat into debauchery. With this in mind I call a cab at 8:45 and wait.
And wait. And wait. Once again a cab driver has been unable to find me, and instead of calling to check my address he's simply driven away, leaving me without transportation. At 9:30 I am frantically talking to the cab company: they can send somebody else, but not anytime soon; they're booked solid with Christmas parties and the roads are terrible. The fact that THEY screwed up doesn't seem to change the situation.
I make a snap decision. I put on my sturdiest boots and begin to walk, over twelve inches of mostly-uncleared snow, through 60kph winds. Here's a brief excerpt so you can share the joy with me. I make an appearance at the end that turned out surprisingly well. I figured that if I died like a stranded Jack London character, they could use my camera to learn about my last desperate moments.
A survivor, I arrive at Club Abstract...and discover that I'm dressed like a bar skank at a formal event. Alright, maybe I should have asked about the night's "tone."
I feel terribly out of place, I brood about the inevitable walk home, I get increasingly nervous and repetative. People are looking at me strangely. Eventually I discover that my blood sugar is catastrophically low; the walk through the snowstorm has done me in.
A sweet bartender serves me Shirley Temples, I eat a bag of Skittles, I acknowledge that things couldn't possibly get worse.
THEN THE SOLE OF MY RIGHT BOOT FALLS OFF. I cannot walk back home, in a snowstorm, post-insulin shock, with only one boot. I want to kill myself.
Fortunately a quick-thinking staff member gives me an early Christmas gift: duct tape.
Desperate for home, my little black cloud parts long enough for me to grab an impossible cab. I count my considerable blessings.
The next morning I walk to work; a half-hour ordeal through a city paralyzed by the storm. I stop at Tim Horton's for food and realize I've left my wallet at home. I only have petty change with which to buy lunch. I am going to cry.
I sit down to eat my paltry food, I reach into my bag to give myself insulin...and realize I've forgotten my insulin as well. I've come all the way to work and I can't buy or eat anything.
My heart has gone cold and squishy. I gently put my head on the table. I cover my head with my hands and press, scratching my scalp, moaning slightly. I have had a terrible, terrible weekend. I am actually looking forward to going to work; I can't get hit by a car while sitting at my desk, probably. I do not feel safe in the world.
I wait patiently for a cab to take me home so I can grab my wallet, my insulin, and return to work. This costs me twenty dollars. Smiling over its shoulder, my little black cloud of mishaps laughs and wanders off to torture another soul, hopefully not you.
Sunday, December 16th: a tremendous snowstorm -- the second in three weeks -- wallops my little town.
It's the night of Club Abstract's Christmas party. Since the party is mainly for staff members, they insist you arrive before 10pm so all hands can lock the doors and retreat into debauchery. With this in mind I call a cab at 8:45 and wait.
And wait. And wait. Once again a cab driver has been unable to find me, and instead of calling to check my address he's simply driven away, leaving me without transportation. At 9:30 I am frantically talking to the cab company: they can send somebody else, but not anytime soon; they're booked solid with Christmas parties and the roads are terrible. The fact that THEY screwed up doesn't seem to change the situation.
I make a snap decision. I put on my sturdiest boots and begin to walk, over twelve inches of mostly-uncleared snow, through 60kph winds. Here's a brief excerpt so you can share the joy with me. I make an appearance at the end that turned out surprisingly well. I figured that if I died like a stranded Jack London character, they could use my camera to learn about my last desperate moments.
A survivor, I arrive at Club Abstract...and discover that I'm dressed like a bar skank at a formal event. Alright, maybe I should have asked about the night's "tone."
I feel terribly out of place, I brood about the inevitable walk home, I get increasingly nervous and repetative. People are looking at me strangely. Eventually I discover that my blood sugar is catastrophically low; the walk through the snowstorm has done me in.
A sweet bartender serves me Shirley Temples, I eat a bag of Skittles, I acknowledge that things couldn't possibly get worse.
THEN THE SOLE OF MY RIGHT BOOT FALLS OFF. I cannot walk back home, in a snowstorm, post-insulin shock, with only one boot. I want to kill myself.
Fortunately a quick-thinking staff member gives me an early Christmas gift: duct tape.
Desperate for home, my little black cloud parts long enough for me to grab an impossible cab. I count my considerable blessings.
The next morning I walk to work; a half-hour ordeal through a city paralyzed by the storm. I stop at Tim Horton's for food and realize I've left my wallet at home. I only have petty change with which to buy lunch. I am going to cry.
I sit down to eat my paltry food, I reach into my bag to give myself insulin...and realize I've forgotten my insulin as well. I've come all the way to work and I can't buy or eat anything.
My heart has gone cold and squishy. I gently put my head on the table. I cover my head with my hands and press, scratching my scalp, moaning slightly. I have had a terrible, terrible weekend. I am actually looking forward to going to work; I can't get hit by a car while sitting at my desk, probably. I do not feel safe in the world.
I wait patiently for a cab to take me home so I can grab my wallet, my insulin, and return to work. This costs me twenty dollars. Smiling over its shoulder, my little black cloud of mishaps laughs and wanders off to torture another soul, hopefully not you.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
What Low Blood Sugar Feels Like
Aw heck, I'm not sleeping anyhow (did I mention that both high and low blood sugar will absolutely prevent me from sleeping?)
Here are the low blood sugar symptoms. They vary greatly for me, and I know diabetics tend to be really individual about the type and severity of their symptoms, but here's what tends to happen to me:
From those (hopefully forever gone) experiences I began to view insulin shock this way: if your mind is a boat sailing along in the sea, the encroaching insulin shock is like a contagious insanity spreading among the crew. The ship goes more and more out of control as things get worse...but YOU, the immune crew member, don't notice the insanity at first. Eventually you notice that you're the only sane one on the ship, but there's only so much you can do to get things back under control.
Nowadays I don't get insulin reactions much...they usually happen in bars when I'm fighting an insulin high with too much vigour (see below), though I do sometimes get them at work in the morning (at which time I'm briefly REALLY GOOD at my job, before the spots block out my eyes).
One important lesson I've learned is that it doesn't take much to raise blood sugar again. I usually end up eating too much food because of the delayed reaction; you eat some sugar, nothing happens, so you eat more and more...but meanwhile your sugar is just taking some time to digest.
So now you know.
Here are the low blood sugar symptoms. They vary greatly for me, and I know diabetics tend to be really individual about the type and severity of their symptoms, but here's what tends to happen to me:
- Unlike high blood sugar, part of having an insulin reaction is NOT REALIZING that I'm having one. There's a strange mental impairment that keeps me from figuring it all out. At one time I had a "Confused? Get Sugar!" sign posted on my bedroom wall, and it actually worked, but I rarely wake up with insulin reactions anymore.
- Before the symptoms get really bad I tend to become giddy and goofy and talkative.
- Or, if I'm alone, I'll get REALLY WORRIED about things. This is usually the tip-off for me that something is wrong.
- I get incredibly creative ideas. I think outside of the box. If I could stay in this brain-impaired state forever I'd be brilliant.
- After those initial symptoms, my skin gets chilly and I break into a disturbing cold sweat. I become "clammy." This always amazes me, because it's so weird: it comes on suddenly and just GUSHES.
- I see spots. If my blood sugar is getting low at work, this is usually the tip-off: I can't see the computer screen properly.
- Sometimes the inside of my mouth goes numb.
- I don't crave food, but when I eat it it tastes INCREDIBLE. There is NOTHING so delicious as breakfast on the verge of insulin shock.
- A warm, floating feeling similar to being in a warm bath.
- Confusion. I stumble over words, my voice sounds funny in my head, I stop making sense. I may start to say outright stupid, meaningless things.
From those (hopefully forever gone) experiences I began to view insulin shock this way: if your mind is a boat sailing along in the sea, the encroaching insulin shock is like a contagious insanity spreading among the crew. The ship goes more and more out of control as things get worse...but YOU, the immune crew member, don't notice the insanity at first. Eventually you notice that you're the only sane one on the ship, but there's only so much you can do to get things back under control.
Nowadays I don't get insulin reactions much...they usually happen in bars when I'm fighting an insulin high with too much vigour (see below), though I do sometimes get them at work in the morning (at which time I'm briefly REALLY GOOD at my job, before the spots block out my eyes).
One important lesson I've learned is that it doesn't take much to raise blood sugar again. I usually end up eating too much food because of the delayed reaction; you eat some sugar, nothing happens, so you eat more and more...but meanwhile your sugar is just taking some time to digest.
So now you know.
What High Blood Sugar Feels Like
I should have learned by now: NEVER skip dinner before doing a drag show. For some reason, even though by skipping dinner I'm actually NOT eating food, my blood sugar invariably goes sky-high and simply refuses to come down afterwards.
I blame my liver ("Parker") for this, because chronically high blood sugar during a night is usually due to my liver secreting glucose, or whatever it secrets when it's upset (why can't it synthesize alcohol, or vitamin C?)
Since I am coming down off tonight's sugar high at this moment, now seems like a good time to describe what it actually feels like to have high blood sugar. It's a much more consistent feeling than a sugar low.
Am I complaining? Yes. Blame Parker.
Should I have eaten dinner? Yes. Blame me.
I blame my liver ("Parker") for this, because chronically high blood sugar during a night is usually due to my liver secreting glucose, or whatever it secrets when it's upset (why can't it synthesize alcohol, or vitamin C?)
Since I am coming down off tonight's sugar high at this moment, now seems like a good time to describe what it actually feels like to have high blood sugar. It's a much more consistent feeling than a sugar low.
- A difficulty with small-talk. This also happens with low blood sugar. I say things that are either obnoxious (see "short temper" below) or I open my mouth and...nothing comes out.
- Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty! The first mouthful of liquid tastes great, but subsequent gulps feel funny, because of...
- ...an upset stomach. Actually, it's more like a stomach that's terminally clenched up.
- Always having to pee because of all that liquid I'm drinking.
- High body temperature accompanied by sweating, which makes your makeup slide off and defeats your deodorant.
- A short temper. Grrr!
- A tendency to complain and over-analyze, probably related to whatever makes my temper so short (and my makeup slough off).
- Anhedonia; an inability to really feel emotionally good about anything. Hence the complaining. For instance, right now I want to burst into tears about the stuffed cat that I mistreated and then gave away tonight, but if my blood sugar were normal I'd be able to at least acknowledge the GOOD stuff.
Am I complaining? Yes. Blame Parker.
Should I have eaten dinner? Yes. Blame me.
Monday, March 12, 2007
A Diabetic's Sad Cry For Understanding: Lessons in Liver
You might not realize that whenever you're agitated or sick your liver secretes sugar. I'm not sure where the sugar comes from -- it's probably stored inside the liver for just such an occasion, like the bottles of booze you keep for unexpected visitors -- but it ends up in your bloodstream with all the sugars derived from your food...and since you probably have the bonus of automatic insulin production you never even know about it.
This is something I was never told about when I was a kid, but I'd long realized that stress and sickness caused my blood sugar to plateau at an unusually high level. An endocrinologist finally identified the culprit: my liver (AKA "Parker").
A lot of the trouble I have with my blood sugar comes down to Parker's sugar-happy ways. If I get upset about something, or if I feel a bit more stressed than usual at work, I have to assume that more insulin is necessary to bring my blood sugar down again. The problem is that Parker doesn't ALWAYS secrete sugar in response to stress...sometimes he's asleep on the job, so I take the extra insulin, I have an insulin reaction, I eat sugar, Parker might wake up and decide to give me an extra jolt of sugar in the meantime because I'm stressed about my failure to properly anticipate my blood sugar level, and next thing I know I'm a mushy, totally unproductive citizen.
When I'm sick, though, Parker ALWAYS comes through. And what's more this "sick sugar" is apparently difficult to break down, because I can spend hours topping up my insulin...with absolutely NO effect whatsoever, at which point I become frustrated, inject massive amounts of insulin, and end up being unable to sleep and writing blog entries about Pierre Berton when I should be resting up and getting healthy.
So next time you get sick, or somebody cuts you off in traffic: give a thought to YOUR liver. You don't have any nerves in there so you can't tell what it's doing, but take it from me: it's injecting sugar into your bloodstream, just to annoy you.
This is something I was never told about when I was a kid, but I'd long realized that stress and sickness caused my blood sugar to plateau at an unusually high level. An endocrinologist finally identified the culprit: my liver (AKA "Parker").
A lot of the trouble I have with my blood sugar comes down to Parker's sugar-happy ways. If I get upset about something, or if I feel a bit more stressed than usual at work, I have to assume that more insulin is necessary to bring my blood sugar down again. The problem is that Parker doesn't ALWAYS secrete sugar in response to stress...sometimes he's asleep on the job, so I take the extra insulin, I have an insulin reaction, I eat sugar, Parker might wake up and decide to give me an extra jolt of sugar in the meantime because I'm stressed about my failure to properly anticipate my blood sugar level, and next thing I know I'm a mushy, totally unproductive citizen.
When I'm sick, though, Parker ALWAYS comes through. And what's more this "sick sugar" is apparently difficult to break down, because I can spend hours topping up my insulin...with absolutely NO effect whatsoever, at which point I become frustrated, inject massive amounts of insulin, and end up being unable to sleep and writing blog entries about Pierre Berton when I should be resting up and getting healthy.
So next time you get sick, or somebody cuts you off in traffic: give a thought to YOUR liver. You don't have any nerves in there so you can't tell what it's doing, but take it from me: it's injecting sugar into your bloodstream, just to annoy you.
Monday, September 04, 2006
A Diabetic's Sad Cry For Understanding
Being a type-I diabetic I feel qualified to explain something. And I WANT to do it because I am always being asked the same questions, in bars, at work, in airports, in dog kennels: "How can you eat sweet things when you're diabetic?"
There is a misconception about sugar and diabetes. If you already know this, skip over it. If not, though, read carefully...it will make the next diabetic you meet very, very happy:
Diabetes is not about avoiding sugar, it's about REGULATING food intake. When other people eat food, they break down the food into sugars that circulate in their blood. They then NATURALLY produce insulin to remove the sugars from the blood and turn it into energy, or fat, or whatever. It's all taken care of in that well-balanced, finely-tuned, slightly gross thing we call a "body."
Type-I diabetics cannot produce that insulin, so the sugars -- derived from the food they've eaten -- just stay in the blood, floating around and making us feel awful. This isn't a good thing because your blood isn't supposed to be THAT full of sugar, and because your cells need the sugar. So diabetics INJECT insulin to remove that sugar. If diabetics inject TOO MUCH insulin, the amount of sugar in the blood gets too low and the cells -- particularly in the brain -- begin to starve. This is an "insulin reaction." It's why, when diabetics collapse, you're supposed to force-feed them sweet things.
It's also why, occasionally, I say really stupid things.
My point is: EVERYBODY needs sugar, carbohydrates, food. Diabetics too. But diabetics need to keep track of the amount of carbohydrates they've eaten, and inject an appropriate amount of insulin to get the resulting sugar out of the blood. I can eat a whole box of sugar if I want to, and everything will be fine as long as I inject enough insulin to take care of it. So next time you see me eating a candy bar, don't say "diabetics aren't supposed to eat sugar," or I'll grab you by the ear and yank really hard.
NOTE: Anybody who eats a whole box of sugar needs help, diabetic or no.
There is a misconception about sugar and diabetes. If you already know this, skip over it. If not, though, read carefully...it will make the next diabetic you meet very, very happy:
Diabetes is not about avoiding sugar, it's about REGULATING food intake. When other people eat food, they break down the food into sugars that circulate in their blood. They then NATURALLY produce insulin to remove the sugars from the blood and turn it into energy, or fat, or whatever. It's all taken care of in that well-balanced, finely-tuned, slightly gross thing we call a "body."
Type-I diabetics cannot produce that insulin, so the sugars -- derived from the food they've eaten -- just stay in the blood, floating around and making us feel awful. This isn't a good thing because your blood isn't supposed to be THAT full of sugar, and because your cells need the sugar. So diabetics INJECT insulin to remove that sugar. If diabetics inject TOO MUCH insulin, the amount of sugar in the blood gets too low and the cells -- particularly in the brain -- begin to starve. This is an "insulin reaction." It's why, when diabetics collapse, you're supposed to force-feed them sweet things.
It's also why, occasionally, I say really stupid things.
My point is: EVERYBODY needs sugar, carbohydrates, food. Diabetics too. But diabetics need to keep track of the amount of carbohydrates they've eaten, and inject an appropriate amount of insulin to get the resulting sugar out of the blood. I can eat a whole box of sugar if I want to, and everything will be fine as long as I inject enough insulin to take care of it. So next time you see me eating a candy bar, don't say "diabetics aren't supposed to eat sugar," or I'll grab you by the ear and yank really hard.
NOTE: Anybody who eats a whole box of sugar needs help, diabetic or no.
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