No Eyes

I’ve always been a writer. I was obsessed with Harriet the Spy, and the power of documenting unseen truths and hidden thoughts. I have a pink and sparkly childhood diary cataloging school girl crushes (all in code names were it ever to end up in the wrong hands—though calling Teddy “Bear” might not have been that clever) and processing the trauma of events like Columbine. Journals gave me the steady companionship of pen and paper in a world wrought with the change brought on with moving frequently and taking on chronic health management at a young age. As a result, I strongly believe in the power of letting a pen be your muse and connection to your innermost thoughts, often not known to you until you begin to set the words free. I still stow away bundles of secret thoughts and musings, though not as regularly and rigorously as I once used to scribe.

While I have nearly a dozen journals, none were as personalized as the one I scoured magazines for clips of words and letters to collage for what began as a writing project but grew into so much more after. That high school journal has been calling me to revisit in this season of change. It was a companion to me during my senior year and on into freshman year of college—no doubt times of great reflection and change for me in my life’s chapters, and no different than what I feel surrounding me now. So I went upstairs to my bookcase and heeded its calling to take a stroll down memory lane. I still know that girl well, it seems.

This essayette “No eyes” feels most appropriate to share here with this part of me. I was 7y post diagnosis, finally starting to understand the weight of a lifetime of a new “normal.” While I still think some of these thoughts 25y post diagnosis, they are not as resounding. But it is still true that diseases have no eyes and don’t discriminate in who they choose to impact. They come out of nowhere and change everything. Though we may miss the warmth of the summer sun, there is still beauty to be had in the change of seasons. May you find the companionship and support you need— in whatever format it takes, journal and pen or otherwise—in the next autumn of your life.

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Reflections on 25 Years with Type 1 Diabetes

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Wintering