Normal life huh?

Quiet thoughts...

It is weighing me down. I can feel it.

I try. God, I try. I do everything I can to manage it, and somehow it still feels like the universe is working against me. Now it’s a new small change every week. Something impossible to ignore no matter how badly I want to pretend I’m okay.

And then come the comments.

“Maybe you’re stressed.”
Well, surprise, I’m not stressed.

“Maybe it’s your sugars.”
At least 90% of the time, they’re in range. I am trying harder than most people will ever understand.

But somehow every little thing becomes an interpretation. A pimple. A boil. A headache. One kilogram gained. One kilogram lost. Suddenly my body no longer belongs to me; it belongs to interpretation. To assumptions. To cautionary stories people casually throw at me like they are harmless conversation.

“Oh, I knew someone who used to get terrible boils.”
“People with it usually…”

Thank you. Truly. Thank you for making me feel even more afraid inside a body I already struggle to trust. And the hardest part is that I know most of the comments do not come from a bad place. They come from concern. From people trying to make sense of things the only way they know how.

What exhausts me most is not even the injections or the decisions or the constant awareness. It is the way this illness slowly teaches you to question every single thing about yourself. Every sensation. Every change. Every symptom. Every possibility.

And then there’s the cruelest part of all: the uncertainty.

Three negative tests. Three.
Yet somehow the answer still circles back to: “It has to be this.”

So now I cling to every tiny possibility that maybe this isn’t really my reality. Maybe they’re wrong. Maybe my body is somehow an exception. God, I hate whoever sold me the lie of a “normal life.” This is normal now? A hundred silent decisions a day.

But then reality returns.

And I think that is what is breaking me lately, not just the condition itself, but the emotional fragility that comes with constantly carrying it. Well, I am fragile by nature. The smallest comments now cut too deeply. The way I feel triggered by things I used to brush off.

It is already hard. It shouldn’t have to feel harder than this.

And sometimes I sit with the terrifying realization that this is my life now.

And honestly?

I still do not know how to make peace with that.

I’m writing this because I need to remember. In a few years, I want to read this back and see how far I’ve come. I want proof that the weight got lighter, the grief softer. Maybe I will finally understand that surviving this required more strength than I gave myself credit for.

Stay with me, I keep telling myself.
Stay with me through this.