And this is a subtitle that’s not well-thought out.
Back in my blogging days, when I wrote on Six Until Me, the posts were almost entirely diabetes-centric. And at the time, that theme made so much sense because I wasn’t sharing any of my diabetes thoughts with my family and friends; those feelings funneled through my blog. If I worked through all that shit within the diabetes community I’d found, I could process it, making it feel less burdensome in my real world.
I kept my diabetes discussions almost exclusively online, even though it lived in my body and mind in the non-digital world. I wrote about my blood sugar fears and longterm concerns through blogging, as well as celebrating strange triumphs (like the perfect calculation of a pizza bolus1) trapped inside the warm glowing digitization of the DOC2, circa 2005-ish. While I talked about diabetes at doctor’s appointments and occasionally with my family, the emotional part lived largely online. This feeling of community talk-therapy healing extended well into the 2010s, until I tapped out in 2019 after turning 40, and after my blog locked 14 years. Felt like a good time to take a break.
I didn’t anticipate COVID3. The all-encompassing isolation of that experience brought everything online. Seeking community in all sorts of ways, I checked in at Six Until Me once every few months, out of habit, but ultimately ended up starting this Substack newsletter in 2023 instead, when my diabetes turned 37 years old.
Being here has been nice. I don’t update as much as I did when I was a blogger, but writing has always helped me process my thoughts on diabetes. Actually, on all sorts of things. Like my goals as a writer. My struggles as a parent. And how confusing being human can be. Sharing and reading stories within well-intentioned4 communities helps me learn and grow.
I love the hell out of community gathering spaces.
Substack reminds me of the long-form blogging I enjoyed writing and reading, letting me walk through word gardens cultivated by other writers, ones that let me really get to know them. I remember the first time I shared a photo of myself on my blog and people were like, “Oh, that’s what you look like,” and it dawns on me now that no one cared what anyone looked like back then. Or at least it wasn’t expected to share your face and body all the time. Which would be very convenient for me at this moment, seeing as how I’m sliding into what I’m told is irrelevancy by way of aging. Which I care about. And also do not care the slightest about, my acceptance in a constant steel cage match with my denial. These aren’t wrinkles! It’s not gray hair! What did I come into this room for again?
I’m fine, this is fine, it’s not weird at all, it happens to all humans but also what the fuck.
I was driving with my son this afternoon. He’s almost nine. And as we rounded the corner towards our neighborhood, he piped up and said that the three wrinkles on my forehead were long, but the bottom one was the longest and it rounded at the edges, towards my eyes.
“Like this,” he said, bringing his mouth into a frown formation, turning the corners down as far as they could go. “It’s like your forehead is a frowning face.”
“Oh wow.” I paused as I turned the wheel into our driveway. “Thank you!”
So my forehead is frowning on its OWN.
Perfect.
What’s the point of this post? HAHAHAHA what’s the point of ANYTHING? Even a caps lock doesn’t have that same je ne sais quoi5 it used to. Sure thing, I’ll acknowledge the difficulty of writing anything silly or fun or creative in the face of some worldwide bullshit that is truly overwhelming. It’s hard to feel light when there’s an influx of heavy.
And as I scroll (dude, please check out the ScreenZen app because it’s an app that helped me break a lot of doom-scrolly moments; it asks me questions like “Is this important?” when I go to open up certain apps and I have to admit no, no it’s not important), I get muddled and overwhelmed by the influx of bona fide chaos and I have to stop. Just fucking stop. And remind myself that being informed and taking action is important, but losing my mind is not optimal so I need to take a frigging breath.
Touch grass, as The Kids say. (I am not The Kids so I don’t often say that unless I’m being literal, like touch the grass to see if it’s too wet to sit on kind of touch grass.)
So I’m leaning into my grandma habits because apparently they’re good ways to soothe the mental health beast. I’m back to reading a lot. Writing some batshit flash fiction in my writing group (big ups to my writing group, which has become my own version of church these last few months). I busted out the crochet hooks and have been up to my elbows in yarn. I have a sketchbook that I found in my office and started doodling in. I’ve attempted to make food items (and if you’ve known me for a long time, you understand that the kitchen is not my natural habitat).
This is really just a long form way of saying hi, even though it’s been a few weeks. And a way of telling you that I like talking to you, and hearing from you. And being here.
I’m glad you’re here, too.
