Crash and Burn
Falling prey to a diagnosis of diabetes, ill
fortune and depression.
by Carla Gibbons*
TWEENS & TEENS News January 2007
AIt’s October 2000. I’m 15 years
old and weigh about 115 pounds. Suddenly,
I’ve lost about 30 pounds. What’s
wrong with me? Do I have cancer? Mono? Why
am I sick all of the time?
Who cares. I have the attention of guys; I
wear a size zero. I’m the thinnest I
have ever been, and can eat and drink anything
I want without gaining a pound.
Flash to November 25, 2000: I am diagnosed
with type 1 diabetes. I am put in the hospital
for three days with a saline and insulin drip
because of ketoacidosis. I weighed 113 when
I was put in the hospital. The day I left,
I weighed 132. I had gained 19 pounds. I felt
bloated and fat, and my self-esteem was diminishing
fast.
In the hospital, I had learned I was in ketoacidosis,
which can lead to coma or death. Looking back,
I had every symptom: rapid weight loss, excessive
thirst, dry mouth, frequent urination, constant
fatigue, dry skin, nausea and sickness, fast
heartbeat.
When my doctor put me on insulin, I felt better
than ever. My energy level rose and I felt
like myself again. But as my glucose levels
got in better control, I noticed I had started
gaining weight. I thought wearing a kid’s
size 14 was fine. I didn’t want to change.
Yet, my doctor informed me that I was still
underweight, even when I gained about ten
pounds. I started becoming obsessed with my
blood-sugar control. I did not want any complication
from diabetes. I had seen my Mom’s sister
suffer with the disease from lack of control.
After a year of insulin shots, my doctor put
me on an insulin pump. In his eyes, I was
“the poster child for diabetes.”
Finally, freedom again! I was able to eat
whatever I wanted, because the pump allowed
me to eat and just cover for the carbs. Thank
you for designing this fine piece of machinery,
Minimed (www.minimed.com).
What I didn’t realize was that the more
I ate, the more insulin I needed; the more
insulin I needed, the more weight I gained.
But, I was feeling good and exercising five
times a week. Plus, my doctor told me I looked
great and was a healthy weight.
Then, everything came crashing down. In August
2003, I was hit by a car while crossing the
street. The accident left me with injuries
to both legs, my back and my mental state
of mind. I was unable to sleep, exercise or
do anything I enjoyed. I was angry at the
world and started becoming even angrier because
of my diabetes. I lost all hope that I would
ever live a normal life again.
To make matters worse, my blood sugars were
terrible. I couldn’t get them under
control. It was making me crazy.
At first, I tried anything I could to get
my sugars in control again— skipping
breakfast, cutting carbs, buying lowfat foods—
anything. I felt like I took insulin all day
long. When I ate meals, I took insulin; when
I snacked, I took insulin. Three hours later,
I’d be correcting for a high blood sugar,
taking more insulin. Adding to my frustration,
my weight kept rising. I asked the doctor
what to do, and he told me I looked fine and
was still in a normal weight range for my
body type.
That answer was not good enough for me. My
self-esteem became obsolete.
One day, I stopped taking insulin altogether.
That way, I wouldn’t gain weight from
food. It was the only control I had. I couldn’t
control my erratic blood sugars— it
was easier to just have high sugars all the
time. I would just let my insulin pump run
with the all-day insulin that was programmed.
I’d change the site every three days
like normal. No one knew; I was the only one
who controlled the pump. I only checked my
blood if I felt like it. The worst part was
that I knew every single thing that could
happen to me: retinopathy, neuropathy and
kidney failure— the complication that
scared me the most.
I started losing weight, but not enough for
anyone to notice. I omitted insulin for ten
months. The only thing that kept me alive
was my insulin pump.
Knowing that I could lose weight quickly by
getting diabetic ketoacidosis, knowing that
I could die, knowing that I didn’t have
to see the high blood sugars was all that
mattered to me. In my head, I had the control.
I was finally controlling my fate.
During the months that I omitted my insulin
for food, my behavior was erratic. I was always
tired. I started getting panic attacks in
the middle of the night and at school. At
home, I became a hermit.
My turning point came when a member from a
diabetes support site, www.diabetestalkfest.com,
talked with me over Instant Messenger. It
was mid-March. The person IMing with me said
she was 27, had diabetes for 22 years and
needed a pancreas transplant. The conversation
changed me. I felt sick to my stomach and
didn’t want to talk to anyone. I stayed
in my room all weekend. I barely took my eyes
from my computer screen. My Mom asked what
was wrong through the door. “Nothing,”
I yelled. “Leave me alone.”
Monday came and I was more upset than ever.
I cried the whole way to school— ten
minutes of driving, ten minutes of tears.
What the girl said to me online ate away at
me. I got through homeroom, tried to focus
during first period, but my mind was running
wild. I ended up crying on and off all day
at school. When my classmates asked me what
was wrong, I just shrugged.
I think one of my teachers called the guidance
office out of concern, and I received a note
in history class to see my guidance counselor,
who has a calming effect on me. We talked
for an hour.
All I could think about during my drive home
from school was that I didn’t want to
face my parents. I didn’t feel like
talking, but I knew if I didn’t say
what was bothering me that my Mom wouldn’t
stop hounding me until I told her. She opened
the door for me when I got home, red-eyed
as if she had been crying. “What’s
the matter, Mommy?” I asked. She looked
at me, clueless, wondering what was wrong
with me.
Mom made my favorite dinner that night—
filet mignon with mac and cheese. I couldn’t
eat, though. My Mom sat in front of me with
my Dad to the left and my sister to the right.
Playing with my food rather than eating, I
looked up. My Mom was staring at me. I started
bawling crying. “What is the matter,
Carla? Please just tell me.”
That Monday night at dinner in March 2006,
I confessed that I had stopped taking insulin
to account for what I was eating since May
2005. My mother’s reaction surprised
me. She looked at me and said, “Okay,
we’ll forget about the past and work
on today.” My father interjected, “Are
you trying to kill yourself?” I looked
down and nodded yes. My sister started crying,
and then something clicked. She realized why
I had been in the hospital for ketoacidosis
so many times in the past few months. Everything
started to make sense to them.
Telling my family what I had been doing for
so long, that I would rather die than take
insulin, was one of the hardest things I have
ever had to do. I occasionally still get those
foreboding feelings, but now I try to tell
my family and friends the things I am feeling
instead of withholding my pain.
Checking blood, counting carbs, taking insulin,
feeling unexpected highs and lows sucks. I
hate not knowing what is going to happen.
Yet, in the first five years I had diabetes,
I never got any help, professionally nor from
any family members and friends. No one knew
what I did for those ten months. NO ONE. My
online chat prompted me to realize that I
needed people to help me. It was the day I
saved my life. And I finally realized that
all of this wasn’t my fault; I was depressed
and I needed help. I had to keep telling myself
“I need help.”
I felt terribly scared before my first psychologist
appointment. “What is he going to ask
me?,” I wondered. “How will I
answer?” My sister drove me to the psychologist’s
office, and I really wanted her to come in
with me, but I had to do this on my own.
I walked in; the room was dark. The only light
was from a small desk lamp. To the left was
a huge chair, and I smiled because I was thinking
of the movie Analyze This. The doctor asked
what brought me there. I admitted, “I
need help.” He had a very soothing way
about him, and once I put my preconceived
notions aside, namely that shrinks are quacks,
the session was over and I was armed with
some new tips for facing my illness. I had
taken the first step.
Now I accept that sometimes I need to be reminded
to take insulin and check my blood sugars,
and I need to express my feelings more. It’s
alright for me to say I am scared and afraid.
It’s alright to ask for help and it’s
alright to be angry. Sometimes reassuring
myself and sharing my feelings remains hard
to do, but I believe that one day I will look
back and realize I got through this. Today,
I just try to live through depression and
diabetes day by day. And hopefully someone
will read my story and realize that he or
she is not alone. Don’t be afraid. You
are not alone. Seek help
If you are a young adult in need of an online
support group, please visit www.diabetestalkfest.com..
*The author’s name has been changed
to protect her identity.
