Came home, changed out to a new omnipod (I keep wanting to say ipod heh heh heh), cried for awhile.
Tested at 35. Ate some graham crackers and cried some more.
I hate being broken.
I hate it more than anything in the whole world. I hate being dead already, just limping along with the help of synthetic insulin.
I hate being broken.
Crying some more.
Tomorrow will be better.
That’s all living with chronic illness is for me, really: that stubborn conviction that tomorrow will be better.
Getting the sweats and the shakes at the sugar comes back up.
Fucked up cyborg, I am.
Limping along.
Tomorrow will be better.
