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"The difference between shame and guilt is the difference between 'I am bad' and 'I did something good'."   -Dr. Brene Brown

Yesterday I did a good thing.  I shared something BIG with my husband, the man who holds my heart and has my back, and with that telling I was ashamed.

(Yeah, yeah, I know.  I have nothing to be ashamed of, I'm a good person, be strong, be proud of myself.  Another moody writer, blah, blah, blah. Moving on.)

Shame is depression's Child.  It strips away the good and strong, proves to me I am not worthy, shatters joy.  Shame follows depression and diabetes everywhere, laughs at the same jokes, eats what they eat.  Oh, yes.  Double fudge chocolate malts with extra malt, a bacon burger with extra bacon, a large order of onion rings, and a slice of pecan pie, warm, with whipped cream, for dessert.  And a Sprite Zero, of course.  Have to watch those blood sugars, don't'cha know.

Since starting therapy (mumbled) years ago, I have made considerable, if often painful, progress.  Every day I struggle to reclaim what my father and ex-husband have taken away.  A good friend would say progress not perfection.  I recognize that I am better off now than I was when I made that first call for help; ;I also recognize that I have far to go.  I am only now coming to grips with the jagged pieces of my childhood, and in part that entails another phase of addressing my abusive relationship with food.

So, where does this leave me and why am I sharing all this?  Maybe to hold myself accountable.

I use food for the same reason an alcoholic drink and a drug addict uses (I do not consider marijuana in this category.  Deal with it.).  Food is friend, comfort, and executioner rolled into one.  I deserve to have diabetes because I am a bad person.  I eat to console myself, drug myself, then punish myself with more food because my blood sugar numbers are already horrific.  Eat to console, eat to punish.  Rinse, repeat.

Yesterday I started Jardiance, a medication that promotes the body to pass even more sugar through the urine.  I feel like roadkill.  The med has made a significant difference in my sugars, by as much as 70 points at some readings, and now my body is convinced I'm having a permanent low blood sugar and I must EAT ALL THE THINGS.  I'M DYING!  GET THE SUGARS BACK UP WHERE THEY BELONG.  MOAR!  MOAR!!!

Depression is one of the cornerstones of my often tenuous mental health.  It fuels the diabetes which in turn fuels the depression, and shame feeds off them both  Talk about a co-dependent relationship.

Stay tuned. . .