Will You Help Me Find a Cure for Type 1 Diabetes?

On June 4, 2017, I’ll be taking part in the JDRF One Walk to change the future for myself and everyone affected by Type 1 diabetes (T1D).

When I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes 8 years ago, I didn’t have a family history. No one really knows why my pancreas stopped working. But it did. And it has greatly affected my life. When I was admitted to the hospital with a blood sugar of 690 on April 24, 2009, I shouldn’t have been alive much less standing. I like to think my body is fighting for me even if it is ultimately the one that failed me. But I can’t win this fight alone.

Join me on June 4 or donate to my Sugarcoated team. Help me turn Type 1 into Type none.  Continue reading


Scrambled Eggs

In light of recent conversations on mental health, I thought it might be appropriate to reflect on a period of my life when I questioned that life. Even though I had everything going for me, I, like so many others, struggled with the mental and physical realities of my worth. What difference could I make? What impact could I have? Whether I lived or not, the Earth would keep revolving. I didn’t think things could get better. I also didn’t think they could get worse. This was two years before I met diabetes.

June 16, 2007

The most recent typed edition of my second working novel is scattered across the blue carpet of my bedroom floor. I write today’s date on a folded piece of looseleaf paper and set it aside. I just took eight over-the-counter IB Profen pills. They’re the most potent pills I could find in the medicine cabinet. Unfortunately, my parents do not take prescription sleeping pills (that I’m aware of).

I have no idea what overdosing on anti-inflammatory medication will do to me, but I can’t imagine it’s good. I think I’m playing with my life. But I am determined to finish my second working novel before the medicine kicks in. I only have two more chapters to write.

I look at myself in the shattered mirror of my closet door. My parents are in their bedroom across from mine. I’ve locked my door. They know about my depression, and they’ve supported me in the past two years as I made the transition from home to college and old and new friends. They know that I started taking anti-depressants. They know I was seeing a therapist at the university health center. They know I’ve run out of anti-depressants. Continue reading