I’m shattered. Last night, for the first time in a while, I had dinner
with a friend, and then rode my bicycle home. Getting around on my bike
is deeply ingrained in my psyche. It’s a sort of harmonious, natural
relationship between the traveller and the world that you don’t get with
an engine. It doesn’t pollute, it’s healthy, parking is easy and the
travel time is often comparable. It’s just right for me. And I grew up
with it and it’s such an important part of my relationship with my dad.
Which is why I’m so torn up right now. The realisation hit me that I
have a health condition which prevents me from mixing bike rides and
meals. I can’t go and meet someone for lunch by bike. (Or rather, I
can’t come back on the bike.) I just can’t. It is a recipe for disaster.
I detest gyms. It’s just not who I am to get my exercise that way. Idiot
doctors go on and on about how people with Type 1 diabetes don’t get
more exercise, and that it helps improve diabetes control. If that were
the case, why are over 60% of people with type 1 diabetes
inactive? (source and
The medical community uses the word “fear” to explain why people with
T1D don’t exercise. As in, “fear of hypoglycæmia.” The correct word, at
least for a good proportion of these people, is inevitability.
Don’t give me any of that “it’s just about learning to manage it”
bullsh—. T1D is different for different people. Some people’s bodies
just don’t work that way.
I have a management strategy. Don’t eat. It works. And I’m not too
bothered by it, because I don’t have hunger problems when I don’t eat
three meals a day. But part
of the point of going for a ride is to go out for lunch, or dinner, or
just stop for some unplanned chips at the beach.
For years I’ve been telling people, “it’s difficult,” “it’s hard,” and I
felt demoralised by it. But I’m looking back at it all and seeing that
it’s worse than that. It’s not hard. It’s impossible. And I have to give
it up. Kind of like having to give up alcohol (or caffeine!) due to a
The difference is, nobody told me. In fact I was told the opposite.
I can easily say “no, I don’t drink because it could trigger seizures.”
That was what my neurologist told me and my own experience confirmed.
But no, I was told, exercise was great. I was told, you could live the
life you want and still do everything you enjoy.
Renza told me that an endocrinologist once admitted something to her:
“the biggest mistake we made a few decades ago was telling people they
could live a normal life with Type 1 Diabetes.” This was so profound
that it took me a day to look back and realise how significant it was.
Of course there are two sides to that coin. Think about the critical
attitude shift among doctors whereby they once pushed strict,
uncreative regimens with the aim of preventing hospitalisation or death,
but now try to help patients have as little impositions on their lives
as possible. Newly diagnosed people must not be made to feel like their
life is over. And of course, there is trying to instil the right sort of
positive attitude and spirit in people with T1D.
I live a stone’s throw from Bondi beach, but I’ve gotten in the water
about three times in the past two years. In the last six months I
haven’t touched pizza, pasta, milk... or another two things really
embedded in my psyche: cereal and Thai food. I haven’t gone skiing since
I got T1D. I travel much less because the logistics are so draining.
People with cœliac or egg or peanut allergies have to make similar
sacrifices. But they are told that immediately! I was told I didn’t have
to give anything up. That is exactly what was said by my diabetes
educator two days after I was diagnosed.
What that endocrinologist (very bravely and humbly) said is deep and
profound. It’s like one of those Zen kōans that are packed full of
subtlety and meaning-that-cannot-be-understood which you need to
meditate on for days.
Look, this wasn’t supposed to be about my bitterness towards the medical
system. I’m just sad. I’m sad when I think about riding my bike with dad
at night in Thailand, between rice fields or by rivers, and stopping at
a restaurant, and just being swept up in the joy of family. I’m sad when
I think of when we used to go swimming before school every morning. So
many times in the last ten years I saw him feel upset and rejected and
frustrated because I say “no” most of the time. And that makes me sad.
Things got easier a few years ago when I got a CGM and he began to
understand what happened when I exercised. This is part of why I want to
help people find better ways of communicating with their families and
friends. It’s hard for people to get it. But it can make a big
Back to my favourite psychiatrist. I was looking forward to it, believe
it or not. I was looking forward to a chance to get help. (Seriously. I
think Polyanna is my cousin or something.)
Back then, I had started Epilim and life was improving, and I was trying
to deliberately be positive and motivated and take opportunities and
change the unhealthy circuits in my brain that had accumulated over
several years of broken life. So to a degree I was choosing to look
forward to it, to be open-minded. But I was also just hoping to be
looked after for once.
She was running late, so it was a perfect opportunity to make some small
talk with the receptionist. I’ve never really known how to do that, so I
was trying to practice. Getting past the social anxiety. Learning to
enjoy it, learning not to overreact to awkwardness and how to handle it.
And all that stuff that a lot of people seem to be naturally good at. I
The woman of the hour arrives and again invites me to sit in the
unfashionable armchair. No “how’s it going?” or “how are you feeling?”
of course. She doesn’t do that. Which is fine. It’s hard for most people
to answer that question honestly anyway.
She asks me what I’ve been doing since I saw her last. I tell her that
I’m trying to balance personal projects, meeting friends, and having
down time, for instance playing games. But I also tell her that I
prepared and gave a talk on my inhaled insulin, Afrezza, at a fantastic
meetup, which was, for me, a massive achievement.
Nothing. No reaction. No engagement. If anything she seems unimpressed.
Is it just me? Am I crazy, or is this really toxic behaviour for a
mental health professional?
What’s her problem? Is it that I don’t have a job? Am I just another
hypochondriac rich entitled white kid to her?
Then she asked me what I’d done that day. This was the best part of
the whole appointment so I’ll save it for last.
Her whole style seems to be about dishing out “good old-fashioned common
sense.” In a “kids these days! No common sense!” sort of way.
I watched a Judge Judy episode recently where a young man causes a car
accident. She asks the kid to detail what happened and he said that he
looked over his shoulder and saw that he had enough
space, so he changed lanes. She said “well he hit you so obviously you
didn’t have enough space.” Then she asked him what information he gave
to the other driver after the accident. The young man was cagey and she
asked “what did you physically give him?” He was still cagey but she
forced him to admit it was a learner licence. So he was illegally driving on a learner licence. He justified that he was a
good driver already. She prodded further until he admitted he had just failed
a driving test. She found against him. In this case, I’m on Judge Judy’s side.
But that’s how the psychiatrist was treating me. I guess in her mind, I
was treating my mental health the way that young man was treating
She asked me how much exercise I’d done in the last week. I admitted
that I hadn’t managed as much as I should. She threw medical
conventional wisdom at me as though it were gospel. I need to get at
least an hour every day blah blah blah.
She asked me how I was sleeping and I explained that diabetes interrupts
my sleep regularly. “Well you should be getting at least 8
hours—[etc.]” Woman, don’t you think I know that? I don’t need a
lecture. It was as if I told her I don’t sleep because I go out and
I don’t care that her tone was judgemental with a hint of condescending.
(Although many in the T1D community would be shaking their fists purely
for that.) Sometimes a bit of an old-school shakeup makes people wake up.
What I care about is the fact that the “common sense” was ignorant,
close-minded and a few times, medically unsound or dangerous.
So here is the best bit. Make sure you sit down for this one.
you eat for lunch?”
“Oh, I haven’t had lunch.”
“But it’s half past
“Oh, well I didn’t feel hungry so I haven’t eaten yet.”
“You shouldn’t skip lunch.”
“Oh, I skip a meal if I’m not hungry. Sometimes I don’t have breakfast,
sometimes I don’t have lunch. It makes diabetes easier to manage
“You can’t skip meals,” she said, very condescendingly.
“It’s what works with my lifestyle.”
“Having three meals a day isn’t a matter of lifestyle. It’s what
I dropped it as another one of those “I can’t win this fight” things. We
moved onto other things and it went out of my mind.
When it was over, I really didn’t want to go again. But, the
receptionist asked me to make a booking so I did, partly due to social
conformity and partly because I was being mature and letting my head
cool down before I made a decision.
Then I walked onto the street and thought, “hang on... what was that
three meals a day thing?” Now I could give it the outrage it deserved.
I’m reminded of those old black-and-white “how to be a good housewife”
videos. Everyone (it is implied) has that nice family where the wife
prepares breakfast and dinner and gives her husband a nice packed lunch.
And irons his clothes. Some households are like that and that’s fine
with me. But it’s 2019. How can people still have such a childishly
simple view of the world where there is a model lifestyle and a person
either strives for it, or is lost, sick, or deviant? And this isn’t some
businessman or politician, we’re talking about, but a mental health
Seriously, she was shocked by my skipping meals, but merely displeased
about my limited fish consumption.
Anyway, there I was on the street and suddenly it hit me.
“What if she told a gay person that being heterosexual was ‘what
Not to mention that Muslims fast for Ramadan, Buddhists fast, and
intermittent fasting was already popular at the time. To think I made
her a few hundred dollars richer, for that.
Before the next appointment I got a call saying it would need to be
postponed because she had a back injury.
Also it got me out of having to call and cancel. 😀
Ah, I’ve been waiting to express my outrage about this one for over a
year now. Here’s the story.
As you may know, for many years I had no idea what was wrong with my
head. I desperately tried option after option, consulting with no less
than 12 mental/brain health professionals. Some of them I could
immediately tell were wrong for me, while others I gave a chance and
As time wore on, Bianca and I began to question our strong gut feeling
more and more often. Surely I couldn’t be right and 10 professionals be
wrong? (As it turned out, they were failing me big time.) Not to
mention the fact that I have a strong tendency to see the best in people
and give them a chance. If I felt they were useless, they must be
Toward the end of that journey, at roughly number 11, still desperate
for help but now with a much better understanding of what was wrong with
me, I asked my GP to refer me to a psychiatrist. Unfortunately the only
one that he knew well was retiring, so he had to take a stab at a new
At her offices, things felt sort of... 80s, you might say, which was
kind of normal for the area the surgery was in. The psychiatrist
was a thickset woman, reminiscent of an old-fashioned headmistress.
Friendly, but with a no-nonsense undertone. I definitely don’t have
a problem with any of that, but it fits with what followed.
She sat me in a dark brown corduroy armchair and took a seat behind a
desk. As usual, I brought a small folder of notes I had printed out both
as reference material and outlining what I wanted to discuss. As with
every other mental health practitioner I’ve seen, she clearly tried to
steer me away from my notes—as if my own self-assessment were invalid;
as if she were better placed to figure out what I needed than I was.
At that point it was not a big issue, but in hindsight (and these are
not words I say lightly): Fuck you.
There were the usual “tell me about yourself” and “why are you here?”
And as per usual, there was no understanding or attempt to understand
what life was like for me and what I had been through. These people
don’t know what type 1 diabetes is like, and don’t want to know. It’s
like they think we’re whingers. I’m willing to bet that people with
phobias or addictions or trauma don’t have their stories ignored in the
But with her, it was worse. It was horrifying. I told her I had
type 1 diabetes. She said “you must have eaten way too much sugar.” I
said that no, it was type 2 diabetes where diet was a major factor.
No, she said. She had a relative with Type 1 diabetes.
I started “I...” and shook my head nervously. “Generally speaking...”
She was insistent. Very insistent. I tried one final “That’s... not
true” but it was no use. It was just like being in a staring contest
where the other person gives you a look that says “you can’t win.”
And you know they’re right.
Fair enough. Maybe she was ignorant and judgemental about diabetes but
was very good at helping people with mental issues. No, wait, (I
thought,) maybe it was some kind of test. Maybe she was trying to gauge
my personality. Maybe she wanted to see how I reacted under pressure.
Maybe telling me what she was doing would defeat the purpose of the
test. (cf. secret plan.) Either way, I backed
down and forgave her.
Then, “why are you here?” I made it perfectly clear why I was there.
Some of my mental health problems were due to my epilepsy. Some clearly
weren’t. Some were due to trauma, some to everyday events, some due
to my medication, and some due to diabetes. It was really hard to figure out what was what, to
unravel the tangled web of really weird, complicated and sometimes
unnameable emotions and experiences.
Well that fell on deaf ears. As had been the case with many others, she
acted like I had exceeded a word count that people go over when they are
confused, when they are overcomplicating things. There was no “that’s a
lot you’re grappling with, I’m very keen to help.” Nor was there “OK,
there’s a lot to work on.” Nor was there “I’ve never dealt with this
sort of thing before. I’m a little out of my depth.” Nor were there
questions to try to understand better.
There was just an unspoken “ah... another one of those.”
There were some other procedural things, like what medications I was
taking, family history, and so on. Then we got into her trying to “help”
me. Am I eating enough fish a week? Am I eating enough vegetables? How
much exercise am I getting?
Look, I appreciate it. A very common and very tangible cause of mental
health problems is an unhealthy lifestyle. I may be arrogant that I’m
already doing my best with everything, but I see the value in someone
making me do a sanity check.
But then it got ridiculous. What kind of exercise do I like? I listed a
few things including swimming. I explained that swimming is hard because
of diabetes. I explained why. She tried to offer silly solutions like
bringing a friend and having them hang on to my belongings, instead of
actually addressing an issue that is really painful for me, namely the
way diabetes gets in the way of things I enjoy. Solving practical issues
is all well and good, but it will never change the fact that diabetes
always has to be on my mind for safety reasons.
OK, she can’t be expected to know that about diabetes. Except I just
told her about it. I literally just explained. Also, I had earlier
explained why fruit is difficult to manage with T1D, but it went in one
ear and out the other. I need to eat more fruit.
Then she spent at least 5 minutes umming and ahhing trying to think of
local swimming pools. Oh, there’s this one, but you have to be a club
member. Oh, there’s that one, no wait it closed down. Seriously, this
went on for five minutes. I sat and smiled as she sat there wracking
her brains for swimming pools.
I don’t pretend to smile. When I smile, it’s genuine. Being warm and
patient and optimistic and trusting is just how I am. Unfortunately it
doesn’t serve me very well when it comes to my health.
Time’s up, I leave, and think “that really sucked.” But then, as I do,
I stopped myself and thought “OK, don’t give up after one visit. These
things take time.” So I thought back to what was actually useful. Well,
she seemed to know her way around medication, at least. Maybe she would
be good in that sense.
A few weeks ago, Bianca and I were lost for what to do on a Sunday. We
happened to walk past the Melbourne Exhibition Centre (yes, the one of
Diabetes Expo fame) and looked inside.
“Health and Wellness Expo”. Pfft.
“Free entry”. Ohh... what the heck. If there was any chance I
could improve my health and wellness it would be time well spent.
Nothing better to do anyway.
We weren’t particularly surprised by what we found. There must have been
about 50 clairvoyants. Healing crystals, dreamcatchers, tarot cards,
aromatherapy. I don’t mean to ridicule these things; I think many of
them do work, just not necessarily by the principles that the proponents
put forward. And that’s OK, because the real principles are so complex
and subtle that science is hopeless at describing them.
Of course there are things that are downright dangerous, or nothing more
than making money off the gullible. They’re not OK.
Anyway, there was a much wider variety than that, such as saunas,
beanbags, gluten-free, massage, and vegan meat (pretty good actually).
I saw someone up ahead holding out a little cup of almond milk, and
having recently become an almond milk convert (it tastes like milk but
has hardly any carbs! Almonds are like unicorns I swear) I was on the
lookout for what was available.
It was good. Really good. So smooth. I had a nice chat with the lovely
lady who seemed to know the additives in my previous brand off by heart
and sold me on the benefits of this product. I’m not going to repeat the
spiel here, as the claims aren’t mine to make. Do your own research. All
I claim is that I think it tastes better than other almond milks I’ve
It was a pleasure talking with her and she was so convincing that I just
assumed she was a salesperson. As it turns out, she actually started the
business, because of her own experiences with an autoimmune condition!
It’s called Almo and it’s becoming easier
and easier to find. It’s probably cheapest online but it’s stocked at
Harris Farm among other places if you want to try some.
I also got to try this Almo Creme stuff which is really nice.
because Bianca and I like almond milk doesn’t mean you will, but if
you’ve never looked into it, almond milk is really low in carbs! But
make sure it’s unsweetened.
We ordered two boxes of the stuff online, thinking they would last for
ages. (But we like it so much, our intake of milky beverages has
increased, so they’re going pretty fast.)
We made the order the day before we were due back, thinking it would
take a couple of days. Apparently delivery was attempted within a day.
We got one of these:
Then the drama began. I logged onto the Star Track site, and elected to go and pick
the stuff up directly. I was told I would receive a message shortly.
... nearly a week passes ...
While waiting and waiting we eventually got fed up (or rather,
dehydrated) and bought a bottle from Harris Farm. Then another.
Anyway, after nearly a week I called up Aus Post. They tell me that my
request was submitted but not actioned, and that they would resubmit for
me and I should hear back the same day.
The next evening, I called again. This time they put a case worker onto
it! I didn’t know they even had those. Apparently the depot in Botany
was not responding to the requests and needed someone to get on their
back. Fine by me.
Another day passes. I get a very apologetic call from my case worker who
explains that she’s in another part of Aus Post in Melbourne and is
doing everything she can from where she is, and that she will ramp up
Later that day, and over a week after it all started, I got a call
saying I can go pick it up. If I can find it. It’s in the most obscure
part of an out-of-the-way industrial complex full of trucks. I nearly
got hit by a truck when I tried to reverse out of a wrong turn.
Then I got to the depot and waited about half an hour for them to find
my package. They were very friendly people. They had trans-friendly
posters on the walls. But the delays were ridiculous.
I shouldn’t be so excited about this
My first Almo box!! (Well, two boxes.) Bianca and I are giddy. I know
it’s silly. I guess it’s just fun to be part of an adventure.
As said in the previous post, after
Simon sent me a transmitter (much appreciated) that didn’t work, I
decided to try my hand at re-batterying my own.
All I used was a file, a small screwdriver, a razor blade and a hand
drill. I went to Bunnings to get the batteries (which they have
but they didn’t stock them. So I tried shopping centres and chemists,
one of which had a very similar battery for $1.30. Defeated, I went to
Mister Minit which I knew would be pricey but I didn’t expect to be $36
I had Simon’s as a guide. Here is a comparison.
Getting to the batteries
The “feet” of the transmitter fit nicely into a groove in this block of
After ages of filing, I finally struck silver.
Getting them out
Putting it back together
I did the voltage check which was fine. Finally I tried it out
and... you guessed it, it didn’t work.
Well, our 7 month work posting in Melbourne is over, and we’re driving
back to Sydney. Can’t wait to be home, back with family and friends.
Keen to start the next big thing. Relieved to get out of the cramped,
noisy, smelly apartment we lived in.
Of course, everything goes wrong.
Once we’re on the extremely busy highway something dangerous happens
and we have to pull over. With trucks racing past at 100km/h I climb
over the passenger seat to get out.
After that, the car won’t start. Flat battery. Call AAMI. We’re not
covered for roadside assistance. I ask if we can upgrade. We can, but we
won’t get roadside assist for two weeks or something. (Lucky you’re with
AAMI!) Walk to a petrol station. No batteries. Luckily highway incident
response pull over and jump-start us and we head to the nearest battery
Stay in Albury overnight. Dexcom transmitter dies in the middle of the
night. NOT GOOD. WHY NOW, WHY HERE?
Being below 6mmol/L can be a disaster for my epilepsy. Being high all
the time isn’t good either. So, testing my blood glucose every 45 minutes it is.
$500 for a new transmitter, no thanks. We contact Simon, the legend who
replaces the batteries in Dexcom transmitters for free. He offers to
Express Post one so we’ll at least have it once we get home. Thankfully
it’s there on time, and what a beauty. Lovely transparent epoxy.
Guess what. It doesn’t work. I keep getting a “raw_data: 0” error in
xDrip. So I try everything.
Simon is at a loss. I update from my slightly modified version of xDrip
to a fresh install of the latest version. Same error. I try a different
phone that worked in the past. Same error. Simon is scratching his head.
He’s never seen the error. Google has never seen the error except in
xDrip+’s source code. Why is all this happening to me?
No CGM. Testing constantly. High a lot. On top of all the moving stress,
this is really straining my epilepsy, which is really making life very
hard to bear.
It’s the weekend, so whether I order a proper Dexcom transmitter, or
have Simon send a new one, it won’t arrive until Monday. Lightbulb! I
can re-battery my own transmitter! I go and do that.
Well, that was a fun experience, which I will save for my next blog
But guess bloody what. This new transmitter doesn’t work either. THE
SAME ERROR?! I ask on the xDrip+ Facebook group. No luck. I change
sensors twice as well. I have changed every component in the system
I am so fed up with Dexcom. Having tried a sample of the Libre before,
I know that I like the size and it’s much easier to insert. I have
wanted to try the Miaomiao for a while now,
but I kept putting it off because of it not working for me, plus that
apprehension about getting stung in the first few weeks while I learn
Finally I have a great excuse to take the plunge and try Miaomiao. I
order one and just give up on my Dexcom until I get the Miaomiao.
Back to testing all the time.
But in the spirit of things going wrong, Bianca’s sister goes through a
rough break-up and needs somewhere to stay. (Not that I mind her
staying. It’s the break-up and the logistics that suck and are stressful
And worst of all, my epilepsy symptoms are worsening again.
(Here’s some more fun. My BG meter battery dies. I replace it. The new
battery is flat. I replace it. THE THIRD BATTERY IS FLAT. I replace it.
The fourth one works. I hit a pothole with my bike and it becomes
temporarily unusable. One of my good friends with epilepsy has two
tonic-clonic seizures. My dad’s business phone line burns out and
there’s no internet. And I can’t seem to get a hold of Star Track for a
week to find out where my almond milk delivery is.)
Whooh, there we go. After a few months with only half-maybe-seizures, I
had a pretty distinct one. A mild focal/partial/who-really-knows, which
is about the worst that happens at this point. But I’m not here to talk
Epilepsy’s major events like tonic-clonics (though I have never had one)
kind of dwarf the myriad other weird and hard-to-describe symptoms. I’m
hoping that my putting them into words might help others deal with
Believe it or not, this post is about... technique. One of the puzzle
pieces that has dawned on us recently is the way a seizure changes my
I literally mean, technique. The way I drink out of a cup. The way I
inject my muscles with insulin. The way I walk! Bianca and I have
noticed things that really seem like a change in technique.
At first we called it clumsiness. But that didn’t quite capture it.
I just seem to undergo a “permanent” change in the way I move and do
things. I use different technique. And it doesn’t quite work. I have to
unlearn it and relearn the right technique.
For instance, while injecting into my biceps they would twitch (very
painfully). I had solved this problem months ago. And I did this by
pressing my arm against the opposite thigh. But now it wasn’t working
any more. I knew exactly how I used to do it. I pressed my arm down in
my lap. Well, I could have sworn that was it. Eventually I started
experimenting and found that I had to press down with my fist.
It was like my muscle memory and my factual memory had been displaced.
A similar thing happened with drinking out of a cup. I was arranging my
lips in a different way and spilling constantly. I had to experiment and
re-learn. Clumsiness doesn’t cover it.
Well, here I am, it’s 3am in the morning and I haven’t gone to sleep.
I was at a birthday lunch today. Well, technically yesterday. I think
you know why I’m up at this hour.
I don’t believe healthy eating is about resisting temptation. I believe
it’s about choosing to be quite satisfied by a healthy diet. When I’m
offered something, I don’t think “I shouldn’t”; I think “I’m not
interested.” Well that’s what I aim for, anyway. It used to be a lot
easier before epilepsy etched some things in my brain.
A few times a year I like to make an exception. To get caught up in the
moment and do what I feel like. After all, it’s not really going to have
much impact on my long-term health. However (and I seem to forget this
every time), it has a huge impact on the rest of my day and night.
It’s funny how I’m confident that I can follow it up with the right
level of insulin—and I conveniently forget that I never succeed.
It doesn’t help that I take it to a ludicrous extent. And that I do have
an enormous stomach. And that people don’t eat what they ordered.
Seriously. “You can have the rest of my lava cake, I’m full.” And the
garlic bread is just sitting there, getting cold. And that the cake and
garlic bread are delicious. Why let it go to waste if nobody wants it
and I’m not too full to enjoy it?
I was always like this as a teenager. It’s natural for me. (I didn’t
have diabetes back then.) When I enjoyed people’s company I would just
eat on autopilot. These days, I just tell myself I’ll sugar surf it.
Which actually sort of works until it’s late and I either have a heap of
tail insulin in my system or a heap of food still digesting.
By the way, something subtle that I learned a while ago is that larger
meals take a lot longer to digest. I had to be particularly careful
about this with my super-fast-acting insulin techniques. A classic
example is when I eat double the amount of breakfast cereal, there’s
actually less of a spike! (When taking the appropriate amount of
But the effect also applies with other sorts of meals. I think this is
part of the reason that many people find they need to spread out dosages
for pizza, or find it quite challenging to manage because it’s really
hard to be consistent what with different restaurants, different serving
sizes, different bases, and sharing pizzas.
Exceptions are great, except...
... they’re not. I hate to burst my own bubble. Exceptions are more than
extra work and vigilance. They have consequences.
That’s not to say they are a bad choice. Enjoying yourself can have a
cost, but that’s no big deal. I’ve never had a hangover but in a lot of
ways this is similar. Lots of people are happy to do it sometimes.
But, I don’t drink and I’m not interested in it. I think that’s a
mentality that can be cultivated about all sorts of things, including
When you do it, own it
Like I said, I hate to burst my own bubble. But if there’s anything
biadepsy has driven home, it’s that confronting unpleasant realities
helps reduce greater unpleasant realities in the long run.
So, from now on, I’m going to be transparent with myself. Exceptions
have consequences. If I decide to make an exception, I own it! I’ll
enjoy myself without guilt, make the most of the opportunity, and feel
the consequences were justified.
Exception or norm?
Something to watch out for is not realising how often you make
“My birthday only happens once a year, let’s make an exception.” “I go
to the movies a few times a year, let’s make an exception.” “I haven’t
moved into a new house for three years, let’s make an exception.” “I go
to weddings three times a year, let’s make an exception.” See how
quickly it adds up?
I like blogging...
Verbalising all this has made me realise that I could temporarily
connect to OpenAPS following this kind of day, even when I’m not
otherwise using OpenAPS. Time to order an RPi...