1. I tell them to protect myself. With my insulin sensitivity and fluctuating stress levels constantly affecting my bloodsugar levels, coupled with the tighter control I’ve achieved over the last three years, my levels can plummet without much notice. One minute I’m drafting a letter to send to a client with ease and the next moment has me struggling to navigate my fingers on the computer keyboard, a fog settling around my ears and that tiny flicker of unregistered panic in my stomach. It happened so fast this morning that I barely had the wherewithal to tap on the desk of the woman who sits behind me and ask for help.

“Can you please go buy me some juice? I need it in a hurry.”

No questions asked. She was gone and returned in barely a moment. She even brought me a straw.

“Do you need me to sit with you?”

I shook my head as I downed my eight. And she went back to her desk, occasionally leaning forward to check and see if I was okay.

After 15 minutes, I was safe again.

I tell people because their knowing keeps me safe.

2. I made banana cake and it was delicious. Chris’s grandmother ate a piece and agreed.

3. Once in a while, I find myself wondering what it would be like to set fire to all the insurance papers on my desk and, as the flames lick towards the ceiling and people are scattering in bewilderment, I sneak out, never to return. Obviously I would never follow through on this. But that fantasy is often replaced by the one where Chris and I are living in a terrifically posh NYC apartment, with a stainless steel freezer stocked with Hoodsie Cups and royalty checks coming in the post by the pound.

4. My father once told me that I had a gift with words and that, in the moments that people often forget about, I am able to find beauty. He wrote that on a post it note and stuck it to a college paper he had stumbled across while cleaning the house. When I’m at home and trying to find words for my book, I often think of that yellow sticky note. I hope I make him proud.

5. Chris has taken to calling the little cat “Siah Sausage.” I don’t want the cat to be called Sausage. I told him this. Yet he continues to call her Sausage. And this morning, damn it, I called her Siah Sausage.

6. The pictures on Dee’s and Kassie’s websites over the last two days brightened up my otherwise monotonous day at work.

Consider my day: made.

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