Finish eating.
Decide to do a bike ride.
But you can't do a bike ride unless you use your yellow theraband to warm up because otherwise the pain will be bad.
After stretches, it's time to wrap:
Finish bike ride. Left leg is always more swollen then right. Remove ace.
I mark my stretches and exercise on a gigantic list of physical therapy exercises I have to do... because the Diabetic Police teamed up with the Physical Therapy Police for a good laugh...
Lunch. Test Blood Again. Better...
Come back.
Test again... feeling pangs of hunger...
Feel a LOW coming on.
Chocolate soy milk.
Uncounted number of pretzels + peanut butter.
Dinner... Test again... over treat yet again...
Followed by a dinner ending with: "Why didn't you eat any salad... you haven't eaten salad in several days... blah blah blah blah....."
"I'm FULL," I snap... resentment building because I know for a damn fact that I've had salad other nights--- but no, if I don't eat salad one night it's the end of the fucking universe. "I've had salad other nights and I don't need it all the time!" At which the rest of her argument just sounds like mumbling because I'm too damn angry to even care at that point.
Diabetic Food Police strike again.
Go into the computer room, shut the door.
Consider making a giant card board box with a sign that says "Diabetes Police Free Zone" to wear over my head and torso for meals.
Practice some anger management...
Wish there was someone to help fight the battles with....
Blog about it.
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