High

High. I mean on drugs right? Wrong!

Type 1 Diabetics are possibly the only people that would inject in order to avoid being "high." It may be understandable when you see a young girl, probably with a boyfriend that you know her mother doesn’t approve of and wearing way too much eyeliner, pull out a needle and shove it into her arm without even blinking, can come across as a bit of a shock. Your face contorted in a look of disgust, "How can she be doing that here? Here of all places!" Where would you prefer me to do it? In a bathroom stall, out of sight and out of mind. Subjecting myself to an unhygienic mess for what? So that you can protect your innocent eyes from the druggy girl? Pathetic. I will give my body what it needs, wherever I am.

Seeing the horror on people's faces when you bring out that sharp instrument and pierce your skin without even thinking about it and having to try to explain that it really is just insulin and you’re not hooked on god knows what never quite does it, so out comes the test strip graveyard that is your purse and trying to prove that you just ate pizza which is a carb hell and you’re trying to correct for that cheesy goodness. Finding yourself explaining to the middle-aged man with a briefcase sat on a Metropolitan line train to Kings Cross that you know you should have had a Caesar salad instead because its carb free and then wouldn’t have had to bolus. Wait…bolus? He has to clue! Now he really thinks you’re flying high.

Think about it. Realistically if I was going to have a drug addiction would I really do it with kids standing next to me? Okay truth be told, I am addicted.. to insulin! There is no other option considering that my pancreas went on a holiday of a lifetime and never came back, leaving me with sugary blood and a constant craving for well.. my drug. I’m addicted to staying alive. It is not a choice. If I had a choice not to put artificial hormones in my body and make tiny cuts across my skin more than 15 times a day I would, but I have to. So please narrow-minded strangers, do not take it upon yourself to assume what I am putting into my body, you have no idea that it is my own elixir for life.

Diabetics are amazing people; we may not be able to tell you where Italy is on a map (maybe thats just me…) but maths, wow. Maths is a strong point. Ask us how many grams of carbohydrates in any food type at all, and we know the answer. Lint gold bunny? 13.8g. Don’t get us started on converting it into units of the magic liquid that keeps us alive, now that requires skill. I’m sorry young-family-with-a-newborn in Greggs, yes I am having a sausage roll and yes I am injecting for it because I love carbs and they love me.

Children and teens are the worst. When they finally get over the immense deal of you sticking a needle into yourself without needing to hold someones hand or the promise of a "well done" sticker after like at the doctors, the dreaded statement arises. “My grandma has that too.” NO. In the calmest way possible, just no. It is not the same. Firstly, type 2 diabetes does not require multiple injections and no I do not have it from "eating too much sugar" so please, before you mention your (and I’m sure they’re lovely) grandparents again, it is not the same. Type 1 diabetes is genetic and I find myself trying to explain how the immune system attacks the cells in the pancreas but give up half way through and eat that huge slice of glorious chocolate fudge cake that melts my heart with each mouthful, when someone, right on cue, asks “are you sure you can eat that?” Yes madam I can eat that, because the only thing type 1 diabetics cannot eat is poison, just the same way I’m sure you cannot eat something toxic so please, please let me eat in piece. Managing diabetes is an art, not science.

If it could possibly get any worse than being mistaken for a heavy drug user that likes to publicly display said narcotics abuse, being mistaken for someone in remission or on a mental comedown is worse. Wandering into a little bar in Soho at 2pm, with my mother might I add, and asking for a glass of water with lots of ice as my whole body shakes and I have to wipe the sweat off my brow, pulling out my testing machine and again, trying to indicate in the simplest way possible, that yes, I am “high”… I have a high blood sugar! Getting that little look of sympathy directed towards a parental figure, almost silently saying “I’m so sorry she’s your daughter” from the waiter and having them turn to my mum and actually saying quietly like its all a big secret, “She’s detoxing isn’t she…I understand it's hard” like that’s any better! No kind sir, I am not trying to release the toxins from my body after a long period of snorting, or injecting (well sort off, I injected with medication I got from Lloyds pharmacy I suppose) or anything else with a similar description, I am just trying to bring my sugar levels down so I can return to being a normal member of society which does not have what feels like a mouth full of cotton wool and the shakes and most certainly is seriously regretting almost inhaling that sandwich and forgetting to do an insulin dose for it. So for the love of god, no advice on rehab centres and comments on how I need to turn my life around, just the bloody water please!

Public spaces are hard at the best of times. Having a lot of strangers very close to you, especially in hot weather when everyone is sticky and disparately trying to find some arm room to lift their Evian bottles to their lips in a confined space, is most defiantly not pleasant. The lack of regard for any form of personal space is rather ridiculous so everyone loves on top of each other, especially on public transport where the youth and professionals of London mix, only for a short time. I will make space and I will give myself my medication, no matter how close anyone is to me. I am deeply sorry if attempt at living offends anyone in anyway. Actually… no I’m not sorry at all, and I can almost guarantee that any diabetic out there is also not sorry that you cringe at my needles, or feel nauseous at the sight of blood, but let's put things into perspective; more than 10 finger pricks a day to check blood glucose levels. More than 10 injections a day every single time an item of food passes our lips. Sweats like we’ve been under a shower, not being able to feel your limbs and jaw locks that become painful. Dry mouth like the Sahara desert. We drink a lot because were thirsty, we pee a lot because we drink a lot…oh wait, nope, it's just diabetes. It's hard. Insulin is a life support.

On the 11th of January 1922, a 14 year old boy who was dying of diabetes was given the first human trial of insulin, but this did not work. Later, a purer form of the drug was created and this restored his sugar levels back to normal and he was able to live. It's not a "drug" like people perceive it to be, needles do hurt and we don’t even blink when we stick it into our skin because it's normal to us. It's our life.

Insulin pumps are meant to make life easier, and they do, medical wise. Discretely clipped to the middle of a bra under a cute dress, out of sight, no strange looks right? Wrong. In the middle of a busy restaurant reaching down a dress, mens heads turn, the look of either excitement to see a young girl reaching into her undergarments, or the look of disgust, thinking, "what the hell is she doing?" Pulling out a little pink box that makes screeching noises and finally they can see she’s all wired up. Confusion takes over their expression and a deep sigh comes from within her as she enters the grams of carbohydrates she’s eaten.

It only gets harder on holiday, trying to enjoy the sunshine with a good book in hand, reading the wise words of Orson Welles “Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn” and trying to adopt this mindset as people stare at the chunky florissant rose coloured robot attached to your side. Alien. It's all alien to them and that's how you feel as they don’t break their glares. Diabetes teaches discipline, moderation, and the ability to pick yourself up when you fall. If they want to stare, let them.

I like to think of myself as part of a wonderful cyborg community and if there is anyone that doesn’t like that then its none of their business. Us pancreatically challenged need to stick together and if anyone wants to stare and make comments they can, because we are special. We are strong. Each and everyday is a challenge. Trying to keep on top of things is like climbing a mountain, there are many bumps along the way and at times you can't help but want to give up, throw in the towel and never look back, but we keep going, because we have to. This is our life, our group of superhuman stars, we rely on insulin to keep our body living and to keep our mind healthy.

Sugar? No thank you, I’m sweet enough.

To the parents that have to inject their babies. To the young girl not wanting to inject during prom. To the little boy being picked on for being different and to those continue to fight after so many years:

Those strange looks people give you... they are not worth the time of day. Each face does not tell a story, their souls do. Never judge someone just by taking a first glance at them. Your story is not something that you have to prove to the world. It is not survival of the fittest, it is support to survive.

Judgmental middle-aged man with a briefcase sat on a Metropolitan line train to Kings Cross, I will eat that pizza. Young family with the newborn baby in Greggs, I will eat that sausage roll. Children, I am not diabetic because I ate too much sugar. I can and I will eat that cake madam. Kind waiter, I am not on a recovery programme. I am me. We are special, each person who’s pancreas took a nap and didn’t fancy going back to work.

You. Me. He She. Us. We are one. We are not drug abusers, we are strong fighters. We are not perfect . Trent Shelton had the right idea in saying “We are all a little broken. But last time I checked, broken crayons still colour the same” and we should all listen to someone with a cool name like Trent.