Time was passing by. I could tell when my dad drove me from one hospital to another. I could read the anxiety written across my parentsโ faces, their confusion like subtitles I could never understand. It was hard for them to accept that their daughter had been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. The more puzzled they looked, the more scared I became.
Being forced to live in a new book chapter felt abrupt and unwanted. Chronic fatigue, dizziness, anxiety, the way my body felt off-balance in every way โ it all drove me mad. The new disease pressured me to experiment with my lifestyle.
Low-carb diet? Been there.
No-carb diet? Been there too.
Taking homeopathic medicine and practicing eurythmy to balance my sugar levels? It happened.
Starving myself at school because I was terrified of injecting insulin alone? Also happened.
Eating carbs without insulin? More than once.
Usually, eighty percent dark chocolate is the kind that makes people wince. Too bitter, they say. Too dry. Like chewing on the past. Like forcing the suffering. But I have always appreciated that sharpness. I found its core sweetness โ the kind that lives hidden beneath layers most people refuse to dig into.
The size of the chocolate piece was never consistent. Some days, I rationed it like gold, afraid the bar would run out before I could replace it. Other days, I tore open a new package, peeled back the foil like a gift, and snapped off a full square. It was just me and the veiled sweetness against the world, a sacred moment, the brightest memory of the day. I let it melt slowly in my mouth, for bitter to curl into sweet, like a musical note held too long.
One piece, every day. No insulin. Such a luxury.
That was the deal I made with myself and my mother. That quiet rebellion excited me, filled with colours and mystery. One piece would not let my sugar levels spike that much, would it?
I did not find that out.
I stopped checking my blood sugar levels for a while.
Anxiety won the game.
Game over.
I cannot recall when I stopped checking my blood sugar levels. It could be a random Tuesday, my favourite Wednesday, or simply a regular day. One piece of dark chocolate, no insulin, was a ritual prescribed in my routine, as if the doctors told me to do so. My body was whispering warnings, but I chose silence. It was easier. Sweeter.
You can eat everything you want.
But you will suffer the consequences later.
The chocolate began to taste like fear when one piece transformed into two, eventually into three. The rule remained the same- no insulin for a piece of pleasure, even if it exceeded its usual amount. I injected insulin for any other carbs, but not my precious dark chocolate, which allowed me to escape.
Escape?
Escape this illness.
Mission accepted.
I fed myself with the delusion of feeling healthy, just like I continued to intake pieces of dark chocolate every day. My foolish, childish mind stated that I am keeping everything under control and feeling fantastic; however, that happened to be a lie, tucked under my tongue like the foil I hid in my desk drawer. Nothing was right; I minimised the importance of diabetes, which appeared to be a significant mistake and played a bad trick on me.
I told everyone I was tired. I was always tired.
I am still tired.
In a world full of food high in carbohydrates, dark chocolate became my best friend. Maldaptively, I illustrated the delusion of not caring about my diagnosis, just to avoid the stress it caused me (Scott, 2021). Meanwhile, I only fed the stress with sweets and made it grow on me.
The โgeniusโ strategy of escaping the illness did not last long. Several years later, I returned to being cautious towards my health, which was not easy. My hands were trembling when I checked my blood sugar for the first time in a while.
I could not look at the screen of the glucose monitor.
The screen was too bright.
The numbers on it were the same.
After those first steps, it took me months to become caring towards myself. Until now, dealing with type 1 diabetes has been a struggle, and it will not stop being one. I am checking my sugar levels, aware of my terrible well-being, and doing my best to stay calm.
Will I win the game?
Winning this game is impossible.
Simply face the reality and do your best.
I still eat it. Just not every day. Not like before.
I calculate the dosage of insulin for it.
Dark chocolate was a special treat for me. Now, when it melts in my mouth, it does not taste like fear. It has the flavours of nostalgia and a taste of forgiveness: like learning how to live with sharpness, instead of pretending it is not there.
