Woman’s Politics Weekly: 26 YEARS of INSULIN THERAPY

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HOW to BUILD a WOMAN

Sunday 11th August, 2019

So, no ‘public order’ notices this week, instead I got a delivery on Friday I believe it was, a food steamer or something of the sort.

I know exactly who it was, that ponce who lives up Warren Street, he doesn’t have an oven in his kitchen in his bedroom, so he has a plastic food steamer and thinks it is the revolution of food.

I think its a load of bollocks tbh.

You have just bought a woman, who does not cook, a kitchen appliance.

“Alls you do, is F*ck my life up”, I tell him.

“Do you have SEN (?)”

Oops, I forget, he has dyslexia.

Additional washing-up, additional stress, I already have an oven thanks, and 4 hobs, and 2 steamers, I don’t want a set of wobbly plastic food containers, taking up unecesarry space.

Cooking and eating, is like a f*cking chore when you are a diabetic.

By the time you have taken all your medication, your food is cold.

And everyone else, has usually taken the best scraps.

There comes a time, where if you could give me a tablet, called ‘dinner’, it would be all the same to me.

Recently, only after 26 years, of injecting myself with insulin, several times a day, and managing my diet in accordance to this very heavy and life threatening, yet life dependent drug, have I realised, how badly, it has conditioned me, as a child, especially as a teen, and as an adult too.

I feel like no one cares about me really, only the numbers, on a blood-testing meter.

Maybe, after all, this did prepare me ‘well’ for the world.

I feel like an appendage, to a machine.

Great, for ‘environmental conditioning’, not to mention, the photographic memory, which it seems, may have been instilled by childhood PTSD.

I love pictures, of animals, hedgehogs, rabbits, burrowing and running down warrens, hiding in trees, from the ‘Jabbies’ (the injections), eating carrots, I LOVED carrots.

I still remember, one of my earliest memories, sharing a piece of carrot cake with Dad on the balcony, at John Lewis.

A ginger spiced slice, with white butter icing and a beautifully decorated orange and green, butter sugared icing carrot on top (!)

My vision fades, and I BECOME DIZZY.

I remember, Peter Rabbit, the hot water bottle.

One day, we saw him, sitting and hopping on top of the garden fence (!) as I looked outside my bedroom window.

Dad, was funny.

Peter Rabbit ate so many vegetables, that he became sick (!) Just like me (!) He also, drinks peppermint tea, just like me, when he gets sick.

It makes me cry, now.

Life, speak life.

I love colours, bright colours, red, deep, yet sometimes even dark, and cold blues and greens and aquamarines, cooling colours, emotional colours.

I scream on the floor, crying.

I like to lie on these colours, they make me feel fresh and warm.

I feel hot, and flustered, my skin, is itching, it is hurting, it is stinging.

I like to lie in cold and hot water, I LOVE WATER, I feel like my body can’t cope, I nearly choke, drown myself, drinking, drinking, drinking, water, water, water.

I want to be sick.

I hear the machines bleep, and they haunt me, I stare at the moon through the window, into the darkness of the misty night.

The moon has a face, if you look, carefully.

But her face, always looks back at you when you look at her.

She follows me everywhere.

Dad, takes me into the free fresh air, outside, to see the moon, and we watch the stars, and look for satellites, sitting outside in the dark, staring up at the sky, underneath the stars during the night.

I feel nice.

Cool, calm, collected.

I remember, the machines, bleeping, when I was 3 years old, I’m 23, and my head feels like it is exploding.

BOOM (!)

Everyone comes, looks at the machine not me, then sticks needles in my hands and arms, like darts.

Then they tell me, “It doesn’t hurt”, when it hurts, they laugh, and go home to their children.

There are dark times, when you want to flirt with death.

I think, the only thing that has kept me going, is the thought and sensation of nature, the great outdoors and my home, turning my home into my ‘home’ and sanctuary, my little box.

My healing box.

I like certain smells.

One thing I have had to do without, or still cannot deal with in my life should I say, to prevent my head from hurting, is technology and appliances such as smart phones and bleeping things, I still cannot use a smart phone.

It makes me shiver.

More like f*cking traumatising.

But Apple, has helped me to adapt, a little.

Thank you, Apple and workers.

As you can see, in this particular example, of ‘Jenny’s relationships’, I tend to act in the same way: throw darts and back-stab, accidentally, actually, stitch people up, without even knowing it (!)

I seem to have been conditioned, to automatically LAMPOON, men, or anyone of any authority.

This guy sent me a delivery, I naturally, yet quite immediately in initiative, and automatically, acknowledged this, with “Thanks :/”.

I then, told him, “I don’t cook”, and yet he has the retardedness, to buy me a kitchen appliance…

“…plastic piece of shit, I cannot even take a shit in it, it’s upside down” I say.

“How about, you take this plastic piece of shit, and give me the money for it” I say.

“Jenny, I think I may have accidentally had my delivery delivered to you”, he replies.

“You pussy !” I say.

“The delivery has my name on it” and a wine voucher (!).

There were 2 things, that I tried to explain to this guy when I met him, 1. I don’t cook, and 2. I don’t like wine.

But his ego was so massive, he didn’t even remember, these 2 things.

I have already told this man to leave me alone, a few weeks ago, so now I have told him to back-off again, which means, I have automatically now, got a free steamer and he can’t contact me anymore and use this as an excuse to come over.

And I can use it instead, as an excuse, to threaten him with boyfriend action by accusing him of being of ‘stalker’, with the receipt to prove it, and even request the money for it, if he dares try to use it to implicate himself in my life, again.

One thing we can agree on, is a f*cking cigarette for dinner…

HARD

CORE.

 

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CELEBRATING 25 YEARS of INSULIN THERAPY

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