Tuesday, October 26, 2010

pump it up

a few months ago for my acting class, we were required to write a personal, emotional monologue about something that was happening in our lives. this is mine.

PUMP by insulin chick

Yesterday, I got my insulin pump. I dont think I’ll ever forget that car ride to the hospital. My mom had run into the store after picking me up from school to get some water. The box with the pump was in the backseat. I opened it for the first time since it came in the mail a month ago. And I held it. I followed its lines with my finger and memorized how it felt. And I cried. I cried for what seemed like forever. And I kept crying when my mom came back. Tears and mascara stained by cheeks. And I kept crying. And I yelled at my mom, I blamed her for making me get it. I still blame her.....

Sure, it might help me with my control of this, which my dad says is the big picture. But they don’t think past that. This..thing.. is attached to me, I have a tube inserted into my stomach that the insulin is pumped through. That means I can’t run away. Ever. With the needles, I could leave them in the other room, I could forget just for a second. I could move freely, I could be free. But the pump, I’m attached to it. I can’t ever get away from it. Something about being attached to it makes my stomach turn and my head spin and my heart feel sad. Sad. That’s what it makes me. Sad. There’s no running from it now, no retreating into the back of my mind where I’m a normal teenager and none of this exists. Because it’ll always be there. Me and this, this, thing, will be attached at the hip. Literally.

You know I don’t feel pretty with this. I don’t feel womanly or cute or like I can do anything. I feel like, like a monster. A robot. I know this is so shallow, my health is more important, but I won’t stand here and lie and say my health is the only thing I think about. I think about, how I'll wear a skirt, or a dress, or a bikini. How will boys react? Will it give me a weird tan? I think about these things, and I..I cry. I love that I’m athletic, a runner, soccer player. I love my leg muscles that can power through anything, that push me off my track blocks at a million miles per hour.. Will this slow me down? Do people on insulin pumps go to OFSAA?*

All I can say is, you don’t understand me. Fuck, you probably don’t understand half the things I’ve been going on about. But understand this: you’re the luckiest person in the world, because you have something that I want so bad. Something I dont remember ever having. Power. Power over your own body, a will thats your own. Fuck I’m jealous.

i write monologues like this all the time. i have millions. and ill be posting all of them. writing like this helps me to deal with my feelings, its really therapeutic. Some are structured, like this one, some are written at 2am and barely coherent. but they are all real.

trust me kitties, im an emotional gal!

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