Well, haven't I got news for you all. I have that feeling in the back of my mind, telling me this will turn into a full blown rant, because I have so much dumped on my chest and so little people to scream it too! I want to yell, rejoice, and cry all at the same time, yet I'm, far too confused and out of it to even attempt any of these things. All my thoughts are mushed together into one big sentence, no breathers, no breaks, just one long run away train going ninety clicks an hour. My head hurts, my body hurts, I am tired yet Ariana is not ready to rest and is not ready to give up.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I said I was going to the doctor's that day. So I went, sat in a waiting room with whining kids and sweaty adults, and after two fucking hours, I was finally called in. The reason I actually went is because I have been having stomach/kidney/everyfuckingthing problems for the past year. Of course when the word 'stomach' pops up, they make you pee in a container. Ah, oui! C'est terrible. So I did what I was told like a good little girl. They came back in and said they're was sugar in my pee. They pricked my finger, and my blood sugar was high. You know what they tried to tell me?
I have fucking diabetes.
If my mom hadn't have grabbed my hand out of shock, I would've punched that doctor square in the face. Up to the hospital for you, Ariana! I had to stay overnight. They poked, prodded, and stole my blood. They were one hundred percent sure I had diabetes. I was a one hundred percent sure I did not. But yes, she has diabetes, no kidney problems, no bladder problems, no her heart is too fast. No, nothing is wrong with her. No, everything is wrong with her. Take more blood, just to be sure. Run tests, give her drugs, make her fly through the windows and float to the clouds. Lock her in a glass box, poke her with needles, but don't touch her. Don't ever touch her. She might reawaken the beast inside her, and swallow you whole.
Every two fucking hours they pricked my finger, all through the night. I didn't sleep. The monsters hid lurked inside the walls, trying to claw their way inside my head. They're going to make you better. No, they'll kill you. No, listen to me. No, only I matter! I block everyone out. I lock my doors and close the windows. My friends do not care. If I don't die, they don't have to pretend they care. Everything is fine, quite dandy, absolutely fabulous.
In the morning, I am clear of diabetes. Ariana is not infected. Everyone celebrates, I sit and stare. I fucking told you so. But she is not finished, not yet. One problem figured, a thousand more to fix. My kidneys are spazzing, whining about too much sugar, not enough. They're blaming the ibuprofen I was taking. They're saying everything is to do with over-the-counter drugs, the magical pills. I say this is bullshit, and that my kidneys are fine. My body is my body, so let me do what I want. I am not diabetic, I do not have kidney/bladder/mental problems, you're just trying to screw with me and get inside my head. I will not you let you do this, Mr Doctor, so leave me alone. I've sewn myself shut, and it would hurt to much to peel out the stitches.
I am free of the gloves, the hand sanitizer, and the nurses that suck up. I am done of peeing in containers and bleeding fingers. I am being treated as an outpatient. Ariana has to go back for more blood tests to see what's messing with her head, no body. I will be monitored like a little child, force fed, and tucked in at night. It's absolutely fascinating that they never even thought that I wasn't eating on purpose. I'm just relieved.
Anyways, I will come back to sanity and entries that make sense, if that's possible. I've been stuffed to my limit the past few days, so I don't even want to know how much I've gained. Since they're prying more blood from my sore, whining veins on Wednesday, I'm really not in the mood to be debated over again. I'll eat a little more than usual, and keep it healthy so my tests will come back somewhat sane.
And here's the best part. They gave me laxatives. Why? Fuck if I know. I'm not complaining, though. Well, I'm exhausted from thirty six hours of no sleep sans coffee. If you read any of this, or if it even makes sense, you will be the love of my life.