Shame on me...Shame on you

I needed to pick up a few things at the supermarket so I went there after I worked out at the gym.  It always sounds a little silly to me when I say that I “worked out” like I’m trying to play pretend or something.  Worked out conjures up an image of someone really pushing themselves to an extreme, working up a major sweat, doing a variety of exercises.  Truth is that I just “walked…maybe slowly jogged” on the elliptical machine…so do I have a right to claim I worked out?

Anyway, like I was saying, I went to the supermarket afterwards to pick up a few things.  I found the electric cart and got on it and went first to the bathroom.  I don’t like riding the cart, but until I get used to the new shoe molds the podiatrist made, I need to avoid walking, so there I was – riding on my cart and trying not to feel handicapped or like an imposter.  Strange…I feel like an imposter at the gym and then an imposter on the wheelchair cart.  Why do I always feel like some kind of imposter?

As I drove the cart as close as possible to the bathroom I saw an older, grey haired woman standing blocking the entrance, waiting for her turn at the deli counter right next to the rest rooms.  She had one of those three pronged canes for stability and support and I paused…not wanting to ask her to move, but unable to negotiate my way around her.  She glanced at me and I said “excuse me, I need to get past you?”, and she then moved slightly to the side.  No expression on her face, just watching me.  I slowly inched towards the door to park right outside and walk in.  Strangely, she turned and seemed to be following me, and as I walked into the door, sure enough, she followed me in.  I turned around and glanced at her and she looked at me and said “you’ve got diabetes, don’t you.”  It was more of a statement than a question.

Caught by surprise, I nodded.  “Yes.”  “How did you know?” I asked her.    She gestured towards me with her cane and said with some derision in her voice “your feet…I could tell.”

I was kind of frozen for a couple of seconds.  I could hear the blame, the judgment in her tone.  You know that feeling when the world kind of tilts and it’s kind of disorienting for a moment?  I knew I was being accused and found guilty of something bad…but I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about for a few beats.  Then I kind of “came to” and realized she had seen the psoriasis on my feet and clearly assumed that it was from diabetes.  I said “that’s psoriasis”.

Her expression cleared slightly and her shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.  She said “oh…” and turned to walk towards the empty bathroom stall.

I walked into the others still slightly stunned by the situation.  I felt as if I needed to speak up for myself, but didn’t know quite what to say.  I took a breath and said “do YOU have diabetes?”  At this point we were both in our own stalls carrying on this bizarre conversation.

“No”, she said angrily, “but my husband does”.  “And he refuses to take care of himself, insists on eating his cheeseburgers and beers and won’t listen to the doctor.”

At that moment I realized that the hostility she had aimed towards me was from her frustration with her husband and I breathed an inward sigh of relief that she wasn’t angry at me.  In my relief I morphed into a co-conspirator.  “Yes, I know how frustrating it is when people won’t deal with the diagnosis…my nutritionist says there are people walking around with blood sugars over 300 but just not dealing with it”.

Now, honestly…was I just wanting to bond with this woman over our mutual frustration?  No, I wanted her to know that I was a good girl and not worthy of her anger or blame.  Why I didn’t even know this woman, would never see her again.  But somehow I leaped onto the chance to exonerate myself in her eyes.

From the other stall she said with disgust “I don’t care if people kill themselves with the way they live…I just get sick of my tax dollars going to support them and their ways”.

Standing by the exit, paused but ready to leave the bathroom, I stood facing her closed stall, feeling kind of captive by her words.  I had absolutely no idea what to say to her.  I mumbled something incomprehensible like “yeah…hmmm..well  - bye” and walked out and got back onto the electric cart as quickly as I could and drove away.

It was several days before I even told anyone about the experience.  Even now as I write it I have a hard time believing that it happened.

People blame those of us who have Type 2 diabetes.  Note the effort people make to clarify when someone has type 1 diabetes.  They want you to be absolutely clear that THEIR diabetes wasn’t their fault.  Obesity is the last refuge for bigots…and diabetes is a potent weapon to hurl at those who exhibit both.  The message is crystal clear and cuts with a fine edge…I am fat, I have diabetes, I am disgusting, it’s my own fault, I’m a burden on the world, you dread seeing me coming in your direction…I’m a problem that you want dealt with.

It’s ugly and unfair and especially lethal because the grain of truth buried under the prejudice makes it hard to dismiss the bigotry.  Which should be dismissed.  Which isn’t right.  Which shouldn’t happen.  But…I did eat too much of the wrong things and I didn’t exercise the way I should have for years.  That’s true. 

It’s like when I was in fifth grade.  I remember standing in front of the class because it was my turn to give my oral report.  The teacher had to exit the room for a moment and asked me to wait – there I stood, in front of the other kids, waiting for the teacher to return.  A mean girl named Lori – can’t believe I still remember her name – said “you fat thing”.  I stared blankly out at the sea of faces…frozen and not sure what to say.  I heard another voice come from someone else…”how can you just let her say that to you, why don’t you say anything back to her?”

I shrugged and said “she’s right”.  Silence filled the classroom.  That moment stretched out forever.  Until the teacher came back in.  That’s all I remember.  That and a profound feeling of shame, being discovered, being unable to hide, and being forced to confess.  I just didn’t know how to defend myself when there was something true about what was being said.

Shame is a hard thing to shake.  But one of my greatest challenges these days is to let go of unproductive guilt and focus instead on what I can to today…and tomorrow.  I can look back and see my destructive choices, but I can also see where they came from, and what was behind my choosing food as medication and comfort.  Understanding leads to compassion and forgiveness.  Most of the time anyway – I wrestle with demons like anyone.