I walked into my mother’s marigold-coloured bathroom clutching onto a towel and an immense amount of dread. It had been more than a couple of days since my last shower— my stench was becoming the dominant scent in not just my mother’s bedroom, but the house in entirety.
As I unclothed, I looked at myself in the mirror. My 5-foot 11-inch body, once filled with dips and curves and rolls, was now a ghastly sight. Breasts once full were now deflated. Hips once dimpled with celluated were sagged. My bones protruded from my skin. My body, once sturdy and strong, was frail, weak, and withering away.
My face was the most difficult to recognise. My eyes used to be full of life and wonder, the quintessential look of someone newly thrust into their twenties. My cheeks were always known for the chipmunk-ness. These were my identifiers: bright eyes, fluffy cheeks, wide smile flashing a missing canine on my right-hand side. But now, my face told a different story. I looked like someone significantly my senior, but more alarmingly, my skin had a blueish-grey undertone that resembled that of someone on their deathbed. I was barely able to make eye-contact with myself, as I could not deny that what makes me me, the best of me, had disappeared.
Scared, and unsure of when and how things would get better, I turned away from my harrowing reflection and headed for the shower.
The warm water felt heavenly on my body, but it took all the energy I had to stay on my feet. As I attempted to lather, I thought about the last few months. Six months prior, I had returned home to Nairobi, Kenya after finishing the first half of my second year in college. I entered my sophomore year with so much enthusiasm. The awkwardness and displacement of my first year well behind me, I was determined to reap all of the benefits of college. I crammed my schedule with tons of activities and commitments, hoping to meet new people and have the best time. But as the term progressed, my stress increased, my self care depleted, and my body decayed.
I lost significant weight, was exhausted all the time, and had nearly no appetite, but I attributed all of this to my aggressively busy academic and personal life. I had something called diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA), a serious complication that occurs when your body produces high levels of blood acids called ketones. DKA develops when your body can’t produce enough insulin, and it can often lead to various other dangerous conditions and even death.
Though I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes (T1D) at 13, seven years prior, it never crossed my mind that diabetes was to blame for my exhaustion or dramatic weight loss. To be honest, diabetes didn’t cross my mind much at all: I had neglected my diabetes for years. When I was first diagnosed, I tried everything: an insulin pump, insulin injections, pills. After a while, my doctors—astounded at the minimal amount of insulin I needed—gave me the green light to stop taking any and all diabetic medication.
As the years passed, and I perfected denial. On doctors forms when they asked about other conditions, I easily marked ‘none’. My friends had no idea about my diabetic past. I indulged in sweets and treats of every kind, without second thought or, of course, any insulin or medical intervention.
But it had seemed to catch up to me. Not just my poor, overworked pancreas. By neglecting my diabetes, I neglected a part of who I am. That type of neglect, so deeply embedded in my psyche and everyday life, eroded my emotional stability. As my bodily state broke down slowly but surely, my emotional stability followed suit. Stress and later panic attacks became the norm. I was lost, unsure of where I was, who I was, and how I got there.
I continued to scrub my body while taking frequent breaks to catch my breath. Flashbacks from months ago persisted. At the end of January, 2016, after a few weeks at home, I convinced my mother that I was fully equipped to return to school. That was nowhere near the case, which I unfortunately found out the hard way. Laying on a hospital bed, in a facility near my college, I realised it was time to let go. Let go of my denial, pride, ego, and fear of my health, so I could save my life.
As I thought about what I felt was the greatest defeat of my life, steam began to fill the shower and I struggled to breathe. I was having a massive panic attack, after which I collapsed. I found myself in the hospital again, this time for a much longer stay. At 20, I was confronted with the reality of my mortality. Death became something conceivable and in the realm of possibility.
It was a bizarre realisation at such a young age. The trauma and emotional turmoil of that experience is pain that I’m still navigating today.
It took me years to recover from DKA. My recovery was complicated, emotionally and physically. I was so incredibly angry at myself, and blamed my frivolous denial and shame for almost costing me my life. How could I have done this to myself? All because I didn’t want to be different than my peers, or live a life that included a jab everyday? It all felt so silly.
My self-hatred stalled my physical recuperation, and inspired reckless behaviour. I slowly gained weight, and was dissatisfied with my body every step of the way. I longed for my hips, thighs, and even my most hated body part, my stomach. Simultaneous, my smaller size broadened the range of men who expressed their interest in me. I started to get a lot of attention from men outside of my race, and it felt good. I felt sexy for the first time in a long time. Something I thought I’d lost seemed to have returned. I may have hated myself, but the men who hit on me and the many people who complimented my smaller shape loved me. For a while, I thought that was enough.
But it wasn’t. My emptiness was palpable. I still felt so uncomfortable in every way imaginable: emotional, social, physical. Confronting that discomfort was when the true work towards healing began. I had to forgive myself so much, and realise that my identity isn’t tied to my size. I had to learn to love myself through recovery and every iteration of my body. Hardest of all, I had to allow myself the time to reach those goals.
That’s what true self love looks like. It’s an action— it’s something you redefine and redetermine over and over again in your life. Self love can change and should evolve alongside you. The way I practiced it in my youth and adolescence does not mirror how I practice it now. I know more about myself. I’ve come acquainted with different parts of who I am, and I serve them accordingly.
Self love can also be self defiant. I had to fight against myself to achieve a level of self respect and love that I needed to heal. Those battles still occur today. The ultimate effort of self love is believing the fight is worth it, and trusting that you will win.
Having diabetic ketoacidosis taught me some much about myself, about life, and about what’s important to me. But most invaluably, it taught me when it means to love oneself, and that my identity will always be within reach to reclaim, redefine, and rediscover.
