Blood sugar madness has finally translated to "now I’m fucking pissed" - especially as I've found my endo more useless over the last year or two - and has resulted in my turning further to the maths to keep myself alive and in range and, because the only maths scores I remember from high school is my 49% on a geometry test and a D- in Trigonometry that I was thrilled about, it makes perfect sense that I must now turn to said maths for propogration of existence.

Example of thinking and T1D breakfast process: decided it's time for a new corrective dose (the amount of bolus/mealtime insulin I give myself if I'm over a certain amount). because I've changed everything else so I'll try changing this. Equation, according to the Gary Scheiner's far-more-useful-than-my-endo book, THINK LIKE A PANCREAS:

Insulin sensitivity factor = 36 (though I'll make it easier on myself at 35). Equation to determine this: 1700 / (Total daily insulin (basal - long acting + bolus - mealtime/rapid); target BS (initialism continues to be accurate) is 125. Corrective dose: for every 35 over 125, I give myself one additional unit of bolus/rapid insulin. For every 35 under, I reduce it.

And this is just the start. Might change with each meal.

(Fuck this disease that made the maths my saving grace. And fuck the maths too.)

Had written a whole bunch about the structural ramifications of The FictionThing but who cares. Nice thing is that I've found a rhythm with The Work and a process and the truth that the only path forward is detachment from the result of the process: the process is all that matters – once a Thing makes its way through the process of processing, it's out of my hands and into the ether and there’s nothing I can do about that so I might as well accept it do the only thing that I can do: write more shit.

Result of K's ortho doc visit: while she's got a nasty sprain that will take awhile to heal, the wrist is not broken. Relief.

Back to work.