For my friend who wants advice, shockingly, from me:

To some people, I am a nut. 

 No. No, smartass. Oh, you.

Not that kind of nut. Not a pecan. I'm crazy. Like a loon.

I don't take any medication. I don't do that. I don't do any counseling, not since the counselor spent the entire session talking about how I needed to change my payment schedule (the one I was currently paying ON-TIME) so that I could pay up sooner. (He asked: Did I want it--the payment--to become an issue in our therapy time? No, I said. Then, at the end of the session, I walked out the door, paid the bill in full, and never went back.)

Now don't get mad when I call myself a nut. This name is for me. This name is my name for myself, inspired by some others. Not you. I know other people might have something going on in their bodies, and that is not an evil, unspoken thing. Or it shouldn't be. It is a frustrating and difficult thing, damn it. They take medicine. They struggle, and I am not saying anything bad about them. They are brave. They are strong.  I mean it.

This name is my name for me.  It's a label I wear, not with pride, but with defiance.

My nuttiness is unspoken, mostly. I don't say often, you know, that according to some, I'm a nut. It could be true. Really.

My body betrays me.  

It started when I was 21. I started having trouble with my health. Nothing big. But I just didn't feel well. I felt faint or dizzy or just a little odd. The world would whirl by.  I got confused really easily. Tired really easily. 

I went to the doctor. Then another. And another. And another. And so on. And so on.

All of them gave me different tests. Then, they would say, "I don't have any more tests to give you." (I found this part to be untrue as they each gave me different tests. It got amusing after a bit. I'd say, "Really? Not one more test? Really?" They couldn't figure out why I was rolling my eyes.) And then, they would say, "Antidepressants! Anxiety! Stress!"

It was like a religious service where you paid to get in the building. (Like Scientology! Sort of!) The rites and chants were the same each time.  "Antidepressants! Anxiety! Stress" Oh my!

I didn't know what to do.

And then ... then, one Saturday, the dog and I were driving home from Memphis to my parents' home. (Amended to add that I wasn't really letting the dog drive.) And ... something worse happened.

The day was hot. I mean, really hot. The kind of hot where your body feels like it's moving through thick soup hot. My car air conditioner was out. I was stuck in traffic between Memphis and Jackson. And then ...  I had what I like to call "An Attack." My head filled with glue. My face started to tingle.  My hands started to tingle. And I was filled with ... confusion and dread. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. My brain was filling with the hot soup. The outside was on the inside. I felt insane. My vision was blurry and odd.

I felt like I was going to pass out actually. And I've told part of this story before. Remember? I stopped at a rest stop, brought the dog in with me, fainted, and woke up to a man praying over me and the sounds of sirens in the distance. A man praying at the Jackson rest stop. The South, I swear ...

When we got to the hospital, the doctor ran some tests (yah! tests! more tests!) and found ... nothing wrong. He looked at me with complete contempt and said, "You had a panic attack." That hurt my feelings. I mean, the doctor looked at me like I was a useless waste of his time. I felt like a medical failure. And I felt like everyone was upset with me. It mattered what they thought. It mattered then. 

It doesn't matter now.

So, a panic attack ... 

Except ... except ...

I hadn't felt panicky at all. Only confused and very bad.

My parents came to pick me up. My father, bless his heart, was upset and angry about the whole thing. What was wrong with me? Was I going crazy? (These were his words, not mine.)

I began the ritual again. Doctor to doctor to doctor. Finally, on an impulse, I went to see my old pediatrician. He had heard of my troubles (we lived in a small town where everyone was very excited/thrilled about the idea that I might be a nut/crazed lunatic), and he wanted to try a glucose tolerance test. Just for the heck of it.

In the third hour, in the middle of the test, "AN ATTACK" (very dramatic, eh?) started. I shook. I sweated. I was dizzy. I was confused. My blood sugar was through the floor. Not the roof. The floor. It was about 35 or something crazy like that. Nutty like that. yikes. And it had dropped dramatically in less than fifteen minutes.

My doctor diagnosed it as low blood sugar, told me to stop eating refined sugar and get more exercise and to rest a lot.

He also sent me to an endocrinologist. Just to be safe. Alas ...  Doctors have fads like everyone else. In the mid-eighties, the fad had been low blood sugar. Everyone had it! Everyone! This was followed immediately by a fad that denied low blood sugar existed. No one has it! No one! Good grief.

I took the test results in to the endocrinologist, and the rites began!! "Antidepressants! Anxiety! Stress!" I left without taking any of these things. ha.

I went on a diet that stressed, well, NO SUGAR. at all. Including fruit and milk. It was not a forever diet. Just for three or four months. 

It was difficult, but I did it.

And little by little, I stopped having the problem.  It went away. I was lucky. I saw a therapist briefly because I was having trouble adjusting to the idea that I had a 'forever' problem, one that might crop up again and again in my life. He took my money. That was pretty much it. Clearly, I needed a better therapist. (To those who have found good therapists, good for you. Keep at it.) I spent a lot of time walking. And walking. And walking. 

And it worked. I got well.  

 Well ... sometimes, I still have problems. I eat too much sugar sometimes. I forget to eat. And then ... I am dizzy. I am tired. I feel confused. My vision gets blurry. 

And I start the cycle again.  I get better. And so on.

So, my point is somewhere around here, isn't it? Oh yeah ... I kept trying. I kept trying. I kept looking. I followed my instincts. I was careful. I was lucky. People said I was crazy. People said I was weak. People said I needed to get tough. Here's what I say: The hell with that. WHO CARES WHAT OTHER PEOPLE SAY? They are not you. They do not know. If you let them, they will become the audience in the Colosseum, and you will not be the lion, lemme tell ya. Let them go and be with themselves. Whoever they are.

Be weak if you need to be. Rest when you must. Be strong when you must. Get well as you must. Be sick as you must. We are all crazy. We are all crazy. We are all crazy. And then some.

Just keep going. Even if it's just a little every day. Keep going, my friend. My friend who isn't at all crazy. Keep going.

And that's my tale. And that's my advice. 

And finally, above all ... don't take my advice! Take your own. Take your own.

With much love.

Me.