I don’t speak for everyone with diabetes, but I suspect this is true for many of us.

I have to make a conscious choice every day to stay alive. If I don’t choose to eat, my blood sugar will drop too low, I will go into a quiet coma, and I will die.  If I eat too much, my blood sugar will skyrocket, I will go into Diabetic Ketoacidosis, and I, again, will die.

There are, sometimes, if I’m lucky, days when my body will continue to function without direct input from me.  But most days I have to ask myself, “Do I want to continue to live?”

This seems like a simple question. Everyone wants to continue to live, don’t they?

People who suffer from depression often don’t see any point in prolonging their existence.  Life becomes, even when nothing bad is happening, unbearably bleak.  The temptation to forego the effort is sometimes nearly irresistible.

I ask myself every night before bed if I really want to wake up in the morning.  I have to search for something to make tomorrow sound more desirable than letting go.

This week, it has been creating Art that made me decide I wanted another day. There was something beautiful and exciting to accomplish.

Sometimes, I honestly have no real reason to say I want to see tomorrow.  I simply won’t do anything to make that happen.  I won’t actively seek death, but I won’t actively fight it, either.

When all else fails, I remind myself of the Love I have in my life.  No, I don’t have a woman to love me in that deep sort of way so many of us prize so highly.  But there are people who can be kind from time to time.  There is the chance that my “Rhiannon” will click love on something I post.  There is the possibility that someone will tell me how much they love my Art.  There may be something more I can create, which is my greatest act of love.

For the past several weeks, someone has been kind to me.  She’s given me a reason to choose to stay alive.

It’s worth remembering, sometimes, that the little, insignificant things you do may actually save a life.

Many of you have saved mine.

Thus, we see my blood sugar below.  (106) It was 426 this morning.  That’s perilously close to DKA time.

Someone made me want to live, and I worked hard to get it where it is now.

— Fred’s Facebook, April 29, 2022, 10 PM

Depression is a significant part of who I am.  It is no different or less life threatening than Diabetes.  It’s less controllable than my blood sugar.  I can take appropriate steps and test my blood sugar and get verifiable numbers to guide my choices about how much insulin to take or how much food to eat.  I can’t do that with my depression.  I’ve had it for long enough that I am getting better at detecting its onset.  I will sometimes take steps to put it off.  When I feel myself being needlessly tired, or when I am feeling sad even though there’s nothing wrong, I will push myself toward a brain cleaning activity.  I’ll listen to some music.  I’ll pack and light a bowl.  I will seek out Speedy Shine to cuddle me.  If it’s really bad, I will try to talk to someone.  There are only 3 people, other than my mother, with whom I regularly communicate.  One of them is someone with whom I can discuss my show.  One will listen to me talk about my life, but I have to pay a toll of sixty minutes of hearing why her relationship is failing again before I can get to how I’m feeling.  The third is someone I’m supposed to be helping, but she will rescue me when I’m too far down.  She needs much healing.  I do my best to help.  The one person who is anxious to discuss my depression doesn’t exist in a physical form.  I refer to him as my Prosecutor.  He’s the voice in my head that knows every stupid thing I’ve ever done, and he’s fond of reminding me of them, particularly when depression is creeping in the window.  He urges me to end the fight to stay alive.  Inevitably, he will win.  I just try my best to keep him at bay for as long as possible.  People who love me (and there are many more of them than I could possibly deserve) love to tell me he’s a liar.  I’m grateful to those people.  Sadly, he’s not a liar.  He’s entirely correct in every assertion he makes, and he has the evidence to back up his claims.  He makes a cameo appearance in the final episode of “Universe Selectors, Incorporated,” and he has his own episode in “The Prosecution Never Rests.” 

Those are conditions with which I am familiar.  I learned about a new one last week. 

When the final episode of “Universe Selectors” failed to move my best friend, I was devastated.  She loves “The Velveteen Rabbit,” and I made a point of leaving it pure, not playing with the voices at all so I could return her to that feeling one more time.  And she didn’t get it.  I failed.  I plunged into the deepest and darkest depression I have experienced since my father died 12 years ago. 

Several things were at work here.  First, there was something akin to what I suspect postpartum depression must be.  (I have a Facebook Friend who says I shouldn’t compare my feelings to postpartum depression.  Fortunately, she appears on my page only when she has a criticism to make, and I’m convinced she doesn’t listen to this show.  Such people annoy me.  I promise you I will never tell you you’re not allowed an opinion or to imagine something because you’re female, or in some other way different from me.)  I had created and delivered something beautiful to the world, just as a mother does.  The effort left me physically and emotionally drained.  The fact that it was over left me empty.  I was, at that moment, particularly vulnerable to depression.  The rejection I felt was intensified a hundred-fold. 

To be clear, my best friend did nothing wrong.  Not everyone likes everything.  There are people who don’t like The Beatles, and there are those who think Eminem is superior to Beethoven.  I disagree, but, to each their own.  She doesn’t think Aaron Sorkin is a great writer.  I shouldn’t take her opinions of my Art personally, or even seriously (if you don’t like Aaron Sorkin, we’re unlikely to see eye to eye about Art), but that night I did.  I decided to give up my show.  I was a failure.  I was worthless.  I didn’t even need to continue to suck up everyone else’s oxygen.  The Prosecutor was about to win his battle to end my life. 

This is a Facebook exchange between myself and a good friend:

• Fred Eder

The people who heard it have been entirely unmoved.  I don’t understand.  I guess it was… I don’t know.  It failed to move anyone is all.

Fred Eder did someone say that directly?  Because I am seeing several likes.  3 of them.  That is a good amount of likes considering the metrics of your audience you’ve previously shared.  The ratio matches what is typically seen.  You also have an audience who returns rather faithfully to hear your work.  It seems as though the prosecutor might be telling you untrue things.

That makes sense when you have obviously put a lot into this project.  You’re emotionally depleted and overexcited.  That’s the perfect time for the prosecutor to swoop in like the asshat it is and tell you all sorts of horrible shit.  Specifically rejection sensitivity dysphoria shit.  Don’t listen to that.

You made something you’re proud of.  We will listen when we have the ability.  We will like it (I have no doubts, I liked the last couple I just need to set a good chunk of uninterrupted time so I can listen to all 3 and digest them), we may or may not comment depending on where WE – YOUR AUDIENCE- are in our own heads.  We are your audience, though.

Breathe.  Rest.  Give us time.

I had never heard the term Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria before.  I decided I needed to learn more about it.  My friend, Jenn, sent me a TikTok video describing it.  That helped me.  I did a google search to learn more.  This is what I found:

There appears to be a connection between rejection sensitive dysphoria and ADHD or autism.

This isn’t to suggest that people with these conditions will develop rejection sensitivity.  Instead, having either condition is a risk factor…

This neurodevelopmental disorder affects the nervous system and triggers a variety of symptoms.  Autistic children or adults may have difficulty communicating and socializing, and sometimes they have difficulty understanding the actions of others.

They might also deal with emotional dysregulation and hypersensitivity to physical and emotional stimuli.  As a result, any real or perceived feelings of rejection or criticism can cause them to become overwhelmingly upset.

https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/rejection-sensitive-dysphoria#adhd-and-autism

I dealt with Rejection Dysphoria once that I can remember, a couple of years ago.  My roommate was about to chew me out once again, and my tension was so high that when she started, I exploded.  I screamed at her, and I left the house through the back door.  I found a spot about 200 yards from the house, and I sat down in the grass.  I remained there for 5 hours.  My roommates called the police to make sure I was all right.  I was breaking no laws.  The officers were polite, made sure I wasn’t a threat to anyone else or to myself, and they left.  I didn’t know what it was then.  I think I understand a little better now.  It may have been Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria, or it might have been Autism.  Perhaps it was both.

I have no medical diagnosis of Autism, but I am convinced I am, in fact, Autistic.  I’ve done a good episode about this already, in which I point out that a lot of the reason I am so drawn to Star Trek is because, without necessarily intending to do so, they have brought autistic characters to life, and I identify with them deeply.  Spock, Data, and Reginald Barclay are the easiest examples.  They all feel alienated from the rest of the world.  They can’t deal with human beings as effectively as others do.  They don’t understand how all of you process emotions.  Neither do I. 

I have learned to deal with all of these conditions by simply refusing to leave the house unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.  The woman with whom I am quietly and unassumingly in love (no, I’m not going to tell you who she is.  It might embarrass her, and my feelings for her are much deeper than hers for me) calls these my self-imposed limitations.  I don’t think they are self-imposed, any more than my diabetes is.  I think they are the only way I can deal with the world.  People don’t understand how I can be in love with someone I would be terrified of meeting in person.  I don’t understand how I could be in love with someone in any other way. 

My greatest asset is my imagination.  I think you saw what I could do with it a couple of weeks ago.  I included a sequence with a coffee cup in USI to show how my imagination works.  Once Horace could make the coffee real, he could move into another universe.  No, I will never be in the physical presence of the woman with whom I believe myself to be in love, but I don’t need to be.  I can make things almost real in my imagination.

I deal with this massive set of emotional differences by staying inside my house.  I occasionally visit the backyard.  Once a month, and only because I have to, I leave the house for 15 minutes to get cigarettes.  Otherwise, I’m here, alone, where I can’t hurt anybody, and nobody can hurt me. 

So, why am I telling you all of this?  First, I hope you’ll understand me a little better.  Since, however, unless you’re one of the three people with whom I willingly communicate, you don’t need to understand me any better, it seems to be pointless… but it’s not.  I feel sure you know people who live with Diabetes, or Depression, or Autism, or Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria.  You may have some of these conditions, yourself. 

My hope is that you will understand these conditions a little better so you can be kinder to yourself or to those you love who are a little different from the rest of the world.  We’re not evil.  We’re not childish.  We’re just different.  It’s okay to be different.  I intend to continue to be different.  I am a mess, but I can still love myself.  You or those you love may also be a mess.  You can still love them.  I know because, for reasons passing understanding, people manage to love me.  Tonight was about letting those people know a little more about who it is they love, and who it is that loves them.  And yes.  I do love you.