Hi
@hollyslot I thought I should include some (I hope!) encouraging observations and experiences. Like you I got diagnosed very young and went to University (King's College London) where I probably experienced my worst depression in 61 years:
I have a whole battery of warning signs when I am low, sugar-wise. The most obvious is sudden excessive yawning. Many times in public I have been tempted to ask total strangers whether they are diabetic, simply because they yawn incessantly. Is this because the brain thinks it needs bucketfuls of Oxygen to create unattainable energy? I can also feel unnaturally depressed. Red stars can dance within my eyes and if I walk into a darker area, what look like giant sunflower heads blot out my vision. Tingling affects all my mouth, my hands shake, and I have a raging headache. I have often been alerted to low readings because I am unable to make decisions. Ironically this is often at lunchtime, in a food shop, when I am trying to work out what adds up to 60g of Carbohydrate.
and then:
Recently there has been research taking place in Cambridge to find out whether depression increases the risk of Type 2 diabetes. Certainly many depressives comfort eat and this usually leads to obesity, which one might expect would raise the incidence. Interestingly 20% of cases of diabetes can be attributed to depression in people with both conditions. The authors, Martin P. Cosgrove, Lincoln A. Sargeant and Simon J. Griffin state that further research is needed. Whatever their findings, I always feel irritated when some condescending “perfect bodied” member of the public or Press point accusatory fingers at obese people. They have no idea what chemical imbalance could be the cause.
The following took place in my 1st year:
It was at this time that King’s College Hospital noticed the first signs of retinopathy, a word I had not yet encountered. I was well aware that many elderly diabetics were blind and I was reminded of this every time we drove past the iconic 1930s St Dunstan’s Home in Ovingdean, a little east of Brighton. Their Website has a section on diabetes. With this in mind it is remarkable that I am writing these words some thirty years later (now forty). One evening, in my first year at King’s, I was sitting at my desk, amazingly doing some work, when I was suddenly unable to see out of my right eye. It was as if a bottle of drawing ink had been poured into the eyeball. Various ideas flooded into my imagination, almost as rapidly as the real substance into my sight. Blind panic took control. I ran down Champion Hill and across Denmark Hill, straight into the Hospital, I would guess in under sixty seconds. Arriving at Accident and Emergency, I was greeted by the ubiquitous unsympathetic gaze of a receptionist:
“What’s your problem?”
“I can’t see out of my right eye.”
“Who sent you here?”
“I did.”
“Did you contact your GP?”
“Listen, I’m an outpatient here and I’m diabetic” (magic words).
“Oh, I see, do you know your Hospital Number by any chance?”
“Yes, A153034.”
“Fantastic. Ah, Mr Vicat. I see from your notes that retinopathy has been noted. I’ll get someone to attend to you.”
A doctor duly appeared and informed me that I had had a haemorrhage and that nothing could be done until it had cleared enough to see what damage had occurred. I was put under the care of Mr E.W.G. Davies, a short, wire-rimmed-bepectacled man with whispy grey hair, twinkly beaming eyes and an everlasting supply of Fox’s Glacier Mints stuffed into his white coat. I found this ironic, seeing that the majority of his patients were diabetic! During one of his consultations in my second year he asked me about my life. I told him that I was living in Kensal Rise; that I cycled into King’s College in the Strand every day; that I played squash; and that I drank moderately (I’m sure he didn’t fall for this). His response was that I should stop burn-ups on the Edgeware Road, that I should avoid squash, moderate my alcohol intake, and that I should shun aerobic exercise or anything that would make me red in the face. If I did not heed his words, I would be blind by the time I reached twenty-three.
“Thank you” I said. “Do you realise that in one sentence you have ruled out
all the finer points of living?”
To say that I was depressed would be accurate, but somewhat insufficient. What was the point of carrying on in London? Was I likely to experience any of the ambitions I might entertain? Would I ever see my children? Worse still, would I ever have any? Would I ever drive and explore my country, let alone the World? How could I learn any more music? These were just some of the thoughts that spun round in my head, as though my brain had been sucked into a tumble dryer.
.........
Fast forward 40 years, and I can say that I am glad those dark days didn't overwhelm me completely. I still have very good vision - only wearing glasses for reading. I still drive, still explore,still play the organ an piano and sing in a choir I started in 1987 and best of all, have a wonderful wife, daughter and granddaughter. I hope you get at least as much out of life and manage to meet the people who will help you do so. I think you stand a good chance. Good luck!