This morning I went in the wrong direction again, drawing a 7.0 after a previous day of performing high impact exercise and scrupulously observing low carbohydrate dietary restrictions. I ponder a break from testing until my next A1C blood draw in September to spare myself the aggravation of this demoralizing numbers game that this diabetes diagnosis has bestowed upon me. My world class neuroses have already tethered the blood glucose numbers spectrum to my poorly calibrated anxiety meter near the very core of my worn psyche, fueling the onset of a real sense of depression. I do understand this is not a practical emotional approach to working successfully within this very scientific based diabetes management system, but my lifelong struggle thus far to rationally contextualize anything involving any form of physical danger is really a serious impedance that is going to take a lot of practice, strength and wisdom to master. A hyper vigilant childhood set in an apartment in which tension pitched heartfelt warnings of "it could kill you" were always attached to such mundane acts as eating food a day before the sell by date, using safety scissors or forgetting to wear one's hat on the first day of fall is probably enough fodder to furnish an analyst's getaway resort house in Hawaii, but for now it is one bulky component in my luggage that just got much heavier last month with the addition of my blood glucose testing kit.