My companion, whether I want it or not.

Like many type 1s, I put off going on a pump for as long as I could. I remember endo after endo encouraging me to try pump therapy and promising me that my life would be "easier".

"You can eat pizza in the middle of the night!"
"You don't have to wake up at the required 8am to do a shot!"

Honestly, all I heard was "You will be attached to a small mechanical box for the rest of your life".

And yet, here I sit eleven years later next to a small mechanical box that will, indeed, be with me for the rest of my life. And I can't imagine regressing and trying to manage my diabetes with shot again. To put it bluntly, the pump saves your life. It allows you to control your diabetes as opposed to your diabetes controlling you.

All that said, because let's be honest, I am certainly not the first person to comment on the pump in this way, I have always been struck by the physical and psychological connection I have to my pump. Since I was a little girl, I have always been attracted to anthropomorphism. I named almost every one of my families Christmas trees and mourned their deaths every new years when they were sent to the recycling bin; I have regular conversations with both my dogs and feel a connection with both of them that rivals many of my relationships with actual human friends. And because of all this, I have begun to view my pump as a little friend of mine-one that makes me really angry sometimes-one that makes me cry and curse my hand in life-but one that ultimately keeps me healthy. One that travels with me every day and rests against my skin during some of my toughest hours. Whether they be at work, or at home, I have been and continue to be struck by the anthropomorphic relationship I have with a piece of machinery.

I've thought about this relationship recently because I've felt compelled to write something for children suffering from my disease. I can't figure out where I fit in professionally, but I feel this urge, this utter and complete urge, to give to young type 1s what I couldn't find anywhere when I was their age. And that frankly, is someone to talk to. Someone who understood, really understood, not the way my parents or my endo or my friend's parents claimed to, but someone who genuinely understood in their core what I was going through.

There is a space for this sort of work-I'm not sure if it's through children's books or through group therapy, but there is a space and a need for this sort of support. I hope I can figure out where I fit in