One month ago, I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. Overall, I feel like I’ve adjusted well. My doctor and I are now fine-tuning my insulin dosages, I’m no longer having blood sugar spikes over 500, and I’m no longer having debilitating “lows” at healthy blood sugar levels. I remember to take my insulin before every meal, and my diet has adjusted just enough to easily phase out a large number of carbs, and I’m probably eating healthier than I have in years, if ever. However, there is one aspect of having this disease that I’ve been having serious trouble adapting to.

And that is having to deal with treating myself in public situations.

In my apartment, I have a system. A bottle of glucose tablets sits on my bedside table, and my bag containing my insulin pens and glucose monitor is rarely more than a few feet from wherever I’m sitting. I have an old laundry bottle containing my used needles that floats around my living room space, and boxes of needles for my pens and lancet are lined up in front of the window. It’s a presence I’ve gotten used to. It’s welcoming. It makes my reliance on insulin injections feel significantly more normal than I ever would have imagined a month ago.

But once I venture outside, it’s totally different. I constantly have to carry a bag of medical supplies wherever I go. It’s lumpy and awkward, and hiding my supplies discreetly in a purse or backpack is a struggle. I’m always carrying weirdly specific low carb (and high carb) snacks, and I feel like I’m constantly eating at inappropriate times. I have a constant fear of suddenly hitting a low sugar in public and collapsing in the street or in the middle of class, especially if I end up unconscious and unable to treat myself. And sure, I have friends who I’ve talked to about how to handle that sort of situation, but there’s no guarantee that they’ll be there if and when that happens. And how can I be sure that I’ll be treated for the right thing if I’m incapacitated and can’t talk to anyone trying to help me to inform them about my condition?

But, somehow more terrifying than my semi-irrational fear of collapsing in public, is actually treating myself outside of my home. And all of the strangeness that comes with it.

With my crazy class and rehearsal schedule that I’m maintaining this semester, I’m constantly finding myself in situations where I have no choice but to check my blood sugar, and often give myself insulin, in public places. And, although my professors, directors, and stage managers are all fully aware of my situation, there are few things as strange and uncomfortable to me as pulling out my glucose monitor at my desk and checking my sugar. Even if I’m hiding everything in my lap, where only my immediately adjacent neighbors can really see what I’m doing. And, even when I’m trying to be discreet, it always feels like there’s someone new watching me. Someone new who needs to know what I’m doing and why.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the fact that people are concerned by the fact that I have to do this weird medical test on a regular basis. And I appreciate that they want to understand why I’m doing it, and that, often, they end up asking questions about my disease, which is quite commonly misunderstood. But even then, the weird looks are hard to handle. And so is having to find a public bathroom to lock myself in to give myself a bolus of insulin before eating a meal at a restaurant or from a stand with my friends (because, even though I feel like I can get away with my glucose monitor in some situations, no one wants to see me pull out a pen and inject myself in the side). And, probably hardest of all, is the constant stream of variations on “I’m sorry” after I first tell someone my situation.

Because I’m not sorry that I have diabetes. In fact, I’m relatively content with it.

Of course I’m still mad that it’s something I have to put up with all the time. There are days when I hate it beyond all imagining. There are days when all I want to do is scream like a maniac while throwing my insulin pens out the window and destroy my glucose monitor with a baseball bat.

But, the thing is, I’m glad it happened to me, and not to someone else. Because I couldn’t wish this on anyone else. And it’s something that I know, and knew when I was diagnosed, that I could handle. And the connections I have made because of this have been amazing. The activism and kindness shown to me and so many others by Sierra Sandison, a fellow T1 Diabetic who was brave and driven enough to wear her insulin pump on the Miss America stage, has been a huge inspiration to me as I’ve learned to live with this, and the amount of love I was shown carrying my T1-related protest sign by complete strangers during an anti-Trump demonstration was extremely heartwarming.

And, most of all, I know that all of this is only temporary. The amount of strides that have been made in research on T1 Diabetes in the past decade are astounding, and I know that there is a cure several years around the corner. And, as much as I want to reject the idea of living with this for years, “several years” is much better than the “forever” I would have gotten had I been diagnosed as a child.

And knowing that makes the struggle of treating myself publicly a lot easier to swallow. Because, not only will it get easier in a few months when I’m able to finally get an insulin pump, but also because there’s a good chance that, someday, hopefully in the not-too-distant future, I won’t even need that at all. And no one else will have to go through the insanity I have had to over the past month again.

And knowing that makes me feel much better about everything.