A/N: So, I was trolling fan fic the other night (instead of writing or grading my pile of lab reports), and I came across this great fic, The Trouble with Blaine. It's a wholly different perspective on diabetes, plus it has all the shenanigans of CP Coulter's Dalton. Two words: Gavel Pajamas. AMAZING READ, and one I totally recommend if you're into this for the diabetes (I realize some of you just like seeing me torture Seb, but hey, what ever floats your boat). I'm also giving a shout out to Corey and Steph. Now, I'm off to finish grading Enzyme Kinetics and to polish up my data. More tomorrow, I promise.
It's a bad day, even though he'll never admit it.
After a week of cold sunshine, a cold, dark Monday came as a shock. When his alarm goes off, he's not sure he can even get out of bed. Bed is safe, and he has a sinking feeling it will not be a good day. But, he gets out of bed anyway. Mind over matter. He is in control.
His prediction is correct.
For some reason, he cannot make sense of the change of base theorem or the derivative of logs. The rest of the class jumps on the theory easily, but the word "Log" conjures up British Transvestite comedians in this mind. He wonders how hard it would be to get Trent into a plaid shirt to Sing, Sing, Sing!
He gets back the history essay he wrote during his convalescence with his father. C. He won't admit it, but American History is hard. Ask him to rattle off Hasburgs of Spain, and he can do, almost without a second thought (although the Phillips sometimes get confusing). But, he's not sure it really matters how Utah, where ever that is, became a state, or if potatoes come from Iowa or Idaho.
It doesn't matter, though because a C is unacceptable. His father will not be pleased, but, more importantly, he's disappointed in himself. A C is a crack in the perfect facade of his life.
Then, in Warbler practice, he feels the haze coming on. He is normally able to process many things at once, his braining planning the next set of chorography while simultaneously listening for flat notes. It's all he can do now to focus on the words of his next solo.
Thankfully, practice ends before the panic sets in, and he makes it upstairs before anyone can pick up on the subtle hints that things are not quite right.
While the rest of the Warblers eat in the dining hall that looks like Hogwarts, he is curled on his bed. A million thoughts run through his head.
Failure. Failure. Failure. He is a failure. No one will want him. No One. NO ONE. He will not get into college. Failure. Failure. Failure.
He rocks back and forth to the words. The world is closing in. He's not sure he can do it anymore. And, what he wants more than anything is to give himself an out. Give himself ketones. Not bad enough to go to the hospital, but enough to shut down his brain and let him sleep. Because ketones control the crippling anxiety.