Join our Diabetes Anxiety Group on Facebook

Come join our Diabetes Anxiety Group on Facebook.

A CLOSED (troll free) group for shared experience of diabetes related mood-swings, stress, anxiety and general upset stemming from the blood sugar complications our Diabetes Industry tend to sweep under the carpet.

“For us diabetes amplifies everything; if you feel just-not-right then broken blood sugar will make it wrong, as alcohol does an alcoholic; every bone of contention, every pulse of ill will, slight upset or lull, every wave of exhaustion and misunderstanding all amplified. Deformation of sadness, doubt, and dependency; symptoms lost in a bigger world, it leaves us wilting. We push on.

But on a good day, diabetes in not such a bad disease to have. 

Why did I write this book?

Why is it that if people see you sitting around reading all day they think you are intelligent and respectable, yet when these same people see me sitting around writing all day, they think I am a layabout?

A few statistics for those who wrongly presume I am profiteering from my book:

Time spent on project: 4.5 years

Loss of earning in the process: 4.5 x £50,000 = £225,000

Cost of household bills to cover my cost of living: 4.5 x £25,000 = £112,500

Total cost so far of writing and releasing book (not including printer paper, ink etc.): £337,500

Chance of recuperating costs: ZERO

Why did I write this book? Because I believe what I have been through has to be shared out loud, in an opportunity to communicate shared experience, instilling us with a confidence and knowing that we are not alone. Because only through a rightful understanding can we share a just responsibility.

Was it worth it? Hell yes!

To hear your feedback and know that I have been able to help a single one of you

The world can’t ignore us for much longer.

I am going to make them sit up and take notice. Oh, and I get to live 15 years longer.



How to write a book

I keep coming across these articles, “How do I become a writer?” “How does one write a novel?” and they are often answered by these successful types; begrudging, following ten years of waiting to be asked; along the lines, “I get asked that question all of the time and the truth is, I’m just hell of a lucky … meeting deadlines … no excuses in this day of word processors for spelling or grammatical error” … (No room in their spirit for courage or conviction) so let me tell you.

Forget pride, forget publishers, forget money; hold your pen in your hand and stream thoughts onto page. Denounce success, clasp fear and put one foot in front of the other: with every ounce of I am carefully place your thoughts, feeling and emotions onto every page.

Textures born rhythm, tonal and hindsight awakening foresight; relive with little courage to tell the tale in your own words; narrative falling into place developing structure, collective thought – grounding, only your reader will believe in. Keep one foot in front of the other; pick back up that pen and write because that’s all you are.

Forget MacBook’s or egos, or scarves, for swanning around is not how it’s done; leave him behind to go on about writers block and metaphor – the kind of man who has a beautiful daughter but there doesn’t seem to be any genetic link. He has confused a love of reading with writing.

All of your confidence gashed over coffee on a daily basis. Allow loneliness to take you in, you won’t be involved in much else for a very long time.

Asking for help and advice, she is going to divulge tidbits about, “writing what you know” and shroud them in “iconoclast” and “vision” attempting to bring you down,  “99% of all books published sell fewer than 100 copies.”

You are spiralling incalescence from thought to the tip of your pen. You are a writer. You are flying!  She will again spur you, “all characters require obsession” but she does not know, she goes home at night and her husband does not fuck her anymore.

Boycott punctuation, screw spelling, omit conditions of xyz, these people confuse experience for existence. Naivety as passion exposes the frauds of formula.

One foot in front of the other, let haters hate spur you on – drink too much coffee, and forgo possession into cash exchange franchise. Champion your own cause, only you will make it happen. And remember, half of your favourite bands probably can’t read sheet music so why do you need a degree in English Lit?

Maturing: textures and notions, leading to an understanding, veering on grounding a moral compass, meet moments of worthwhile, “I wrote that paragraph and I feel it will mean as much for my reader as it does me.” counter balance to inner fear.

It’s your understanding, its your life, your world you are building where thoughts inhabit characters, and my only tip is that you do not allow them to speak the same, else familiarise yourself with those characters in soap operas who not only wear the same makeup and have their hair styled at the same salon, but share exact volume and unnatural focus.

And just then, when you are finished and ready and more than a year has passed; take a week off as reward – there are easily three more years to go.

This is your humanity and its non negotiable, you are majestic to your audience while you live and breath as narrator, interpreting and embodying each one of their souls; both character and reader.




“I am a writer, around 54 copies sold so far.”

Paul Cathcart, Author of ‘Persona non grata with diabetes.’


Carefree? When was the last time one of us felt carefree?

Neuropathy creeping in over your legs, shooting pains into the soles of numb feet; no amount of antidepressants is going to win, no elevated feet or Deep-Heat are going to defeat the inevitable.

Eye screening clinic, results are in, it’s far from good news. How many more times can they hack and gouge those mistaken blood vessels before all gets dark?

Clammy forehead, weak, shaking, losing focus; those were the good old days. Nerve damage, heat, collapsed in a heap: family and neighbours always close at hand? How long till you diabetic coma in the bath?

What if? What if there was a rewind button and you could go back to being that healthy, happy, rejuvenated diabetic, taking it all in your stride? If you knew then what you know now and you had the chance to reset?


So here is the trade-off. One year. One year of your life: no scary tubes or surgery for you to worry about, you will be perfectly sound asleep. Placed into a medically induced coma and monitored / assisted into 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days of perfect blood sugar, allowing for your body to mend itself under deepest hibernation. Nerve endings reaching, eyes clearing – worries all gone, when you are nudged gently and stirred from slumber.

Perfect health for a loss of time; nieces and nephews have grown a few inches, family member passed away, friends and colleagues all but forgotten you, relationship has moved on with your best friend. But for a blink of an eye you are fine; you are carefree; would you do it?

FREE COPY of ‘Persona non grata with diabetes’

READER REVIEWS are in … Get your FREE COPY, just friend me on Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus or LinkedIn and I’ll email you one out. I want to share this out with as many diabetics as possible.

To be honest, the Diabetes Industry really offends me. At a time when people are struggling to cover costs of food and their Health Care providers are refusing them medication, yet they still just push and push more products onto us diabetics. “Buy a diet book, buy a Diet-Coke, buy another diet-book, have some more expensive medication. Oh you’re not healthy yet? Better lose your job and buy another diabetic friendly book.’ and repeat till face.

This is our disease and we must support each other. So yeah ‘Persona non grata with diabetes’ will always be free for those who can’t afford it. I grew up with nothing but love; I’ll leave with nothing but love.




p.s if you are flush with cash its only £2.99 / $4.99 and available in 51 countries world wide today .

Scared to be a diabetic dad

Scared to put a child through this. Sometimes its not a good day, sometimes I’m at the Doctors and on the end of horror evaluation. ‘I’ve been pissing like crazy and up all night.’ ‘It’s probably just nerve damage caused by diabetes,’ she replies. Turns out to be too much Diet-Coke irritating my innards.

Smack goes my toes off the doorstop around Christmas (no I was not drunk). First Nurse tells me, the one beside the big one that does not bend, that one is broken and has fused badly. Surgeon at the hospital tells me, ‘It’s not broken, its probably diabetes killing off the nerve endings in your feet.’ I’m looking at this guy; I haven’t even taken my fucking shoe off yet.

I don’t know if many of you have read much of my book, but I’ve been through much of all of this already with Background Retinopathy, Macular edema, laser eye surgery and an injection of Lucentis into my eyeball. And I think I’m on top of this, in no small way thanks to the Three Bears of Blood Sugar. So the last thing in the world I need is every medical professional who has read a pamphlet telling me I’m self-destructing, because it’s not me I’m thinking of anymore.

Conversations with old people, “Everything is shit, everything hurts, everything began falling off when I turned forty.” I’m thirty-six years of age, I don’t want to be having these conversations ever, I don’t want to be gearing up for this pish when my own little bastard is either smashing windows or taking insulin shots.

Cursed by this in the background, I don’t want my child to be entering his or her diabetic solstice aged fifteen.  I’m terrified to put them though this, not in reality because of anything wrong with me, but because of the headlines that kill us, and the people stupid enough to believe them. My kids will be brought up by Natasha and I in the most idyllic country surroundings and blessed with love, nurtured in organic protein and should they genetically disembowel as I have into diabetes?

There is nothing about this disease; there is nothing about how I live now that would allow this disease to disrupt a young life. 

On a good day, this is not such a bad disease to have and I have the healthy furry toes to prove it!


Paul Cathcart, Author of ‘Persona non grata with diabetes.’

Diabetes in Glasgow

*Glaswegian accent – ‘I was watching this thing own the TV the other night: it says that the quickest wiy to give you sugar if you fall into a coma is to pour a can o Coke up your arsehole! I canny wait till the day that you collapse in front of me,’ – a Cheshire cat’s grin beaming on Marc’s face.

‘Fuck off! You’re not getting anywhere near me, you’ll get so excited you’ll forget to open the can.’ – Me

‘Definitely. He probably ate all the sugar. They didn’t even have any sugar in their entire house. Not even sugar in a bowl for tea. Some idiot offered me a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 thinking it was orange juice. I had to go the petrol station by myself at two in the morning for Pot Noodles and Coke.’

You don’t have to be alone in the pub, that’s the simple law of man. Escape from any social vacuum, into a world of arts, music and alcohol; more friendships that would last forever? Who cares, I’ve got enough money left over for either a veggie burger with fries or another two pints of Guinness; they both contain to my estimation roughly the same amount of sugar. Being served at the bar, I enquire, ‘Is there any chance I can keep my insulin bottle in one of your fridges? It’s completely sealed and it’s getting too warm to use in my pocket.’ ‘Diabeeedic my ass,’ overly pronounces the Canadian Barman in reply; fuck you then, pronounces the look on my face. ‘Fuck’s that all about?’ says the face of his colleague, her demeanor in my favor. Think I’ll go for the Guinness this time, ‘A pint of Guinness please, and have you got any matches?’ as she picks them up from beside the till, right in front of me.

I’ll skip to chasing the dragon with freshly squeezed orange; each gulp intensifying that instant hit of refresh all good diabetics live by on a vocational calling, deep to the last sip where I know my sugar will now be high; empty glass so cold against my cheek, my jaw and ridge of my neck, clunk of ice always watering it down all too fast.

Back home, two thirty in the a.m. having safely returned an old woman to her stations of the cross, I piggyback onto a neighbor’s Wi-Fi, then sit down to watch some porn. A MILF enters a college dorm wearing only her apron to cover a massive inflated boob job, and carrying a prop wooden spoon, “Hi – giggle, I’ve come over to bake you boys some cookies.” Cut to next scene, she has baked said cookies and is straddling the kitchen island; removing her apron to reveal enormous tits over a tray of freshly baked choc chip. Hold on, those don’t look warm. Surely the best bit about home baked cookies is when they are piping hot. In fact there are no flour marks or crumbs anywhere to be seen. Those cookies are clearly out of a jar. Wish she would move those fat collagen lips and cellulite hips out of the way. I want to take a closer look at those cookies.

Excerpts from ‘Persona non grata with diabetes’ by Paul Cathcart

Diabetes, freaking out

Hypo and my eyes go all fuzzy like a broken TV set. Salt levels changing, causing brief spells of confusion; I get up and start changing the track on the CD player and mumble on about it sounding like something else instead of eating the Dextrose tablets in my hand. Bed sheets always drenched in sweat during the night; I awake freezing cold, my sleepwear on the floor. Death warmed up and my GP’s solution is to prescribe anti-depressants? Which, I reject. Sitting in on client meetings, completely useless I’m sure they will agree; trying to keep myself from falling asleep, can’t be very flattering for anyone in the room; their own fault for being cheap-ass and not supplying coffee.

‘If I wanted to become a murderer, I’d become a Diabetes Nurse. In fact they should change their uniform to a black cloak with a fucking scythe.’

‘YOU’RE GOING TO KILL ME.’ ‘Paul, Paul, look at me. No, listen, listen to me. It’s me, breathe,’ kneeling beside me, holding gentle eye contact, stroking my hand, trying desperately to calm. ‘I’m too scared even to think.’ Forcing me to test my sugar takes more than some convincing, “28.0” ‘SHIT.’ The place is spinning. Part of my brain knows high sugar and alcohol is responsible. ‘Just leave me alone. Just leave me alone, I want to go home.

When my sugar is high, I get this feeling; I am waiting for something bad to happen. When it stays high I have nightmares about being bitten by dogs and people coming into my house. The worst is when I awaken and the fear stays with me; mix this with strong coffee and it’s a recipe for panic attacks and wanting to curl up on the sofa to hide from the world. The only way to remedy this; eat properly, drink lots of water to flush out the simply imperfect blood sugar and watching a good comedy often helps.

Living in denial of the detrimental effects of our condition; over and over pushing near escape to the backs of our minds through want of being normal. To some extent we are all guilty, but in truth, only with a rightful understanding can we accept a just responsibility. – Please don’t just have some more insulin.

Then again, this is coming from a guy who sat at the window in Starbucks and watched a teenage boy drink carton after carton of cranberry juice; obviously trying to quench an undiagnosed thirst, and moments away from collapsing on his way home. You know how in a film when you see a horse fall, and you know it’s a stunt horse and you know it’s going to be fine, but it still makes you feel sad? It was a lot like that; I really should have stood up and done something to help.

It’s not about guilt, but there has got to be a point when saying, ‘It’s not my fault,’ is not enough.

We are a sensitive market, being devoured by vultures, a commodity more lucrative than the illegal drugs trade of heroin or cocaine. A resource being mined for all our worth, and we’re worthless when we get well. Eventually, as proven through tobacco and alcohol, trust will crumble as the number of diabetics’ increases to critical mass and tax gains from sales of what got us there over cheap-solutions no longer top the cost to society in terms of health care and lost man-hours. The question is whether a taxation and condemnation of harmful foods will follow or precede the diabetic having to pay the unrealistic cost of medical expense.

For us diabetes amplifies everything; if you feel just-not-right then broken blood sugar will make it wrong, as alcohol does an alcoholic; every bone of contention, every pulse of ill will, slight upset or lull, every wave of exhaustion and misunderstanding all amplified. Deformation of sadness, doubt, and dependency; symptoms lost in a bigger world, it leaves us wilting. We push on.

‘You know all about diabetes from that chart? Do you know what it’s like to have your fiancée bring your sugar and test sticks into the bathroom when you’re caught having a hypo during a poo? Trust me, you don’t know a thing about diabetes and I’m going to make you listen to every word I have to say.’

Excerpts from ‘Persona non grata with diabetes’ by Paul Cathcart


Diabetes mood-swings, anxiety, stress and depression

All I can remember in sum total are weeks and months if not years of duress. I can’t remember being well unless I think way back, way way back. And the thing is; no one at this hospital has really told me what my real symptoms were. I know they point out my dry mouth, point to deep cramps in varying places and weight loss; they are all very forthright concerning me peeing a lot of golden urine, which by all instruction should be clear in a good diabetic (yawn). But they haven’t discussed with me my late development; never question my lack of focus or poor behaviour, to them I am just ill. There is no due diligence on concentration waning or on any level the cloud that swallowed me both visually and emotionally through the time leading to diagnosis.

Retrospective prognosis to prolonged bouts of colds and flu put down all too simply and too exacting to my pancreas having bouts of stops and starts before eventually switching off for good. Semi functionality causing my immune system to become unstable: vulnerable to attack. Although this I look back on following seventeen years non-characteristic change as being the most inadequate proposal in their pronouncement.

Even if I didn’t care that they came nowhere near to explaining why; it kills me inside living with today’s knowledge that if they had put me on the sustenance I live on now, back when under their care, they could have caught me in the honeymoon period and made near escape dependency on insulin injections.

Hypotheticals aside, I was a statistic, a, ‘Nobody knows why. It’s genetic. Every diabetic is different: like fingerprints,’ and in the same breath, ‘Here, have the same medication as everyone else.’ How to explain to a boy that this was only the beginning, that what I was feeling was only a glimpse of how this condition could ruin me in the future. Nothing personal, no real interest, all experience capped off at the basics, no one under any obligation to look further.  My life had been written off entirely as, ‘Reasonably bright, absenteeism, poor grades, and best to let him go – Jesus imposter,’ leaving me to fall between the cracks. It’s terrifying the stuff they left out.

Coy shrug of the medical shoulders, and not making eye contact on that one; how to tell a child he is absolutely going to die fifteen years earlier than his friends, getting harder now I have pressed on it. Should she be telling me this, without my mum here? I’m thinking to myself. A nervous child already half way to developing a twitch and coming to the end of a serious trauma, this will either be coped with and adjusted to or I was going to scream for weeks. But I could see the purpose of fact-of-the-matter; I have to be able to deal with this.

In the surgery, and he still has the cauliflower ear he always had when I was a child; in and out of here every two weeks with a sore belly, a flu that wouldn’t shift or a cold sore. Sometimes it would fade, returning in part to a normal ear, but mostly he had been smacked hard playing rugby and he wasn’t going to allow that to bother him. He probably remembers me staring at it, while telling my mum it was just another tummy bug going around. Reminding me that peculiar under the weather feeling of childhood is exactly how I feel now with high sugar.

I have got no idea what I’m doing in life at the moment, and for me, for once, that is a good place to be. I’ll have some more insulin now, to sober up.

Fear of flying? More scared I have to go through customs with my syringes; twenty pounds for a bloody Doctors letter stating I have diabetes, to allow me onto the flight in the first place. What a rip off. Being too nervous to present it at Customs and having to ask my Tutor, Bobby Digital to take me over for support.

Relentless, Christmas drinking season on the horizon, and it’s all becoming a repetitive haze; Brunswick Cellars, 13th Note Club, late night Chinese restaurant on payday, eight of us waking up scattered over my bedroom floor twice a week. A few of us plan for a New Year celebration together, but to be honest, I think we can no longer stand the sight of each other. I throw in the towel; I have a flu that’s not flu. It’s a winter diabetic hangover like no other, that started out in autumn and it’s time for my barely standing ass to leave the party. Clearly I am the one who has let friends down.

Assumption by a member of staff behind the prescription counter at Boots on Oxford St, London that I was a drug addict; given the corresponding treatment because I tried to purchase syringes over the counter. He walks back a few steps, opens a random drawer, pretends to look inside and says, ‘We don’t have any in stock.’ ‘I am diabetic; I have somehow managed to leave my screw top needles behind at home and have insulin vials in my bag. I need to take my insulin now, I’m getting ill; look, you can even check my blood sugar.’ ‘We won’t sell insulin syringes; you will need a prescription from your Doctor.’ ‘That’s completely hopeless.’ My reaction based on if I were a drug addict, then he just sent me away to spread HIV. I kicked up shit. They got on their knees and I doubt that clown still has a job.

It has come to pass; hacket women and alcohol; I blow chainsmoke through chill air from a cold room, trying not to care. A bottle of Baileys in case of hypos; I have become a bastard, I am sorrow and I am so fucking alone. Listening on repeat to the songs that make up excuses for how I feel. Thinking on the women who cannot remember me.

Excerpts from ‘Persona non grata with diabetes’ by Paul Cathcart


Insulin and all related diabetic medication should be priced as Paracetamol (Acetaminophen / Tylenol)

Packet of Paracetamol, 500mg x 100 capsules only 5p (you save 1p). The reason, simple: there are no clinical patents remaining on the formula. Technically anyone with a white lab coat and a license can knock them out for a cost cheaper than the fresh foil packaging and postage.

But the fundamental analogue type insulin we mostly take has been around since the 1980’s, – and the reach of clinical patents only lasts 15 years or less, so what is going on? Why still so expensive?

Why every time when I read my Tweets, is someone being declined at the Pharmacy or someone else stands rejected by their Health Insurer over costs to cover diabetes related meds? – Is it because you don’t have enough diabetic stress, upset and emotional tenderness to deal with, without the added burden of being unable to sleep at night wondering how you are going to pay for vital medication?

Why is this allowed to continue under the noses of our Governments and Health Care Professionals, while profit growth forecast based on dated medication skyrocket, as assuredly as the sons a Pharma, Tarquin and Farquhar, are wearing silk embroidered socks to fancy school?

It’s all down to tinkering.

Brand control adorning Share Holder promises far in excess of patient care; executive pimps and a stable of us 371,000,000 diabetics being held by the throat whilst assured in a thousand hushed tongues, “It’s not a disease you really have to worry about, its more a condition. Just have some more of this self-same synthetic hormone insulin in all its guises and eat what you like,” while at the other end, “No your Medical Insurance won’t cover these, they are far too expensive.” Those who tinker from the top are all too aware that the majority of us fall somewhere in-between, and at some point we are struggling to keep our heads above water.

So how do you protect an out of date patent on an admittedly miracle formula while choking your ample audience?

Future proof tinkering defined.

By tinker I mean modestly redefining the molecular structure of a synthetic chemical to extend patent reach: it’s slightly different, being delivered in a different way (pump) and comes in a new box – another fifteen years patent exclusivity expected as standard.

Along with further tinkering; artificial manipulation of price, set against what Big Pharma clientele can stretch to; based on a Slavers definition of what a mother will do to protect her child.

Tinkering with education; brand promotion making a mockery of less supportive Health Care Services, engineered to sell more product outweighing patient concern and a horrendous greed that spits in the face of those great minds who first figured out how to deliver us a diabetes solution, to save millions of lives, based on some pigs pancreas in the first place.

And tinkering with humanity; – The scientists who saved us were not thinking, “Just have as much of this as you like and eat as much of those same foods that made you diabetic in the first place,” or I doubt they would have bothered. And I can’t believe for a moment they envisioned brand stranglehold or corporate greed to withhold medication and related peripherals from the poor.

No lab coats and price cuts for us then, no 5p insulin or 1 penny blood sugar test strips; no conspiracy either; it’s all out there in plain sight. Well I guess someone has to keep Tarquin and Farquhar in luxury socks.