Tyler Joseph has a certain look that he wears on stage. The black hands and neck
are very notable and have intense meaning. However, you don’t know what the
hell they are and they’ve appeared on you every day for the last two weeks.
What the actual fuck? Word Count: About 3300 Warning(s): Mentions of
cuts/bruises, slight cursing A/N: I really hate writing for
people in relationships ugh, but Tyler was the first person to come to mind and
it just fit so perfectly so Jenna is not romantically involved (or involved at
all) with Tyler in this fic. AU (given out by this wonderful
human being): Whatever mark you get on your skin your soulmate gets it too
so one day, you just kind of just get a sharpie and start writing on your skin.
You definitely didn’t expect to get a reply, but you did. Now it’s five in the
morning and you’re just about covered in ink and this will be a pain to wash
I grew up watching Mary Tyler Moore. Beginning with old reruns of the Dick Van Dyke show, which was ahead of its time in portraying marriage as a partnership between two people. Capri pants might seem so insignificant now, but they meant a lot back then. Next was the Mary Tyler Moore show, outspoken in its critique of sexism in the workplace, and as relevant today as it was in the ‘70s. Her comedic genius served to provoke, inspire, and empower.
But for me, her role as diabetes advocate was the most important. She spent years fighting type one diabetes, and also fighting the stigma, fighting for awareness, and fighting for a cure.
As a type 1 diabetic I grew up endlessly chastised by society and doctors for not better controlling my disease. I was constantly confronted with the misconceptions of a society that has no idea what type 1 is. I was made to feel guilt for an illness I did nothing to cause, and which could not have been prevented. I was made to feel shame every time I lost my balance on the tightrope that one must walk to control type 1. I learned to believe the lie that had been peddled me: that my inability to always perfectly control my diabetes was a moral failing, rather than a natural response to the burden of being on guard 24/7 fighting a terminal illness.
When I was a teenager I read an interview with MTM, in which she talked about her own struggles with diabetes: how she would binge on whole boxes of powdered doughnuts when trying to maintain strict control just became too much to bear. How she felt the burden of shame and guilt, and how she became determined to fight it. Suddenly this beautiful, glamorous, untouchable celebrity was just as flawed as me. And not only that, but flawed in the exact same way. If someone I saw as a paragon of talent, beauty, and strength struggled the same way I struggled, perhaps I wasn’t so weak after all. Perhaps I could make it too.