So, here’s the thing: when I am in it, I don’t know if it is real, or if I am making it up. At least at first. But how long does “at first” last? How long does at first last? See, I just noticed that I typed that twice. I choose not to correct the mistake. I am so good at covering up my seizure-induced confusions from the public eye. Maybe I shouldn’t.
This a.m. I wake up feeling gloomy. beat myself up about it. I am lazy. don’t want to get out of bed. slug-a-bed. Why am I so depressed? How much is it my weak character, how much a come-with of having epilepsy? And isn’t that just a cop-out? Isn’t the essential “I” that is not this body strong enough to overcome this purely physical glitch? Or is it not simply physical? Is there a spiritual, other-dimension aspect to this particular affliction? I suspect the latter. It adds to my sense of hopelessness.
I manage to finally get up, notice the day. get dressed; start some laundry. Need to pee. Keep noticing that I need to pee. That is my first indicator — noticing that I keep forgetting that I need to pee. Living alone my body is my “other,” my witness. Ironic. It is at this point that I start to wonder if I am making things up. Am I being oversensitive? Imagining stuff that isn’t really there? Just having morning spaciness? Experience has taught me to try to override these doubting voices. But it is hard.
I am wandering in circles in the kitchen. I think I should get the hell off, away from that tile floor. My eyes tear up. I am hungry. Which pull is the greater? Fear or hunger? I convince myself that the fear is imaginary and start boiling water for chop-chop eggs. Put bread in toaster, justifying the illegal carbs by the seizure activity I just denied moments ago. Ah, the intricacies of cognitive dissonance! All the time I am waiting for/preparing the food, I am monitoring myself. I take another pill, then am concerned that it might be the wrong kind. I go to another bottle and take another pill. I announce to my empty house: “I am really sick”, and eye the tile floor again.
Now I am in my bed, belly full. Safe. Annoyed. Feeling foolish and interrupted. Apprehensive. Nonproductive. Will these “little seizures” escalate into a biggie? Dunno.
I hate this crap.
This is the stuff that doesn’t make it into the radio interviews.
*I know this is a politically incorrect term these days. I am not an “epileptic;” rather I am a whole person, one who also has a disorder (or is it now okay to say “disease”? I can’t keep up) epilepsy. But on mornings like the one described above, I don’t give a damn. And I am publishing it as I wrote it on that long-ago morning.