October 27, 2011 2 Comments
Partial seizures are the bane of my existence. They’re worse, even, than grand mals. Partials disrupt my day. They mean spilled coffee. Half my medication, flung all over the room. Food on the floor. Sore knuckles. Maybe even a scraped knee.
Following that is the heavy silence. The silence that, depending on the audience of my performance, is filled with shock and fear, or judgment.
“Oh my god, what was that?!”
“Look at you, thinking you can live a normal life. What did you do this time? Look what happened. You shouldn’t even try. Now I’ve got to deal with this.“
That’s what I hear in the silence. It never fails. And every time it makes me angry. My hands shake as I try to clean up, go on eating, or do whatever it was I was doing. That silence never let’s me go on with my day.
And inevitably, because I’m tense and angry and stressed, it happens again. Another mess. Another bruised knuckle, or wasted morsel of food.
And another round of silence that judges me.
At this point, I usually leave the room. Sometimes I try to nap. Other times I go off alone to smoke a cigarette, closing my eyes and concentrating on my breathing.
Either way the day is ruined.
At least when I have a grand mal, I’m too occupied to hear that silence.