I Write, Therefore I Am… An Epileptic

wheatfield with crows

This post is part of the Epilepsy Blog Relay  which will run from November 1 through November 30.  Follow along and add comments to posts that inspire you!

When I picked my date for the Epilepsy Blog Relay I had no idea it was Thanksgiving.  I didn’t know until I had already written most of my blog.  Thus, this is not a traditional Thanksgiving article; there are no Pilgrims or turkeys or lists of things I am thankful for.  As it turns out it is about the one thing (other than my family) I am most thankful for: my epileptic brain.  Without it I would not be alive and this article would not be written.  I have to appreciate the brain I have.

We cannot untangle the connections between epilepsy and creativity.  It all starts with the brain.  I write.  I create.  Sometimes I hit the floor.  Sometimes people tell me they envy my creativity and wish they were creative like me.  I wonder what is it they think I have that they do not.  The only extra thing I have is epilepsy.  I have to take my creativity as the flip side of my epilepsy.  I have to.  All that time spent out of my head, trapped away in my body that will not respond to appropriate stimuli.  When I can talk and control my body, I can write.  I can create.  I cherish that.  All that excess electricity buzzing around in my head must have some benefit.  Synapse snap, crackle and pop.  Ideas rush around like freight trains.  

I read about the authors and artists who have also experienced epilepsy.  Their presence in history gives me comfort.  At least Edgar Allen Poe and Vincent Van Gogh knew what I do: the omnipresent fear of the unknown moment of time snatched away.  One moment here, the next gone.  Who knows when or where we will wake up?  At least I can write about it later.  Emily Dickinson most likely was an epileptic, too.  It’s probably why she didn’t go out much.

It’s a trade off, this life of unpredictable brains.  It’s miserable when your brain and body betray you.  Sometimes, my brain works just fine.  My brain is many things: my mistress, my lover, my best friend, my worst enemy.  I am always afraid that my brain will kill me.  I will take a step and then fall onto something deadly this time.  I have to write it out.  The fear consumes me.  That is epilepsy.  It’s not just the lost time, the unknown bruises, and the fear of falling; seizures steal us away from our lives and our families.  I am a burden to my husband and children, I can’t help but be.  I may need them to make sure I don’t choke on my vomit.

When I write, I feel better.  The fear escapes and seems less scary on the page where it can be edited until it shines like a gold, instead of the late night paranoia of waking up once again in a hospital without knowing how I got there.

I need to write it out, tell my story, shine a light into the darkness so I can make sense of it.  I might collapse, but I might create something meaningful instead.  I have to try.  That’s all there is.  Consciousness and creativity or seizures and time lost.  I know what it is like to fall and to rise again.  I am a seizure phoenix.  I rise out of the ashes of confusion and write so I may fly away from my body and brain that betray me so brutally.  Do I write because I have epilepsy?   I believe so.  I can be thankful for that.  What choice do I have?  I have to pick myself up off the floor and write about it.

NEXT UP: Be sure to check out tomorrow’s post by Anthony Bartley for more on Epilepsy Awareness https://whatepilepsyisreallylike.wordpress.com For the full schedule of bloggers visit livingwellwithepilepsy.com/epilepsy-blog-relay.

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Filed under Essays, Living w/ Epilepsy, Non-fiction

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