Tag Archives: Complex partial seizure

Brain Storming

brain fibers

This post is part of the Epilepsy Blog Relay™ which will run from March 1 through March 31. Follow along and add comments to posts that inspire you!

“I long ago determined that the only true life was the life of my brain.” ~ Frying Pan Jack

My brain talks to me a lot, except for when it shuts down completely.  My brain tells me elaborate stories but, sometimes it punishes me.  Last week, I was in the shower, I stepped out, then I was on the bathroom floor.  A seizure put me down in an instant.  Suddenly I was unconscious again.  I could not speak.  My legs did not work.  I could not walk or lift a heavy glass to my lips.  When I figured out what happened my brain asked me, “What are you going to write about that now?”   

Why do seizures happen?  Nobody knows.  Electricity.  One neuron and then another.  They burst to life and burn out again.  Everything and then nothing.  For no reason at all.  I have to write about it, or it will drive me insane.  The real insane, not just the vernacular, insane in the membrane.  I feel sane when I am writing.  When the words are flowing through my fingertips, there is nothing saner.  My mind doesn’t have to live in the past or worry about the future.  It is simply now.  The words are here now.  So I write…

I write about seizures obsessively.  Am I a writer because I have epilepsy?  Is my writing a result of all this extra electricity coursing through my body? My brain is wired differently than other people’s.  Most people don’t fall down and scream and shake.  Most people don’t stare off into space and drool.  I do those things.  I never can tell when I might not be able to talk or control myself.  That fear consumes me.  The sudden loss of consciousness is a terrifying thing.  I hate to wake up in another place than I was.  Someone will tell me I had a seizure and I will want sleep.  Later I will try to write about it, to make sense of the nonsense.  What in the world did I say this time?   Did I tell someone my name was Kitty?  I heard myself slurring my name and lost consciousness again, awash with misfiring neurons in my brain.

I am a different person after a seizure.  My husband and children tell me as much, “You are like a little girl.”  I have no memory.  I struggle to know who this other person is.  Who is this little girl I have no control over?  I have to write about it, otherwise she runs around in my brain like a hamster in a plastic ball. She rolls all over the floor and runs into walls.

My brain was made this way~ that’s what the doctors tell  me.  More doctors than I can remember, 20 years, and nobody can tell me why I have epilepsy.  Seizures lie in wait, in the black, back alleyway of my brain, knife in hand.  A seizure is stalking me like Jack the Ripper.  Seizures will stalk me for my entire life.  I can see it in my mind’s eye, clear as day.  Do you see pictures in your mind?  Is that part of the too much electricity that storms across the surface of my brain?  How can I separate my brain from itself?  My mind tells me what to do.  I only know this one brain, full of imagination and wonder and fear and memories and seizures and lost time.

Writing helps.  I float on an ocean of words.  The words press upon my lips and my fingertips.  I want to understand what happens to my brain.  I want to explain.  It’s like a nightmare or a drunken haze.  When I wake up it gets worse, not better like a normal nightmare.  Seizures fade away but the bruises remain.

NEXT UP: Be sure to check out the next post tomorrow by Cathy Hozack at http://livingwellwithepilepsy.com for more on Epilepsy Awareness. For the full schedule of bloggers visit livingwellwithepilepsy.com/epilepsy-blog-relay.

Be sure to check out the Epilepsy Blog Relay Thunderclap to raise epilepsy awareness. And don’t miss your chance to connect with bloggers on the #LivingWellChat on March 31 at 7PM ET.


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Driving Me Crazy

580073_10151202991562386_394583338_n (1)

I often find myself bursting at the seams to talk to someone.  It is an occupational hazard, a fact of life. I am a writer, so I need to spend time alone.  I am an epileptic, so I am confined to my home in ways that you can never understand unless you have been ill for a very, very, long time.

Losing my ability to drive has been one of the worst things in my life. I am at home and there’s no one to talk to.  When I do go out and run into the people I used to see, the people I used to know, they ask me, “When will you get your license back?”  It always seems like a polite question…  They don’t mean to be rude, but I want to scream the answer back at them, “NEVER!!” Never.  I will never drive again and if you want to see me you will have to come over here.  I am here alone with my family.

The next question I get is, “When was the last time you had a seizure?”  My answer always shocks them, “Last week, two weeks ago, I can’t remember.”  It was hopefully not sooner.  I try to stay home in the days after a seizure.  They cluster together.  I hate for people to see me seize.  It’s not a pretty thing.  And I hate to end up in the ER.  Strangers do that.  My family knows better.  I need to take my meds and go to bed.  It’s just my life.  And I will never drive again.  I gave up that hope years ago.

Occasionally my husband wants me to move the car from one side of the street to the other.  It was a Monday morning and if we didn’t move the car we would get ticketed.  I couldn’t.  I can’t.  It’s all or nothing: nothing is the only answer.  My husband agrees but every now and then he doesn’t want to get out of bed.  We both wish I could move the car.  I can physcally drive. I was an excellent driver.  But I can’t.  There are no rules to seizures.  It only takes one second and then I’ve crashed my car into the tree in front of my house.  Or a kid walking past the park….  No. I do not want to take that risk.  I cut that part out of me and burnt it when I turned in my driver’s license, the second time.

I don’t drive not because it’s the law, but because I love my family too much.  I don’t want to lose time and lose control of a ton of metal and flammable liquids.  I can’t.  I can’t. I want to.  Some days I want it so badly I can feel the wind in my hair and the smell of grapes in the air in September.  I tell myself it’s not the full moon, I’m not tired, I’m not whatever it is that might trigger a seizure today.  I see myself walking to the car, turning the key and driving away into the sunset.  It’s such a pretty dream. It will never be.

I’m never going to stop having seizures and even if I do, there is no amount of time that will pass that will guarantee that I will not have another one, at any given moment.  I know that in my bones, in my synapses that like to burst with energy and electricity.  Driving isn’t safe for me and it’s not safe for you either.  You should thank me that I value *your* life enough not to drive.

I beg you, please don’t text and drive. I gave up driving for safety’s sake.  You can give up your phone for safety’s sake.  You don’t even have to give up your phone.  Please, just put it down when you are in the car.  It only takes one second to crash a car.  My epilepsy is genetic, yours could be because of a traumatic brain injury you receive when you crash your car because you were texting while driving.

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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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My roots in Pennsylvania run deep.  My ancestors have lived in this state since 1747.  There is a Schlegel Family Cemetery full of the bones of my Schlegel ancestors.  My parents and my in-laws and my nieces and nephews live in Pennsylvania.  I don’t want to live anywhere else.  I enjoy our profusion of water and green.  A sunset isn’t a sunset if it doesn’t set over Lake Erie.  I guess I must even like the snow.  But I am so tired of waiting for compassion.  How long am I supposed to wait?  How many seizures must I have?  I am still waiting…  I am still seizing…

Medical cannabis has been legal in California since 1996.  I was a freshman in college and I didn’t even know I was an epileptic then.  I never even knew I was  having seizures.  All of that would change in 1997 when I woke up in an ER.  I didn’t know cannabis was a treatment for seizures.  But it was one of the first things that came up when I was diagnosed and I started to research my life sentence of epilepsy.  Cannabis is medicine.  Centuries of doctors and patients believe it.

Since medical marijuana was already legal in California, I thought I would be able to get treatment soon enough…  It’s nearly twenty years later and I’m still waiting…  Pennsylvania is sunk, stupid in budget quibbles that don’t get anything done.  Our state budget is 5 months overdue.  The School District of Erie had to vote on what they will do when they run out of money.  The teachers said they would work without pay.

I am still waiting for the House of Representatives to take pity on me and pass Senate Bill 3, Compassionate Use of Medical Cannabis.  It passed the PA Senate, TWICE, but the House pretends to work and refused to do anything.  Oh really, you are writing a “new law” for “passage soon?”  Please reference any of my previous articles addressed to the PA General Assembly over the past two years.  We are still waiting…  I am less and less enthusiastic about my beloved home state everyday.

Everyday is a day I could die.  I’m not being overly dramatic, I’m stating the cold hard facts.  Every year over 50,000 people die from seizures and seizure related injuries.  I fear dying everyday.  I don’t take baths or showers alone.  I’ve read too many obituaries for dead, drowned epileptics for that.  I’ve considered giving up swimming forever.  I used to be on the swim team.  I was even a lifeguard.  I didn’t know I was an epileptic then.  When I went to the wave pool this summer, I told my daughter to stay close.  Not for her safety but for my own.  Everything is dangerous when you lose consciousness and drop to the floor.

Even the things I enjoy scare me.  I love to can; pickles, spaghetti sauce, grape jam, whatever is in season.  Every single time I do, I hope that I don’t have a seizure and scald myself to death.  Boiling hot water can do a LOT of  damage to an unconscious person.  At any given second I could become unconscious.  I envy those of you who don’t know what it’s like.  

Some of my best friends are people I’ve never met.  They are my Epi Friends, epileptics like me.  We live in the same world ruled by seizures and lost time.  We know what it’s like to wake up on the floor.  The Pennsylvania House of Representatives does not know what it’s like…

My advocate “Mama Bears” were in Harrisburg again, rallying and trying to educate the General Assembly.  I wanted to go.  I’m a big fan of a good protest.  But I can’t drive.  My voice will not be heard in the halls of the Capital.  Seizures keep me trapped away like Rapunzel in a tower.  I write letters and send emails and publish blog after blog after blog…  They all plead the same thing~ I just want to have less seizures!  Why can’t I try a natural cure that has been working miracles for centuries!?

I live in the wrong state for my own good.  I don’t want to move.  Yet, everyday I am closer to throwing my hands up in the air and taking up my wagon train and heading west.  I just want medicine.  Why won’t the Pennsylvania General Assembly pull their heads out of the sand and join the 21st century?  Cannabis is medicine.  It is also good business and could give us ample tax funds to fund our schools and balance the budget.  I’m still waiting…..

Don’t make me leave.

still waiting

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Seizure Drunk


Whenever I end up in the hospital they ask me if I am on drugs.

The only drugs I am on are legally prescribed, anticonvulsant, pharmaceutical drugs.  The doctors ask me repeatedly if I have taken any hard street drugs.  They never believe me when I say no.  I am honest about my eating and caffeine and drinking habits.  I tell the truth about smoking.  I do not take drugs.  They never believe me.  Seizures look like drugged out states.  People in pain look like junkies.  I apparently look like both.  My liver has been infected, so clearly I was an IV drug user.  I am honest to a fucking fault.  Ask anyone.  I’m not known for keeping secrets.  I’m not on drugs.  I have never stuck a needle in my body, I’m not on drugs.  I’ll tell the doctors the truth.  They don’t believe me because seizure victims look like drugged people.  They don’t like drugged people.  They certainly didn’t treat me well when they thought I was on drugs.  I don’t know why seizures make me vomit.  But they do.  I’m not drunk or on drugs.

When they knew I was having a gallbladder attack, I was treated kindly.  They at least saw me expediently.  Of course, due to my liver, they asked me time and time again, have you ever taken IV drugs?  I tried to explain how difficult my veins are to find.  I would never be able to be an IV user!  My daughter’s cesarean birth was delayed because five or six different nurses couldn’t get the IV in, on several different spots, on both arms.  I’m not a drug user.  I’m an epileptic.  It’s a real bitch.  On so many levels.  My liver was most likely infected because of my seizure meds, or my rotten gallbladder, which has since been removed.

The last time I was in the ER they sent me home with paperwork that said I had an “Altered Mental State-Resolved”.  It took me a few days, because my brain was too foggy and mushy to care, but I eventually realized that it that said nothing about seizures.  I asked my husband what it meant.  He shrugged.  “Does that mean drugs??”  He nodded.  “I was having seizures all day!  I have epilepsy!”

“They can only judge what they see. The ER Doctor didn’t see you have a seizure.”

She only saw my confused, postictal, fugue state, that lasted an entire day, accompanied by vomiting and dehydration.  I get it.  I get it.  Seizures are scary and confusing.  Sometimes I wake up to people looking at me like what the fuck did you just do?

As it was happening, I was screaming, trapped in my head.  I’m an agreeable enough person.  If you tell me to come down stairs, I’ll come downstairs.  When I had my gallbladder attack, I met the paramedics at the door, ready to go with my purse and wallet and coat on.  The altered mental state time, I was stuck in a seizure unlike any other and I couldn’t control my body.  Even if I thought I was talking, I wasn’t.

The brain is a cruel mistress.  I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy my brain.  I amuse myself with puns and allegory.  I am proud of my writing.  That is all my brain’s doing.  But my brain also hijacks my body.  Just like a terror attack, everything is okay.  Until it’s not.  The Brain Bomb goes off and I drop to the ground.

My brain makes me cranky and sensitive to sound and light.  I can’t drive because I can’t trust my brain to keep me conscious.  It’s a real pain in my ass.  My family can tell when I’ve had a seizure.  They have to tell me.  I change somehow.  I can’t tell you how because I don’t remember.  My voice changes, my eyes look around with childlike wonder/terror.  I can’t think of the words I want to say.  In the days after my handwriting changes.  If I can even write at all.  I am not in control of my body.  I vomit and spill water all over myself.  Did I mention it’s a real pain in my ass?  Once I spilled water on myself.  I was unable to drink it.  I hoped that perhaps osmosis would be enough, so I laid in the water for hours and hours.  I hoped we had some left over gills from our common fish ancestors.

My head is half-pounding today, the pain lingering behind my eyes and centered in my forehead.  It feels like my brain is mushy somewhere inside there, like my spinal fluid levels are off.  Headaches are usually a sign of a seizure.  It’s classic postictal (post-seizure) state.  It’s a ice pick through my brain.  Just like that man who had the train spike through his skull and lived.  That’s how I feel.  I look like a drunk, drugged out person.  Apparently, I look like someone who is unworthy of sympathy.

Maybe that is why so many people are dying from heroin.  They are afraid to seek treatment.  I am afraid to seek treatment.  I’m not even on drugs.  I don’t want to be treated like I am.

A seizure is so much worse.  I can never get clean.  There’s no rehab for me. I can just hope that the next time the hospital will believe me.  I didn’t take any drugs.  I’m having a seizure.  It’s not my fault.  I’m not drunk!  I’m trying to answer your questions.

The first time I ended up in the ER, in 1997, they asked me what drugs I took.  The most recent time, in March, they asked me what drugs I took.  The answer is always the same, “What the hell are you talking about?  I was just at home, minding my own business, not taking drugs.  What the hell happened??”  Seizures are like that.  When you blackout, you are black out.

I wish people understood.  I wish the paramedics and ER doctors understood at least.  I’m going to keep talking about it until they do.  What else can I do?  I am at the whim of others when I have a seizure.  It terrifies me.

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My Epilepsy Stigmata

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


Once when I was in the middle of having a seizure, I had the paramedics yell at me.  It was terrible.  I couldn’t help myself, I was lost in my mind, unable to control my body.  When I could float to consciousness, they were yelling at me to stop vomiting.  I had been vomiting all day, I wished I could stop vomiting.  They screamed at me to stop spitting at them.  I promise you I was not intentionally spitting at them.  I’m not a dick.  It’s called a complex partial seizure.

All I wanted was some water.  I was so thirsty.  I couldn’t move.  They treated me like a drunk, a drug addict or a raving lunatic.  I was none of the above.  Nobody deserve that, even if they are a drunk, drug addicted, raving lunatic.  Seizures are none of those things.  Medical professionals should know better.  I’m afraid I’ll need an ambulance again.  I don’t ever want to be treated like that again.  I wanted to come downstairs, that’s why they were there.  To help me.  I couldn’t control my body.

Epilepsy is isolation.  That’s what people don’t see.  I try not to have seizures out in public.  I stay home.  I can’t drive anyway.  Even when I want to do things, I can’t.  I’m not going anywhere when I’ve had a seizure.  Not for days and days.  This limits my contact with the outside world.  When I am the sickest, I am all alone, at home.  When I feel sick, I don’t go anywhere.  I miss soccer games and birthday parties and only my immediate family sees me.  I stay at home.  I don’t want to go out and have a seizure and be treated like a drunk, raving, lunatic.  Which is something that happens to epileptics all the time.  It’s hard to respond when you are having a seizure.  Epileptics get shot by the cops with shocking regularity.  People ask me if I’m drunk all the time.  “Nope, I just bump into things and slur my words everyday!~”

I am misunderstood by the world.  I can’t work because I can’t keep a schedule.  When I have a seizure, all I can do is sleep.  I can’t go to a job.  I am down and out for days no matter when it happens.  And it happens all the time.  I can’t predict when I will have a seizure.  All I can do it try to minimize my triggers.  Which does nothing, but stress me out.  How can I minimize my hormonal changes, or the path of the moon?  I am lost, at the whim of electrical impulses.  Who knows what makes the lightning strike where and when it does?  Seizures are like lightning strikes that spread over the brain in a chain-reaction of altered consciousness.  Sorry, I can’t make my scheduled shift tonight or tomorrow or the next day.  Employers don’t like that.

Sleep consumes my life.  After a seizure, sleep is all there is.  If I don’t get enough sleep, that’s a trigger too.  My seizure meds make me tired.  It’s a side effect of the main effect of slowing down my electrical impulses.  I have too much electricity for my own good.  A seizure is exhausting.  I am not lazy.  I am sick.

I should be happy that so many people minimize my disease.  They all think I should be functioning better since I seem so smart.  I can’t remember shit.  Ask my kids.  It’s kind of a problem.  Just today my son was upset that I couldn’t remember watching Buzzfeed videos with him yesterday.  I couldn’t remember what we watched.  People remember stuff like that?  You can watch a video and know if you’ve seen it before?  Everything is brand new to me!  Yee-haw!!  Epilepsy is a rodeo!  You never know how the bull is going to ride.

NEXT UP: Be sure to check out 

http://www.soosepilepsycorner.blogspot.com  for more on Epilepsy Stigma.

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Pot for Potholes

pot hole

I want all the young adults who are dying from heroin to be smoking pot instead.  Think of the children!  It’s not a popular opinion, I know.  But I stand behind it.  I want marijuana legalized.  I don’t want young, young, kids to smoke; I don’t want high school kids smoking cigarettes or drinking too much caffeine either.  But the young adults, those over 18, who are legal to smoke cigarettes and die in wars.  Young adults at the age of 21 can legally ruin their livers.  Adults should be able to walk down main street to the local pot shop and buy a pack of joints if they want.  In Colorado, Washington, Alaska, and Oregon you can.  My local Main Street is full of empty storefronts.

A pot shop would bring needed commerce and give us an anchor store.  A smoker-friendly coffeeshop could be next door.  I know that the college students would flock there.  And they wouldn’t cause parking accidents like the neighborhood bar patrons.  The Dinor could stay open 24 hours and rake in the midnight munchies dough.  The tax money could be used to fill the potholes on Main Street.  Pot for Potholes!  My car popped two tires on the winter ravaged potholes in the roads this year and two last year.  Think of the cash flow!  Think of the taxes!  We will be flush with funding.  Property taxes won’t have to go up. We can bring back the beloved Party on Main Street on July 4th.  There are jobs to grow.  I want to see all the empty factories turned into growhouses.

I know many people will say, “Never here.”  Not on our Main Street, not in our hometown.  We are living in the end of the era of prohibition.  We are letting opportunity pass us by.  Plants cannot remain illegal over outdated, racist, reefer madness.  The green tide has turned, there is no going back.  Colorado and Washington are not going to give up their tax money.  Marijuana is safer than alcohol or tobacco.  Nobody has ever overdosed from marijuana.  We have centuries of medical science to support us.  Cannabis is Medicine!

We are in the middle of a heroin epidemic.  So many young adults are dying from heroin it is a public health epidemic.  HIV and Hepatitis cases are spiking.  Painkillers are currency.  I don’t want teenagers doing drugs, but they are.  We can’t pretend that they aren’t.  Can’t we give them something safer to do?  Willie Nelson will tell you that calling marijuana a gateway drug is a lie.  Tobacco is much worse.  Drinking will kill you.  Marijuana will make you feel better.  Marijuana can give me less seizures.  Ask anyone who has seen a seizure~ how can a plant that stops seizures be a bad thing?

I know several people from Pennsylvania and New Jersey who have taken the new green pilgrimage to Colorado.  My advocate friends are there and buying legal joints from vending machines right now.  Money is being made and jobs are being created.  Pennsylvania is waiting.  Sick people are dying.  How would you feel if there was a treatment for your disease but you couldn’t get it?

Nobody thinks we are ready for legal pot shops.  I hear it time and time again, “Not here.”  I disagree.  It would be a perfect addition to our small community.  Wouldn’t you rather the kids smoke pot than die from heroin?  Because that is what is happening right now.  Decriminalization is another option floating around.  Governor Wolf supports it.  Medical marijuana is being hotly debated.   I support it all.  I want industrial hemp to be turning the fields leafy green in Hempfield Township.  Bring the Hemp Back to Hempfield!  All you need is a seed.  Plants want to be plants and grow.

Why can’t I grow my own medical plants?  I grow plenty of things, tulips, blueberries, grapes, tomatoes, chives, thyme.  Plants are plants.  They just need sunshine and water in the right combination.  They grow on their own.  You just have to plant them.  But there is a plant that is illegal.  You are not allowed to let the seeds be seeds and strive for the light.

I could grow tobacco which is a far worse drug.  We just accept it.  I can’t explain why, history is illogical.  Grow this, not this.  We need hemp for ropes and clothes and as a significant source of minerals and vitamins.  Hemp is the next superfood.  It is chock full of Omega 3s and antioxidants.  The health benefits of cannabis are numerous, from shrinking tumors to preventing nausea and seizures.

I write my articles.  I watch the General Assembly live on TV.  I hammer away at the topic all the time.  I talk about it on the bus.  I can’t wait anymore.  There are so many benefits of legalization.  Medical marijuana seems more plausible in the short run, but the finish line must be kept in sight.

Why is it okay to get drunk and stupid, but not high and giggly?  There are both altering consciousness.  Drinking is by far the worse choice.  There is no such thing as a cannabis hangover.  Drinking can kill you.  Cannabis doesn’t impair a person like alcohol does.  Alcohol is accepted and idolized.  Why can’t we have our green medicine?  I promise you I am a better mother when I am conscious.  Seizures steal me from my children.  Cannabis can stop seizures.  How can you let us suffer when there is treatment??

I live in fear.  There is the daily fear of epilepsy, which is like a man-killing tiger stalking me at night.  I don’t want to have a seizure today.  I want a complete end to cannabis prohibition!  I have dangerous beliefs.  Being an advocate is an risk.  I know many advocates who have been arrested.  I know more than one person who wanted to and actively tried to be arrested.  I, myself, joined the march, but I did not try to get arrested.  I have painted many a protest sign.  “Honk for Hemp!” was the first, back in 1997…

Our roads and bridges are crumbling.  We could be filling the potholes and savings lives.  Society will not crumble and fall apart if people are allowed to grow a plant.  Free The Weed!

All the money that is going to the Mexican drug cartels could be ours.

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