Epilepsy

I wake in fright and scream.

Or try to scream.

I‘m not really sure if anyone hears me scream like I do.

I choke, I gasp, I convulse.

It has started,

and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

Still, I hear myself scream.

I scream for my father.

It’s not as if he can help me.

It’s not as if he can stop it.

Nobody can stop it.

Maybe I just scream because I don’t want to die alone.

I know, no, I hope that my brother awakes;

that he’ll go and fetch my father.

I choke, I gasp, I convulse.

My right arm is on fire.

"They" are trying to pull me by that arm

through the tiny gap between my bed and the wall.

Impossible, crazy.

Still, that’s what it feels like to me.

I have long stopped screaming.

Involuntary.

I don’t have the breath.

I don’t have the control.

"They" won’t let me.

I can hear voices now;

my father’s voice, maybe my sister’s also.

I’m no longer alone, I know,

but they cannot stop it.

Darkness engulfs me.

The voices begin to echo as if from afar.

I can hear myself choke, gasp, convulse.

He’s calling my name;

my father is calling my name.

But he cannot stop it.

My right arm is being incinerated;

the heat is incredible.

I know I am going to die.

I’m choking to death, miserably.

I panic.

I’m dying; so much I haven’t done.

The voices trail off with their echoes;

a siren sound dull and muffled like a broken record.

I can’t feel my body any longer;

it’s wrapped in dark softness.

That’s when I no longer care.

So what if I’m dying…

It doesn’t hurt any longer.

I am no longer afraid.

And all stops, ends, is finished.

I don’t know how much later I can hear again.

It’s my father’s far away calling of my name.

Also my mother’s, giving him instructions

to pull my body back up onto the pillows.

My back hurts as he tears at my lifeless body.

I know I’m not dead.

I haven’t died.

My back really hurts;

the pain is like a glowing blade rammed between my vertebrae.

Maybe this time it broke my back.

I hear myself groan.

I can make out some light now; not enough to see.

I cannot feel my body, let alone move any of it.

But my back hurts.

Slowly I come to,

become more aware of where I am, what has happened.

I whimper and cry. Relief? Despair?

At that moment I really cannot tell.

I grow tired very quickly.

I want to sleep, but there’s the fear again.

The fear that it will happen again.

My mouth tastes foul and strange.

My mouth tastes more strange than foul

- it doesn’t feel like my mouth at all.

Mother, father, sister leave.

My brother has long gone back to bed;

irritated at the disturbance of his sleep.

He hates me now,

will complain to me in the morning.

How dare I wake him…

I move my toes, my legs, the fingers of my left hand, my left arm.

They do still work.

But not my right arm.

It lies there at my side, not part of me.

Limp and dead, and so very heavy.

Inconsolably crying, I fall asleep from exhaustion.

When I wake - long before wake up time - it is still dark.

I can feel my right arm again.

I can move it, although it is sluggish.

I get up;

I’m too scared to stay in this bed.

To scared to stay where such a terrible thing can happen.

I go to the lounge room and sit in the dark.

I sit there for a long time, staring into space.

My eyes cannot see more than shadows;

my mind doesn’t want to see more than that.

Later, when the daylight is bright enough, I can see better.

My head aches - all of it.

It’s a dull, heavy ache that sickens my stomach.

I try to read the papers on the coffee table, but the effort is futile.

My vision is so blurred that I cannot make out a single word.

My father is making breakfast;

he has to get ready for work.

The cat, freed from its night confinement in the kitchen, comes to keep
me company - or to console me?

How soft its fur is.

Much softer than usual.

Is it that after "it" I can feel better?

Or is it that "it" makes my touch more sensitive,

like it really should be?

I do not know.

In a couple of hours my eyes will see perfect again.

The softer touch of my fingers will disappear.

The headache will not, nor will the terrible feel of this mouth.

My mother will give me of her migraine medicine;

that will help a little.

Still, I’ll be the only one feeling sorry for myself.

But I am glad that it is day.

Glad that the next night is yet so far off,

that I do not have to worry yet.

I have some living to do during this day.

When the night returns, I might die.

The fear never gets less.

I never get used to it.

I’m so alone.

*