Art by Lady Morgana
Lately I have fallen asleep on entry, the weight of blankets and bones dissolving swiftly my consciousness. Gone, are the stories I used to tell myself as I lie in bed giddy and immobile. My dreams come in alternating patterns of light and shade, their impressions linger faceless and nameless on waking. The peanut butter was in the fridge this morning, which is not where it belongs. The bathroom sink is suffering the filth of too many ablutions. I’ve eaten grotesque amounts of sugar. My thoughts are bandaged in cellophane, I see them their cyanic features gasping inaudibly, too slick for covetous hands to snatch. Last night Isadora read her first book. As I sat there welling up with maternal pride, I realized just how much a few words of praise mean. My compliments find no resistance, there are no razor-edged doubts to render my words misshapen, she does not hate herself. She is, however, sensitive to the criticisms of her classmates. Sometimes she comes home tumescent, with the assumption of a foreign ego. I always remind her to be herself because she is important. I am in danger of being too much myself. I arrive each day unborn. Vulnerable, bowed forward sometimes in deference, sometimes in gratitude. I expose anything on inquiry. I don’t know how to be with other people without deficit (except Sam and Isadora). The other day I stood uncomfortably while a stranger whittled away time that at that moment I did not want to spend. Time that I wanted to have uninterrupted with my daughter, in those few precious moments when there is only the two of us. I did not want to be propositioned but I find that some men are incapable of understanding disinterest without cruelty. This is one of the reasons I genuinely fear going outside, these predators, that approach any woman unaccompanied by a man. I hate being hit on. I have said it now and you may spread the word all over the world if you like. When I say “I’m married” that is the cue to exit graciously.
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My therapist gave me an informational booklet on non-epileptic seizures which can be triggered by stress and which are curable. I did some research independently but there are some critical differences between my seizures and non-epileptic seizures. My pupils change sizes, my larger seizures occur at night when I am asleep, I have had abnormal EEGs, and lastly my spasms have a certain rhytym. I can’t exclude the possibility that I may have some psychotropic, non-epileptic seizures, but I have epileptic seizures as well. I wish that I could be cured because then there would be more moments for my burgeoning self to occupy. For now the best I can do is improve those aspects of my health for which I possess some measure of control.
Curious Flowers 