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I wasn’t prepared for what my seizure episodes would be like; I got no warning. 

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Lately I’ve been learning how to die—how to grab each and every moment and cling to it for as long as I can.

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Why is it that we don’t know how to live until we’re close to dying, until we get the diagnosis that changes everything, until we lose someone close to us and realize how much we’ve taken for granted?

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You might feel more alone than ever before…but the truth is that you’re not.

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The scariest thing about having a seizure is that you never remember it.

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Before I start, I want to preface this opinion with a fact: This is simply my experience, my story, things that have honestly happened to me.

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They aren’t coming back. From their point of view, I kicked them out. From my point of view, they were too overt. Too controlling.

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I had a few small seizures during English class, but kept fidgeting so people wouldn’t notice. They’re going to stop soon, I kept thinking. Just keep calm and stay focused on something.

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Each time I lose control and wake up in an ambulance or on the floor or with a bloody bump on the back of my skull, I leave a fragment of myself in the neurological aftermath.

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We were on the subway and someone standing near us threw their water bottle into the air and collapsed onto the floor of the train. The person started shaking. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The train stopped at a station and I remember looking frantically from the person shaking on the floor to somewhere outside the train.