The Things I Sense Right After I’ve Had a Seizure

I’m participating in everyday rudimentary tasks, from sitting in class, running a mile or hanging out with my friends. Until I’m no longer participating.

My body is present, but my mind has checked out.

All of these things fade into darkness.

Silence.

Oblivion.

There is nothing.

Other relevant stories:
• Famous People with Epilepsy
• Epilepsy Triggers
• Can Flashing Lights Cause Seizures Without Epilepsy 

***

Sensation overload.

Too many things at once. My head hurts. Too much noise.

There are sounds. Voices calling out a name. Who are they calling out for? Wait, that’s my name.

One of the voices asks me to wake up, to respond.

I can’t.

I want to go back into the darkness. I’m exhausted, and I want to sleep for the next three weeks.

More voices. This voice is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Who is speaking to me? I think I’ll take a nap and worry about it later.

The voices won’t let me. They coax me to wake, but everything in my body tells me to succumb to the silence residing inside the dark crevices of my mind.

I want to cry.

My head hurts.

My body aches.

I’m exhausted.

The voices are incessant in asking me to wake. I decide to muster the will to do so.

My heavy eyelids flutter open.

I immediately close them back.

It’s too bright.

They’re too heavy.

I’m too weak.

This small movement has alerted the voices that I’m in here — they have a field day.

Now I really have to get up. I try my eyelids again. It’s too much. They shut back.

But the voices won’t stop. I try again — this time keeping them open.

There are objects. They must be people, but my eyes won’t focus just yet.

One of the voices asks me to tell them my name?

What did they say my name was earlier? Tayler?

Yes.

My name is Tayler.

My voice is quiet. Barely a whisper. It’s comes out with a raspy exhale, sounding unnatural to my ears. The name feels foreign on my lips. I begin to wonder if that is really my name or just a figment of my imagination. I test it again. “Tayler.”

The voices smile down at me with glee — it must be correct.

They ask me to tell them their name. How would I know who they are? I can’t see them yet. My vision is blurry and out of focus. It’s making my headache worse.

The voice, whose familiarity I still can’t quite place, repeats the question.

My vision shifts.

I startle.

Too many faces.

I need to focus on the voice speaking to me. It’s gentle. I have a nagging sense I know this person. Their face is eerily familiar, and I must’ve heard their voice a thousand times over. Who is it?

They ask me again to tell them who they are. The answer is hiding along the outskirts of my mind. I know it’s there, but I can’t quite reach it.

I keep silent.

My eyelids flutter closed again.

The voices won’t quit talking. Why won’t they hush?

All of a sudden I’m bombarded with information. I know who the voices are. I know where I’m at. I know who I am.

I’m embarrassed.

Why here? Why now? Why me?

I’ve had another seizure. 

Imagine someone Googling how to help you cope with your (or a loved one’s) diagnosis. Write the article you’d want them to find. If you’d like to participate, please check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

Lead photo source: Thinkstock Images