Same Soup, Different Spoon
Life continues to serve me the same exhausting thing every day — depression soup.
I was diagnosed with Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures back in 2019. Before that, I was living a normal, rather content life and whenever someone asked me how I was doing, my response was usually along the lines of, “good, great, awesome!”
Most people would have described me as a bubbly person in the past and if I was to meet myself back then, I would just feel utterly tired in her presence. I was a really upbeat individual. Me, now? Not so much.
I definitely don’t have the energy like I used to.
At the time of my diagnosis, I was told that I also had severe anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress. Then it was like in one fell swoop, I was a completely different person… As if someone opened the blinds to a window and revealed that on the other side of it was a mirror, and the reflection staring back at me was of a person with uncontrollable body spasms and nothing but a look of gloom cascading over her. I couldn’t fathom how this reflected me, someone, who just before that, was fine… Just fine.
As time went on, living day to day with my condition, it became clear that it wasn’t safe for me to be out. I became a burden to my significant other who would have to calm our two young traumatized children down while still making sure that I wouldn’t hit my head and, at the same time, caution strangers away when they happened to witness an unfortunate episode out in public. So I stayed in for months, crying to myself about how worn out my mind and body were. I remained isolated in that dreary room especially since I didn’t want my toddlers to see me in my condition.
When you’re by yourself, all you do is think to yourself. You’re trapped in your own head.
I was mad at myself for having a condition that stemmed from untreated mental issues that I never even knew I had. I hated that I couldn’t be with my children. I resented myself for not being able to be a mother to them. I felt useless for not being able to work and earn an income to contribute to our household. I was so guilty over the fact that my boyfriend and his family had to do everything for me while my closest blood relatives seemed to care less whether I lived or died. I thought all of that on repeat.
This continued with me telling myself that I was a nuisance and that this quality of life I was living was just not worth it.
That I better end it.
I wanted the seizures to stop so badly... I was dejected, drained, and completely done… I took seven-too-many anti-seizure pills that day.
With that, I did nearly end it.
After my attempt, it was bad for a while but then it was almost like, someone somewhere in the realm of how Life works said, “hey, let’s give this one a break and go pick on someone else for about a week, or heck, even 2 years?”
I was thrown a curveball. A good one, I guess.
My seizures mysteriously trickled away. It went from me having a seizure every day to once in a while, to being seizure free for about 2 years. It was a magical moment during that time! I no longer felt like an absent mother and I actually felt able-bodied. I picked myself up with both readying arms. It was my chance at a normal life again; to actively do everything I could for my kids that I couldn't when my condition held me down. I went into super-mom mode, staying home with my little ones. I even got married!
Eventually, it came time for me to go back to work.
Life then said, “A-ha! You thought!”
About a month into my new job, my seizures returned. In the middle of my shift, I felt it coming on so I told a coworker that I was going to take a moment to myself in another room. I tried to relax but it was already starting. My eyes started uncontrollably blinking and then my neck start to twist and turn. The next thing I know, I pulled out my phone to call my husband and put him on speakerphone. He knew the minute he heard me crying that it was happening.
I’m not sure when the waterworks started but I know it erupted out of sheer panic. I couldn’t believe that after all this time that the seizures came back again and at my new job, at that. I couldn’t bear it. The panic turned into shame.
I was on my side, twisting and flailing around when I heard another one of my coworkers walk into the room and shout, “are you okay?!” Then she yelled for someone to call 911. That was the last thing I wanted.
In my experience with my condition, EMT and ER visits are almost always not worth the trip. I am always conscious when I have seizures so I am fully aware. The EMTs treated me with little to no empathy. They would mutter words like, “interesting…” or make little comments here and there that indicated that they would rather be elsewhere tending to someone that actually needed their help. It was the same with emergency room doctors. Psychogenic seizures were looked at as if the person having them was faking them when in reality, doctors have admitted to simply not knowing what they’re dealing with as there isn’t enough learned yet for this condition.
In the end, I was always met with the same aloof attitude like I was wasting their time and space in the emergency room.
The ambulance arrived at my job and my husband shouted through the speakerphone that it wasn’t necessary. Yes! I felt relieved in that split second. I tried to show that I agreed with him but I wasn’t able to talk and my seizure was only worsening at this point. It went on for an hour and they had no choice but to haul me away. My husband had to pull our kids out of bed and drive to the emergency room to get me. The seizure didn’t stop for another hour after that.
I tried to return to work like normal again… I went on to have four more separate incidents with my seizures at work. Each time my husband had to come get me, walking me out the doors, like a small child who had to call home sick at school.
It was all too much. I resigned from my job.
I fell back into my sad thoughts like I was hitting my head against a familiar pillow. I felt humiliated to have everyone see me in such a vulnerable state. I felt guilty towards my kids and my husband for making them go through this again with me. I hated the fact that I thought that chapter in my life was over only to be reminded how wrong I was.
Every day I wake up now, I go through the motions of a daily routine, caring for my family at home and doing everything not to revert to the point where they’re the ones caring for me instead.
I still have days, where I’m so beaten up by the seizures that afterwards, I’m lying there feeling like I’m having an out-of-body experience with how completely dejected and defeated I feel… But I’m here.
I may not be as capable as I used to be nor blissful or carefree but I accept that. I’m still learning to live with this disability that came along, went, then made a comeback. This time around, I’ll try my best not to beat myself up too much. The days go by.
Same soup, different spoon.
