epilepsy kerry in a journal ten years ago i wrote, “i may have epilepsy. what does this mean?” four days later i wrote, “i saw a doctor who looks like a frog and he told me yes, i do have epilepsy.” i wrote again, “what does this mean?” and then, “i don’t know how i feel about it. right now i don’t feel anything.” i’ve had a lot of feelings since then, learned and unlearned and denied and accepted many things over and over. i’ve filled ten calendars tracking seizures, every january debating whether i need to hold onto the old year as i hang a new one onto a basement door, a kitchen cabinet, a crumbly plaster wall. i eventually throw them out. some months are littered with abbreviations: TC, SP and notations: walking home, at work, fireworks, car horn, in bed over the course of ten years, two pages have remained eerily blank. i celebrated the first blank page with an enormous cheeseburger, sitting behind the cash register with claire at her job, and she snapped a picture of me as i took the first bite, a big greedy one that left my lips shiny with grease and i didn’t cry that day like i thought i might, i just ate and ate and laughed while she cheered me on. i didn’t mark the next blank page with a cheeseburger or a slice of chocolate babka or a new book, i just held my breath and crossed my fingers. and when it was time to make another notation i shook my head and smiled wryly, lifting my pen in defeat. “you win,” i thought, not knowing exactly who the You was, only that it wasn’t me. with each mark on the calendar i make a mental note of the circumstances and toss it onto the pile of unanswered questions. last week i was looking for my father at baggage claim and i recognized that funny feeling, like my skull and ears are lined in fur. when our eyes met i felt it coming on, a curtain falling. i could only half hear him and when i tried to speak, my mouth wouldn’t open and the words stayed in the back of my throat and all i could do was half-smile and hold up a finger asking him to wait. once i was able to talk again i said, “it’s adrenaline, i think. It’s happened when i’m excited to see someone, at the moment i find them.” “i’m flattered,” he said, eyes crinkling, and patted my shoulder. 220413 ... kerry the word itself is strange. sometimes it twists my tongue like a rancid nut and i spit it out, wipe my mouth, and shudder. other times it’s a commandment, not necessarily unwelcome. it says, “today you must rest and be quiet and surrender.” life will be slower. i will probably never work full time. i will never drive again, though i often do in my dreams. there will be situations and places where i have to creep along the wall, taking a detour, instead of blasting through like i used to. i will never swim alone, though i’ve never been a good swimmer anyway and don’t really care. i will continue to go to the pharmacy and fill the shelves of my medicine cabinet with orange plastic bottles. slow isn’t necessarily bad. i have more space to sleep and dream, an excuse for waking up slowly and gently, for pausing and observing. there’s more time to lounge on the couch with a heavy book and a little plate of dried sour cherries and a cup of tea, to admire the houseplants on the windowsill as they stretch toward the sunlight, to enjoy the warm of a little dog dozing on my stomach. 220413 ... kerry it's easier to have gratitude and see the upsides when your brain is more or less behaving. it's easier to be brave, forget the really low points, minimize past traumas. everything seems normal. you move about like you always have, you don't notice or care about the little adjustments and compensations and sacrifices. and then you're walking down the street and a sound, say a dog barking or a door slamming, doesn't sound quite like it usually does. there's something strange, something off--a sharpness, or a roundness, all the trees inhaling deeply and holding their breath, the windows puckering their lips and blowing wind in your ears, a passing car skids through a puddle of sound that soaks you, and you think, i have to get out of here. your ears are too open. your skin is too thin. you're like a mouse without fur, a bird without feathers. all of a sudden you're out past curfew. you might turn into a pumpkin. the metaphors are all mixed. the words don't come out right. an afternoon stroll turns into a stagger down a side street, the front of your t-shirt crusty with dried drool. call a lyft, asap--but shit, you forgot your mask, you thought you'd just be basking in sunlight and enjoying the breeze, it's cool out for july, maybe they'll take pity and pick you up anyway. there was a time when you could get in your car and just drive away, you could do 80, you enjoyed how it felt to drive a stick shift like you were part of the car, using both feet shifting gears really understanding how it worked and what to do, the harmony of releasing the clutch with your left foot and pressing the gas with your right, the symmetry curl up on the couch or the floor where you are safe and can't fall any farther and just wait for the storm to pass 220623 what's it to you? who go blather from