Tuesday, February 9, 2016


     When I have seizures while medicated, I remember more.
     That's what happened just now. They're much shorter, I don't blink my eyes a lot during the "deepest part" because I don't go there, and I can follow my thoughts while seizing.
     It began, like so many of them do, in kindergarten. I was thinking about my friend, Angela, and she took me there. I even reminded myself not to think about "old times," that my mind could get stuck...and then it happened.
     I've known her forever, since before kindergarten even, so she could take me almost anywhere.
     I was outside, but it didn't alarm me at all, being there in the pre-dawn hours having a seizure.
     Once it began, I simply followed the thoughts, first about Angela getting sick and missing a lot of days and how I must've  been scared she wasn't coming back.
     By the time that thought was fading, I was already there, in my head, while walking toward the garage.
     A few more steps, and I was thinking of Jay, which really surprised me. He was my favorite teacher's son, a year younger than us. We had two teachers, but I only remember her.
     We went to the same church and so did Angela, which made kindergarten feel like a bigger family, sort of. It was a private kindergarten, in the basement of a fourth-grade teacher's house.
     We weren't allowed to go upstairs.
     I thought about Jay, and how we treated him nicer because he was Mrs. Spence's son and a year younger than us. He was a little guy.
     I can't really remember much about him that year except that he was there even though he was only four years old.
     We didn't mind.
     That's about it. Pretty uneventful memory, except for the missing Angela and Mrs. Spence and Jay parts. I've been wondering since last summer where my mind goes during all these "kindergarten seizures," and now I know a little more.
     It isn't such a bad place to visit, especially going back to spend time with Angela and Mrs. Spence and Jay. I can't do that any more with him; he left us in 1985.
    Feeling his 4-year-old presence with me in my driveway at 4 a.m. wasn't scary at all for me. It was just a memory, and in it, we were all there together, him too.