November is Epilepsy Awareness Month. Please pick up a copy of the book where today’s blog is from. Underwater: When Encephalitis, Brain Injury and Epilepsy Change Everything
I despise being interrupted. When speaking my portion of a conversation, an interruption, though well-intended, becomes a thief breaking in and robbing my mind.
When interrupted, I feel lost at sea. My location isn’t it easy to find. Where was that? Where am I? How do I locate myself again, and my word again, and my thoughts again?
An interruption becomes the conclusion. My verbal adventure stops suddenly. A wall appears. Another step feels impossible. I wait and wait and wait for an opening, for a memory, for a word. Nothing emerges.
Finally, I locate another word as a substitute.
Or I ask for help.
Either way, I do not like this.
But I’m learning this.
I am learning this life—this life of failure, of frustrations, of dependence, of forgetting. This life of interruptions. This life with baggage. This life at sea. I’m adjusting to this life of always knowing a seizure is possible. This life with epilepsy.
It feels like a caution light blinking and blinking. Do I stop or slow? Do I turn?
I choose, usually, to not frown when facing those facts. I smile. People with epilepsy have boundaries, but don’t all people? Yes, we need sleep and the care of others and sunglasses, but all people do. We need the caution light’s reminder of these words: be careful. All people do. We are unique yet not controlled by our conditions.
Well, let’s get back to the interruptions. Words, often difficult to locate in this brain, frequently take time to be stated. Much time. I try. They hide. I try hard. They refuse to reveal themselves. A noun. A name of a person I know. A verb. An action I’ve known well and long. Hidden, distant, afar: words.
I merge memories and mingle experiences. I try. I fail to find words.
But the process is worse when interrupted. Let me try and fail, then ask for a name. Don’t invade my endeavor to recall.
Though, if I sat in your seat and listened to my weak attempt to remember, if I stared at a frustrated face like my own and craved to offer assistance, I would interrupt. I’d bid a solution if the situation was opposite. I get it.
But I’m helped best when those close to me realize they’ll never fully get it. They just choose to endure the wait—hearing my conversation stop, seeing my facial expressions of frustration, desiring to rescue me from the war of forgetfulness, hurting with me—while hidden words merge their appearance slowly if at all.
Give me a little time even if I request otherwise.
Give me a little time even when my search engine malfunctions.
Give me a little time until I can invest no more effort in the adventure of recall.
Give me time underwater.
And, please, give me your acceptance even when my attempts to remember or stay calm or seem normal all fail.
I enjoyed the comparison of being interrupted to being underwater. I feel like most of time when we are abruptly stopped our minds do take a break and it can be harder to find where we had left off , similar to sitting in a body of water . Treading till we can remember where it is we are swimming to.
This is such a well written insight to how your mind works, Pastor Chris. It is crazy to think the difference it must be now from before your injury but how you have adjusted and found such grace from God in that process. I’m not sure there’s another person alive who is as understanding and patient with people as you are! I think that your vulnerability in sharing your head space with us shows us that we are not all that different from you, though. I also lose track of my thoughts constantly through the interruptions of life and need to focus them back in! Thank you for sharing with us.
Thank you for being so open and not only show the world how your brain works but how you feel about it Pastor Chris, thank you for setting an example out there of how others with epilepsy might feel too, but mostly thank you for being so real and vulnerable. I am sure this injury is not an easy thing to deal with, but I am positive you have embraced it and learn from it in such a beautiful way, you listen, and you listen and never get tired of helping others, and is beautiful how you have walk yourself through this injury journey and used it to let others know more about it. I am amazed and certainly more aware, thank you again for sharing.
Wow!! This blog is so crazy that you can be going through all of these things and no know would even know unless you told them. This is so beautiful in many facets when you talk about being one seizure away that really him because all of face buffers in our life that try to pull us away from Christ. Our job is not lose sight of the Lord and maintain our full trust in him no matter the circumstances. When we do this we can’t even comprehend the results that we will get out of it.
This blog pours into my heart like no other. The way you describe your feeling and thoughts is unique and different but in a good way. It some about thought interruptions in our lives. We wonder sometimes, why are they there but every thing happens for a reason and it happens for God reason!
Thank you for sharing your story. I often feel interrupted in my everyday life because I deal with anxiety. I will get random flashes (most likely every day) that hinder me from being productive and doing simple everyday tasks I need to get done. Your story is inspiring because I’ve seen all you’ve accomplished despite the struggle. Thank you.