I will speak of this only once, as it is my Achilles heal.

My doctor has informed me that one of the medications I am taking for my epilepsy is damaging my liver and eating away the marrow in my bones; that taken over any protracted period of time, this is what it does to the human body. Many years ago, when it registered with me as nothing more than another meaningless pronouncement of doom from yet another doctor, I was advised that I would eventually lose all of my teeth, which at the time sounded absurd to me as my teeth were in perfect shape, but I lost them, just as I was told would be the case. This because of the other med that I am taking. Then there is the unavoidable mental confusion referred to in the teeny-tiny print of the three-page disclaimer that comes with it. I'm having a hard time deciding who has benefited the most in all this.

The seizures themselves are roughly akin to shock treatment, a short-circuit in the wiring of the brain that may or may not leave you with some awareness of your situation, but never any control over it; they are not always the same and not always of the same intensity, some are mildly uncomfortable, others strong and sometimes violent; all of them are demoralizing. And taking the meds regularly is no guarantee against seizure activity, as they often seem sensitive to an inner stress or turmoil that I cannot reach.

I have about 10 to 15 seconds warning. My perception takes on a surreal-like quality and becomes imprecise; everything is vaguely off somehow, out of balance, not right. I feel an almost silent humming. I become increasingly anxious because I am about to lose total control and there is nothing I can do about it. I am powerless and feel angry. Then its like touching the exposed ends of live wires to each side of my head. If the current is mild, the involuntary movements are hardly noticeable; if stronger, they become convulsive. There is no pain. I feel drained afterwards.

It is tiring to an individual. And it’s not just the mental and emotional toll that it takes on my dwindling resources; it’s having to constantly expend the energy to hide something that is so much a part of me, and yet so much not a part of others, something that is ugly to watch and humiliating to experience, even when alone. To be open about it is to be singled out, separated from the crowd, treated differently than everyone else. And I hate it. Those closest to me prefer to think that it does not exist, that I am like them and not different. But maybe that’s not fair to them. Maybe I simply see in them what I don't want to see in myself. I hate it more than I can say.

In my case, it is not a genetic condition. No one on either side of my family has ever had epilepsy. None of my children have it. When it was discovered in me, I had taken no hard blows to the head or anything else that is known to sometimes bring about convulsions and cause epilepsy; all of which leaves me little to explain it. For some time now, I’ve thought of my epilepsy as the result of an early conspiracy of mind and body, one having unforeseen and irreversible consequences; confronting a threat to survival and circumstances that had become no longer tenable, a solution to the problem was formed. I can think of no other explanation, nor can I prove this one.

Some might say this theory is born more out of self-centeredness than any reality, and I would give them that, blaming myself for things beyond my control. But I would also note that I certainly wasn’t lacking for attention anymore. In school, I had to sit with the teacher at recess instead of playing with my classmates. I was excused from class early to take a nap everyday. I could get away with things that the others couldn’t. Unfortunately, I did too good of a job on myself, and what I may have then needed as temporary relief, now is a lifetime disability.

End of rant.

It is not my intention to depress anyone with a maudlin or meandering account of my life, nor am I trying to please anyone with it. My goal, as it took shape in my mind, was to present my life story in as objective and dispassionate a manner as I could, recognizing the need at the same time to be as honest and undramatic about it as possible. I haven’t been able to do this perfectly, as I found that to omit all drama and forbid even the smallest measure of license makes for a very boring read; I wouldn't even read it myself. Be that as it may, the truth of me is here, and if my story should be a cause for hope in someone, or if someone should see themselves in me and just not feel as alone as they once did, then I will have accomplished what I set out to do. This is not to say that my motives are altruistic, by any means. I derive far more benefit from this exercise than I expect any one else ever will. It is strictly selfish on my part; some may say indulgent, but that‘s of no consequence to me.

Denver was a new place, a new start. I was happy when we moved there. I was enrolled into Mr. Riggs sixth grade class at Charles Hay Elementary School in Englewood, Colorado, a suburb of Denver.

Mr. Riggs was always smiling. He wore a starched white shirt and a tie everyday, spit-shined shoes and crisply creased slacks, and always Old Spice cologne. He had a round, rosy colored face, as if he had tied his tie too tightly around his neck that morning, but it never seemed to bother him. I remember him very clearly. Mr. Riggs told us war stories from his days in the military during WWII. Quite a few war stories. I don't remember many of his lessons, but he could tell a war story that would spellbind the entire class. He had a paddle he kept in one of his desk drawers and he wasn't shy about using it, either. He would never make anyone cry with it - that would've been too humiliating and he never would have done that to us. The whole class feared the paddle, and we all loved Mr. Riggs.

In Mr. Riggs's class: I first heard Edvard Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King" from Peer Gynt, beginning my love of music; I got my first and last burr haircut (the sadistic man I had for a barber talked me into this) and was so embarrassed by it, grimacing every time I looked at myself in the mirror, that I wouldn't go to school without wearing a cap on my head; and, for the first time in my life, I was smitten by the opposite sex, the fair and lovely Erlene Bolton, and the stunning Roxanne Shipley. They were so beautiful. Goddesses. In my mind, they still are.

On my way home from school once, I waved at a little girl who was standing behind the screen door of her house with her pet collie, and the dog burst through the door and bit me on the ass. Then the little girl's mother drags me inside their house and yanks down my pants to inspect the wound. I was mortified. And the underwear I was wearing that day was an old pair in which the entire rear end was worn away. All I could do was mumble something like, "that's okay, lady, I'm fine, I'll just go home now if you don't mind". Attacked by the dog, accosted by the mother, injured, hurting, humiliated and degraded - right there in front of the little girl, no less - then turned out the door and sent along my way. Not even a cookie. Thank God Erlene and Roxanne lived in the other direction. Needless to say, I didn't walk on that side of the street anymore, and I didn't wave to the stupid little girl anymore, either. Thus began my phobia of dogs.

I experienced the beginnings of peer pressure in the sixth grade. Some of my friends lived in real nice homes and had all kinds of toys and gadgets that my parents couldn't afford, and after visiting them I would feel ashamed for them to see the small house in which I lived. I once asked the parents of one friend to drop me off on the corner, so they wouldn't see my house so I wouldn't feel ashamed by it. Before, my grandfather had bought us a nice home in Odessa (in fact he had bought us several nice homes, and cars as well), as George didn't work much, but Bill fixed up our house and painted it and put a nice redwood fence around the front yard and the back yard, and he planted trees and new grass and he took good care of it, so this sensitive phase didn't last too long.

I believe it was also at this time that I got into the Boy Scouts. I met Dale there, who was to be my best friend for the next 30 years. He died of a heroin overdose in his bathtub about ten years ago. Our troop (the Bobwhites) would go camping up in the mountains and I thought I was going to freeze to death sometimes, and we did the deviant things boys that age tend to do sometimes, and we got to wear uniforms and feel like we were something special, and I liked it. I was going places, doing things, making friends, having fantasies about girls and dreams of what I was going to be in life, and a lot of other things. It felt good to be a part of life, not some victim of misfortune, some unwilling witness.