Vermont Memory in the 70’s

One day while living in upstate New York, I decide to go with a group of friends to Vermont to stay at one of their parents’ home, who are away for the weekend. I am excited about this, because it is a house in the country and it’s mid-October and I know the colors in the surrounding hills will be bursting with colors. However, as usual, I haven’t been sleeping well and so when my friends decide to go for a hike, I feel too weary to join them, and instead, opt to lie down and rest in one of the big, cozy beds.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I know is complete disorientation and a sensation of being caught in between worlds – the living and the dead, you could say. I feel incapacitated by fear and that is all I know. I don’t even know my name. I look around me and I can’t recognize anything – not the floral bedspreads, the bedside lamps, the room itself. The fear is so intense, yet so familiar, and then I begin to identify its movement and texture and how it relates to seizures. Am I going to have a seizure? The idea of this further frightens me and I grab onto the bed covers, as if holding on to something solid will help me stay here instead of leaving my body. I struggle again, to make sense of my surroundings, but again, I recognize nothing.

I call out again and again, but there’s no answer. My panic rises as I realize I am all alone.

After a bit, I remember a phone number, but I have no idea whose it is; but in the midst of my intense confusion, it feels like a life saver. Luckily, there is a phone on the bedside table, and I find I am able to retain the numbers long enough and the ability to punch in the numbers, to complete the call.

Someone picks up. “Hello?” – a woman’s voice.

“H – hello?”, I say tentatively, “Do you know who I am?”

I have happened to call my parents in California and my mother immediately recognized my voice. It is a difficult conversation – for me, because I am trying to form thoughts to put into words, and for her, because she is 3,000 miles away and there is very little she can do to help me. Throughout our exchange, I realize that I had a seizure, not that I was going to have one – a phenomenon that repeats itself throughout my life. Although she cannot help me find out where I am, just knowing what happened and who I am is, for the moment, enough for me to calm down a little. Her voice is an anchor for me, and I hang on to it for dear life.

Soon afterwards, my friends arrive, and I sort out where I am and where I live and other basic information.

The rest of the weekend, though, is spent in recovery. I am depleted through and through. I don’t fit into the human realm, yet. I am just a wounded animal, licking my wounds – a scream lodged in my beaten body.

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