Bayan’s Story

Epilepsy

So, in late 2022, while attending a relative's graduation dinner, I suddenly collapsed from my chair and began having a seizure. That is not my memory, but what those who saw me told me, as I don't remember what happened. Everyone gathered around me and started splashing water on my face to wake me up or bring me back, but they didn't know what to do out of pure fear—especially since I hadn't been diagnosed with any condition at the time. After a few minutes, I woke up, completely unaware of what had occurred, and asked them what was wrong. They said I had a seizure, though they didn't know why. They took me to the ER, but the examination was very brief. They just gave me an IV and sent me home without a proper diagnosis.

I continued my life as if nothing had happened. But a few days later, during the last period at school—I was in my final year of middle school—I rested my head on my desk. Everyone thought I was sleeping, but it was actually another seizure. The seizure weren't obvious, and I was completely unconscious. Near the end of the class, the teacher called my name to wake me up, but I didn't respond. Assuming I was just asleep, she asked my friend to shake my shoulder, but I still didn't react. Everyone started to panic. The teacher came over and tried to wake me, then lifted my shoulder to check on me, and that was when they realized I was having a seizure. The movements were so subtle that no one noticed, especially since the lights were off and the classroom was dark.

They carried me on a chair to the counselor's office and called both my father and an ambulance. Meanwhile, they kept trying to wake me up by splashing water and shaking my shoulders. When I finally woke up, I was only half-conscious, and they gave me some sweets thinking it was a drop in blood sugar. The paramedics arrived at the same time as my father. They checked my temperature and blood sugar first—I still don't know why everyone assumed it was low blood sugar. They were about to take me to the hospital, but my dad was already there and took me home to rest first before heading to the clinic. When we went, most hospitals were careless and failed to give me a diagnosis.

The ironic thing is that exactly one week later, on the same day of the week, I fell and had another seizure at school. This time, it was much severe than before. I suffered a deep cut on my eyebrow that required 11 stitches and left a large bruise over my left eye. It was far worse because I didn't wake up quickly and couldn't move, so they had to call an ambulance. They took me to a major hospital, ran comprehensive tests, and finally diagnosed me with epilepsy.

I couldn't accept the diagnosis. I felt lost, terrified, and completely broken. Ever since that day, I was in a state of deep trauma and couldn't face the reality of my condition. A few weeks—or maybe a month—later, out of sheer denial, I stopped taking my medication without telling my family. Because of that, I had another seizure at school. You can only imagine the toll of having all these seizures within just a month and a half. It was one trauma after another, compounded by my complete refusal to accept the illness.

I graduated from middle school viewing myself through a completely different lens. I didn't like who I was, I couldn't feel any joy during my graduation, and I didn't even have friends to support me. Maybe I was depressed; all I know is that I felt entirely dimmed inside.

When I entered high school, I had to explain my condition to the school nurse just for safety precautions. I remember that moment so vividly because I was still in trauma, trying to explain my situation while swallowing a heavy lump in my throat.

Two and a half years passed, thank God, completely seizure-free while staying consistent with my treatment. Yet throughout that entire time, I remained extremely sensitive whenever anyone brought up my condition—I always felt as though people were looking at me with pity. However, high school became a turning point for me. I decided to try to accept it and face it head-on. It was hard, but at least I tried. I also made new classmates, which greatly improved my mental well-being. One of them became my biggest supporter; she was always there to listen to me and my stories, and she helped pull me out of the sinkhole of low self-confidence and denial.

After two years of high school, during my final year, another seizure struck out of nowhere—after nearly three years without a single episode. Luckily, it happened at home. You might wonder why, after years of stability? Because it was my senior year. In my country, you have to work extremely hard in your final year and pass two major standardized exams with high scores to get into university. I was putting immense pressure on myself from both schoolwork and exam preparation. Due to the stress, I neglected my medication, which triggered a sudden seizure after a long period of stability.

All the painful memories came flooding back, but I was stronger this time. I pulled through and continued my life as normal. Although I felt guilty for neglecting my medication, my mental state was much better than before, and I had learned to live with it. I say I've learned to live with it, but truth be told, I still hate hearing the name of the illness to this day. I aspire to fully accept it and make peace with it, though I know I'm not quite there yet.

In the end, this journey has taught me so much. It opened my eyes to things I used to overlook, almost like a wake-up call to reality. I walked away from everyone who made fun of me or my condition. I recognized many fake people, but at the same time, God blessed me with beautiful company—true friends who stood by me and supported me.

Now, I am writing this as a first-year university student. Even though university separated us due to different majors, we are still close friends, stronger than ever, and I love them with all my heart.