A.J Imrana
I. The First Time It Took Me
How her seizures first appeared suddenly, strangely, and nameless.
It began with a flicker,
not of light,
but of being.
A sudden pause
in the middle of a sentence,
a dropping spoon,
a tilt of the head
as if listening to something
only I could hear.
Then the stillness left
and I was on the floor,
my tongue bitten,
my body stranger to itself.
They said my eyes rolled,
my hands stiffened,
my soul disappeared for seconds
and came back confused.
I did not cry.
I asked if it had happened again.
And in that question
was a knowing,
that something had entered me,
not with cruelty,
but with command,
command my body obeys
whenever it calls.
~~~~~~~~~~
II. The Visitations
The process of seeking care, receiving a diagnosis, and facing the unknown.
They took me to a hospital
where white coats
whispered in clinical tones,
as if my seizures
might listen in and grow quiet.
The doctor asked questions
I couldn’t answer:
What does it feel like before it begins?
Do you smell anything strange?
Do you know when it’s coming?
I didn’t know.
Sometimes I did.
Sometimes I didn’t.
It was like asking
how it feels to be carried by a storm.
They called it epilepsy.
A name with syllables
too neat
for something that undoes me
without warning.
I nodded.
Because what else could I do?
But deep inside,
a small girl stood barefoot
before a wide ocean
that now had a name,
but still no bridge.
Now it became my routine
to swallow pills,
two in the morning,
one at night.
~~~~~~~~~~
III. The Knowing
Recognizing early signs, sensing a seizure’s arrival, learning her body’s language.
I began to feel it
like a shadow
reaching for me
before it touched.
A hum beneath my skin,
a silence inside sound,
a feeling
that something was folding
from the inside out.
They called it an aura,
but it felt more like a whisper
that only I could hear,
a secret the world forgot
to prepare me for.
Sometimes I sat down
before it took me.
Sometimes I pressed my lips
to verses I’d memorized
in childhood
as if they could ground me
when the ground itself gave way.
And with every episode,
I learned
not just the nature of the seizures,
but of myself,
the girl who keeps returning
to herself
after vanishing.
~~~~~~~~~~
IV. The Ways I Stay
How she learns to cope.
I learned to carry water
and medications
to memorize gaps in the road
and spaces soft enough to fall.
I learned to breathe
through the tension
before the tremble,
to smile when the teacher asked
if I was tired again.
I said yes,
but it was more than sleep.
I do not run with the others anymore.
But I walk,
and that has become
its own kind of strength.
I sleep with a prayer
under my pillow,
a note beside my bed
that says:
“She will return,
please wait.”
Some days I cry
before it happens.
Other days,
I let it come like rain,
falling,
then passing.
I have found ways to stay,
not by fighting,
but by softening
into what remains.
~~~~~~~~~~
V. What Remains Unshaken
Living fully despite unpredictability, returning to herself again and again with grace.
I am not fragile,
only watched.
Held more closely by my mother’s eyes,
walked around gently by fate,
but still walking.
Still me.
The seizures come,
but they don’t own the hours in between.
I still laugh.
I still write my name
on forms and in notebooks,
not as a patient,
but as a girl
with dreams intact.
Some call it a condition.
I call it a lesson
in returning.
Again and again,
to breath,
to faith,
to whatever light
God allows me to carry.
I am not cured.
But I am not crushed.
There is something in me
that each seizure forgets
to steal.
And that
is what remains
unshaken.