Tea with honey please…

I feel awful.  There, I said it.  I have had four seizures since Jan. 1, 2016.  Three of them have been in this week.  

There isn’t anything I can really do about it… Except take the medicine as prescribed- three times per day.  Am I going to die in mind instead of body?  

I’m usually pleased with my intelligence levels.  I can remember any number of things after being exposed to them for a few seconds.  I can read and comprehend difficult texts.  I can do most maths as long as no one is watching.  I can overthink issues beyond necessity- to a point that would take an astronomical brilliant work digression to the dirt on my chickens back.  (I’m not exactly sure what that means.)

Mental disarray has its place in my gene pool.  I don’t have the best example for this, but extrapolation of my family tree won’t do much here.  

One of the best scenes from a Robin Williams film resonates in my head as I write.  Below is the transcript from the scene, primarily a monologue from Williams’ wonderfully-articulate character about the beauty of meaningful life experience and how not everything can be learnt from books.

“…If I asked you about art, you’d probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life’s work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I’ll bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling.
If I asked you about women, you’d probably give me a syllabus of your personal favourites. You may even have been laid a few times. But you can’t tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy.
You’re a tough kid. If I asked you about war, you’d probably throw Shakespeare at me, right? “Once more unto the breach dear friends”. But you’ve never been near one. You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help.
I’d ask you about love and you’d probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable, known someone that could level you with her eyes. Feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you, who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes that the terms ‘visiting hours’ don’t apply to you. You don’t know about real loss, ’cause it only occurs when you’ve loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much.
When I look at you I don’t see an intelligent, confident man. I see a cocky, scared s***less kid. But you’re a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presumed to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my f***ing life apart.
You’re an orphan right? You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally, I don’t give a s*** about all that, because you know what, I can’t learn anything from you I can’t read in some f***king book.
Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I’m fascinated. I’m in. But you don’t wanna do that, do you, sport? You’re terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.”

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