This past spring, I cried in front of a co-worker. This was a huge deal to me because I never cry. I hadn’t really cried in years. At the time, I told my (probably freaked out) colleague that I felt like a glass of water that someone kept adding drops to, and that I guess the state testing we were knee-deep in the middle of was the drop that caused my glass to overflow.
Have you ever felt like this?
So, of course I wanted the official name for whatever this is called. A quick Google of “what’s it called when water extends above the rim of a glass?” led me to this explanation, where the author describes the physics behind filling a glass “beyond the native capacity.” Now, I’m not a physicist, but I do love language and I thought I had reached a point “beyond the native capacity” of my ability to handle life last April.
Then, I told life to hold my (overflowing) beer and Gomez and I bought and spruced up a house. Then, we started a new school year. And I made it not even three weeks into the new school year before my brain lit up like a Christmas tree, and life since has been a stew of foggy (at best) memories and doctor’s appointments.
My latest brain short-out has really turned my feelings up to 11. I’m all tears and emotions now. A few days ago, I cried because we don’t live near a Target anymore. Last night, I cried when I realized that Gomez had put my favorite blanket on our bed when he changed out the linens earlier in the day. It’s messy and quite uncomfortable for anyone who happens to witness my now-frequent “spells,” as Granny would call them.
So, guess what I did today, when the neurologist officially diagnosed me with epilepsy?
I cried. And I realized that I am, right now, officially beyond the native capacity.
It’s a lot to process. It’s one of those moments when time divides itself into “before” and “after.” Before I was diagnosed with epilepsy, Gomez could count on me to help with the errands and Elroy-running; after, I’m not allowed to drive for at least six months. Before I was diagnosed with epilepsy, I relished in the solitude of a quiet house while the boys went camping or fishing or to a ball game; after, I’m scared to be home alone. Before I was diagnosed with epilepsy, I craved the rural obscurity of our new hometown so much that we moved back here; after, I wonder if moving two hours away from a semi-decent hospital wasn’t the worst decision we’ve ever made.
Life for me is scary right now, and all I can do is try to stay calm and wait for the glass to stop overflowing.
The Homesick Homecomer 