I sit for a while, the steam from my tea wafting fragrantly in the cold air as I watch an old lady walk a poodle that appears to have more diamonds on its collar than Tiffany’s have on their shelves. Then I reluctantly make my way back inside, hugging the wall like a twat as usual. Time to get ready.

The aura happens as I move through the lounge. I catch the scent of bitter almonds, and the usual strong wave rises up through my head, making everything feel like it’s lifting. I just have time to grope for the sofa, and then I’m out.

When I come to, I’m on the floor. I lie there taking stock of myself, resisting the impulse to close my eyes and sleep. Sleep is all I want after I’ve had a turn.

From the arm of the sofa, I pull down the forest-green chunky knitted throw that my mum made for me. I’m always freezing after a turn, and I wrap it around me gratefully, inhaling the scent of lavender as I lie back down with a sigh.

My roll off the couch hadn’t caused much damage. A big turn will often mean a hard fall straight to the floor, but I don’t feel evidence of bruises or bumps on my back or my head. There’s only the usual shitty feeling of having the worst hangover in history—every muscle and bone aching, coupled with a strong sense of confusion and a slight hint of embarrassment.

Any embarrassment would have increased dramatically if this had happened in public. I’ve woken up before to find myself surrounded by people who were convinced I was drunk and disorderly. I quit drinking as soon as I had my diagnosis, and it’s ironic that I still get to feel the shitty aftermath of a hangover but without any of the fun beforehand.

Of course, the biggest irony is that, while I look exactly the same on the outside—sunny and upbeat as always—on the inside my emotions feel as out of control as my brain. Before, I stayed positive about my treatment, but now I have all these alien feelings of rage and fear. Rage that my body has betrayed me after everything I’ve done. I’ve followed the rules. I’ve been proactive. Why hasn’t it fucking worked? Why are these seizures still with me?

And the fear? It’s always there now, like a grit that lingers between my teeth. My family and friends are starting to ask questions about my epilepsy reviews and why the hospital and the doctors aren’t doing anything. I’ve put them off because I don’t want to admit I haven’t been to the hospital or the doctors in eight months. I can’t bring myself to go, because I’m terrified of what I might hear.