sex yeah //

I once received a DM comprised of just that sentence. Nothing else. No constructive criticism or any reason as to why this person clearly agreed with my own view of myself.

For someone who has never told anyone in their real life that they write anything, reading something like this from an anonymous user only solidified in my mind the fact that this person was right.

I’m not a good writer.

After an embarrassing amount of minutes passed, in which I thought about deleting every story I ever posted, I decided to delete the message instead. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean I could delete the feelings it caused or change the fact that I’m not a good writer.

Two weeks went by and I didn’t write anything, let alone post. Then I received a comment on a story I had posted three years prior, one I’d written after a death in our family. The comment read, “Thank you for sharing this heartfelt story. I really needed this. I just lost my mom and this really got me today.”

I stopped thinking about being a good writer after that. I thought instead, “what if I had deleted my stories and that one person three years later hadn’t read it that day?”

Here’s what I realized: no one is a good writer.

Good means to be approved of, but stories aren’t created from approval. They’re built from life experiences, feelings, and emotions Therefore, the impact of anyone’s story isn’t good or bad. It’s a million other things.

Heartfelt.

Sad.

Funny.

Inspiring.

Romantic.

So to all the story writers out there, hold your head up, write what is in your heart, and never doubt that there isn’t at least one person out there that needs to read your story.

So, no.

I was just complaining to my friend that my oldest sister didn’t know what to do the last time I had a convulsive seizure, and I ended up injured because of it. And my friend said that actually, they don’t know what to do when they see someone have a convulsive seizure, either.

So I thought I’d explain it to you.  I’m not a doctor, and I have no medical training and not everything here will apply to everyone who has convulsive seizures, these are just the things that apply to me, and when in doubt, call an ambulance. 

Here’s what you do:

Look around. Am I lying in the middle of a busy street or on the railroad tracks, or somewhere else dangerous, like in the bathtub? If yes, drag me to somewhere where I am not in imminent danger of being hit by a truck or drowning. 

Am I somewhere safe, but lying near dangerous things like fire or knives or broken glass or pans of boiling water or anything that can hurt me? Move the dangerous things away from me.

My body will be convulsing. That means my head and my arms and my legs are rapidly hitting the ground. Put something soft underneath my head. If there’s a cushion right there, perfect. If not, wad up your coat or shove your shopping bag under my head. If there’s nothing immediately to hand that would take you more than a few seconds to grab, stick your feet underneath my head, it’ll work.

Am I wearing anything around my neck, like a tight collar, or a necktie, or a choker? Loosen it, so my airway is clear.

Don’t restrict my movements - don’t try to hold my arms and legs down. You’ve already moved all the dangerous things away from me, and cushioned my head, so don’t hold me down, unless it is necessary to keep me from doing serious harm.

Don’t put anything in my mouth. A lot of people think you need to stick your fingers or a spoon or something into the person’s mouth to prevent them choking on their tongue.  Don’t do this. 

Try to make a note of the time the seizure first started. If the seizure lasts for longer than five minutes, call an ambulance.

When the convulsing/jerking has stopped, roll me onto my side. If you know what the recovery position is, put me in the recovery position, if you don’t, just roll me onto my side, and check my airway. If I’m not breathing, or I’m having trouble breathing, call an ambulance.

It seems to be instinctive to help someone get back to their feet as soon as the seizure is over. Don’t do this with me. After a seizure, I’m in something called a post-ictal state. It makes me very, very confused, and lying on the ground or sitting somewhere soft is the safest place for me. If you pull me to my feet while I’m still this confused, I will walk directly into traffic or put my hand on a hot stove because I won’t know where I am, or what’s happening, and often I won’t be able to see at all for a few minutes. Keep me somewhere safe until I’ve fully recovered.

If I have another seizure before I’ve fully recovered from the earlier one, call an ambulance.

If you think I might be hurt, or you’re confused or not sure about what to do, call an ambulance.

Dr. Budd:  Yes?

Dorothy:  You probably don’t remember me, but you told me I wasn’t sick.  Do you remember?  You told me I was just getting old.

Dr. Budd:  I’m sorry, I really don’t–

Dorothy:  Remember.  Maybe you’re getting old.  That’s a little joke.  Well, I tell you, Dr. Budd, I really am sick.  I have chronic fatigue syndrome.  That is a real illness.  You can check with the Center for Disease Control.

Dr. Budd:  Huh.  Well, I’m sorry about that.

Dorothy:  Well, I’m glad!  At least I know I have something.

Dr. Budd:  I’m sure.  Well, nice seeing you.

Dorothy:  Not so fast.  There are some things I have to say.  There are a lot of things that I have to say.  Words can’t express what I have to say.  [tearing up]  What I went through, what you put me through—I can’t do this in a restaurant.

Dr. Budd:  Good!

Dorothy:  But I will!

Dr. Budd’s date:  Louis, who is this person?

Dr. Budd:  Look, Miss–

Dorothy:  Sit.  I sat for you long enough.  Dr. Budd, I came to you sick—sick and scared—and you dismissed me.  You didn’t have the answer, and instead of saying “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” you made me feel crazy, like I had made it all up.  You dismissed me!  You made me feel like a child, a fool, a neurotic who was wasting your precious time.  Is that your caring profession?  Is that healing?  No one deserves that kind of treatment, Dr. Budd, no one.  I suspect had I been a man, I might have been taken a bit more seriously, and not told to go to a hairdresser.

Dr. Budd:  Look, I am not going to sit here anymore–

Dr. Budd’s date:  Shut up, Louis.