Do you remember
one of Robin Williams’s most unforgettable lines? “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.” He said so over and over again to Matt Damon
in Good Will Hunting, as Damon’s character
struggled with demons that kept him from realizing his potential.
I was reminded of
the movie’s scene the other day. And
with my recent understanding of my epilepsy and its place in my life, it all
makes such sense. Many times we hear of
abused children or spouses who come to think that somehow they deserve what
they’re getting. They must be fundamentally
bad or, at least, different from the rest of humanity. They should live quietly, getting by as best
they can in society.
Because of my
epilepsy, I lived for years feeling that I was a weirdo, “the other.” Somehow,
I thought that I didn’t deserve anything I got and any successes were just
examples of my fraud of a life. I was in hiding with misplaced shame and pretty
successful at it, too (except when I had my tonic-clonics!).
What about
you? If your epilepsy is controlled, are
you, too, able to get by, living seemingly “normally” in the world? Somehow, though, do you feel you are different
from others? Maybe you’re displaced on a
road running alongside the main thoroughfare of humanity, never merging with
it. Maybe you have pushed your epilepsy
so far down in your consciousness that you take your meds mechanically, never
thinking about what they’re for. (I did
that!) We all have our own ways of
feeling separated, perhaps even, like Will Hunting, feeling that somehow this
all is our fault. It’s not, of course,
but easier said than internalized.
What will be your
process for finding your way to accepting your difference, living what many
call “authentically?” You are not your
epilepsy; you simply have it, just as you do your love, talents, strengths, and
other differences. And just like these
others, you need not carry a sign proclaiming it, but you need not hide it. How will you truly accept yourself? What’s your catalyst for change?
For me, what was
a self-image quagmire slowly morphed into anger about the situation. I understood why the stigma existed, but my
thoughts about myself because of it made me furious. Yes. Anger
was my catalyst. I somehow stopped
letting epilepsy define me and decided the best way to cement my newly found
feelings was to talk about it and look for opportunities to educate others
(gently). By doing so, I’d help make the people around
me understand and not be afraid of it, of me.
I’d merge into the thoroughfare, where I wanted to be.
And I did.
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