It was business as usual in our apartment the other day—my husband was running through the normal list of questions that he asks me when I’m in a postictal state—when the identity of one of my alter egos was revealed.
“What’s your name?” my spouse patiently inquired in an attempt to gauge the extent to which I had recovered from the seizure that I had just experienced. I looked down at the t-shirt I was wearing, a concert souvenir from one of my favourite bands.
(Just as an FYI, this conversation was reported to me after the fact since I don’t remember the period immediately after seizures. In other words, my husband could’ve made the whole thing up. I’m choosing to believe him because I find the incident amusing/slightly embarrassing in the best possible way and also, of course, because he’s not in the habit of lying, except when it’s about things like Christmas present gift hiding locations.)
“Your name isn’t Destroyer,” he informed me. Seizure Me wasn’t interested in his nonsense.
“Do you want me to prove it?” I calmly asked.
He didn’t, weirdly enough.
A short while and a few encounters later, I was back to “normal.” I think, though, I like that Destroyer is hiding inside of me, just waiting to emerge the next time I happen to have a seizure while sporting this particular shirt.