Seizure Me can be such a jerk.
Case in point: she’s taken to referring to my husband as “The Dolt.” In the third person. To his face.
Of course, I’m forced to rely on the premise that he accurately relays her antics to me, but let’s be real. What incentive does he have to tell me that someone (something?) consistently, and boldly, insults him, especially since he must know that when he feeds me information about my epilepsy persona, there’s a 95% chance it’ll end up in my blog, in one form or another?
Seizure Me’s “pet name” for my husband continues to evolve over time; indeed, The Dolt is the latest in a string of offensive epithets that he—bless him—seemingly takes in stride. I can’t remember the others off the top of my head (I should really write them down, for posterity’s sake), but I’d go ahead and assume that they were as disparaging as this one is.
“I’m sorry,” I sometimes helplessly offer, trying to stifle laughter the morning after a partial complex seizure while he matter-of-factly reports what I’ve said and done during the postictal phase.
“No need to apologize. You can’t help it.”
And it’s true—I can’t. And yet, it’s hard not to think that Seizure Me’s doing some serious trolling when, confused following a bout of lip smacking and fist clenching, she coldly looks at her husband and says, “Does The Dolt have to sleep in this bed? Can’t The Dolt sleep somewhere else?” Or, pointing at his chest, just in case it wasn’t clear enough that Dolt = him, unequivocally states, “I don’t want to be in the same room as The Dolt, so leave.” You get the picture.
Soon, Seizure Me’ll likely have moved on to a new, more insulting insult. I wish I could shape her into a nicer alter ego; since I can’t, maybe I should take bets on what she’ll come up with next.