Seizure, Stutter, Shit

It takes decades of bad trips to get the malformed brain I was born with. I have epilepsy and stutter, shake, twitch and speak in tongues. Curtailing these nasties takes many drugs with fancy names. Some are glee inducers. Most aren't.

Epilepsy

(pink, octagonal pills)

Every couple of years, I check myself into the hospital for about a week. I surrender my meds, put on pajamas, get electrode leads super-glued to my head and stabbed into my cheeks and stay in a room with a microphone and closed-circuit camera overhead. The point: to record a seizure. "We could possibly even cure you!" said one optimistic member of my crack team of headcases.

I have partial epilepsy of the right parietal lobe, which controls verbal-visual memory. This means that I stutter and that my short-term memory is shot. But I already knew that. The lesion on the lobe, my doctors suggest, is the culprit.

The last time I went through this, I spent most of my four nights of prescribed sleep deprivation disappearing into the corner and counting the seconds before the nurse ran in, arms flailing and out of breath, to ask if I was all right. It broke the monotony of video games I'd already beaten and movies I'd already seen.

Then came two days of cognitive and motor batteries. For one, I rattled off as many vegetables as I could in five minutes. . "If two shirts costs $14.60, how much will 12 shirts cost?" I took tests with names like the Mini-Mental State Exam and the Kohs Block Design Test.

"How the fuck do I know? I'm never gonna buy that many shirts at once."

After six days without a seizure, I was released and prescribed leviracetam. While on it, I organized the books and newspapers atop my toilet according to size, weight and title. Then I rushed into the kitchen to wash dishes. The next time I saw my neurologist, I demanded a new antiepileptic. I have more seizures now.

Stuttering

(blue, round pills)

"Thanks for calling AT&T Wireless. My name is Anthony. What can I help you with?" He was supposed to help me find my FedEx-delayed cell phone. I had been putting off this call all morning.

"Ahh?umm?umm." I was grasping for air. My neck muscles twitched. "I n-n-n-nee-nee?da?"

"Dontcha' know howta' talk?"

"Actually, I do. I have a st-stutter, OK?"

"I'm sorry sir. So sorry. How can I help you?"

"Ahh?umm?umm. I ne?n-n-n-nee-nee?da...da?"

"Will you please say something? Learn to speak, sir." When I was about seven, I realized that I didn't stutter when I cussed.

"Listen, Tony. I have a stutter. You got that? So fuckin' act like an adult. I expect this shit from children," like the kids in my sixth grade class in Pu-Pu-Puert-t-to Puerto Ric-c-c-co-Rico.

"I want to speak to your manager."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't. It's company policy."

"Company policy? You're joking, right?"

"I can transfer you to our Grievance and Restitution Department."

"Thanks for calling AT&T Wireless. My name is Maria. What can I help you with?" Maria refused to send me proof of Anthony's punishment, again citing company policy. I was sure my citalopram (for anxiety) was a major factor in this stuttering fit. "I think mirtazepine will do the trick," my neuropsychiatrist told me.

General Anxiety Disorder

(brown, elliptical pills)

Mirtazepine did the trick. I wasn't spazzing out on the subway, yelling at yuppies. I wasn't cryogenically frozen on the couch.

And I wasn't always horny. I no longer had midday boners that kept me behind my desk at work, nor was I going to the can to pull one off.

My gastrointestinal tract, though, got the juice my libido lost. I thought not eating would inhibit this effect. Nope.

On a weekend afternoon walking back from the pharmacy with my meds, my bowels gurgled. I picked up my pace, tried to control my breathing and reach my apartment before the involuntary evacuation. One last gurgle reverberated. I was only a block away now; no sense running.

In the bathroom, I surveyed the damage. Brown, chunky gravy was spread thin on the seat of my jeans. Some had even seeped through. I wiped myself, threw the jeans in a thick, black garbage bag and showered.

Pill regimens-and side effects-come and go, but none of this is curable. I'm supposed to just say no: no alcohol, no cigarettes, no nothing. But I am not a monk confined to his cell. I am a man hell-bent on better living through better chemistry.