Death becomes me.

I smile a lot. I'm a pretty happy person. That's what most people think, and I'd like to keep it that way. Its not that I'm never happy. Of course I am - sometimes. A lot of the time. But I am also a human being. An overly- anxious human being. I mean, I worry about everything, all of the time. Mostly, I worry about other people. My work, money and what I'm going to make for supper. I worry about whether my cat has managed to escape and fall into the jaws of the pit bull next door. Again.

I worry about waking up in the morning (or rather, not waking up). A weird one, I know. Or it would be, if I hadn't already come close to dying a few times. I know what it feels like (extremely cold and prickly), tastes like (rusting metal), smells like (sweat and piss). But I've refused to allow it to happen because I've had more important things to take care of. Hold on for a second Death, I have to pay the rent tomorrow. I need to get some groceries. I have washing to do. I have to lay awake and watch Chris's eyes flutter in his sleep.

I have epilepsy. I used to seizure more often than I do now. As a bonus, when I do seizure now, it's a lot more intense. My boyfriend (the aforementioned Chris) says the most frightening part for him is watching the blood drain from my face, turning my lips blue. Yeah, sounds pretty damn scary. The scariest part for me is waking up and not being able to remember a damn thing. And I don't just mean the past few hours. Sometimes I forget the past week. The past month. For someone who needs to be in control of her internal and external environment at all times, losing your memory, even temporarily, is the worst kind of insanity.

I've never told the people I love how scary a seizure is. Losing control of your bodily functions, jerking uncontrollably, making noises that would spur people in the immediate vicinity to call an exorcist. Not fun. When I wake up, I usually want to go right back to sleep again. Or go to work. Or eat, or watch T.V. Something normal, so that my loved ones won't suspect the chilling, entirely morbid thoughts swirling around in my head. Thoughts like- I may never get married, or have babies with Chris's eyes, or see Lindsay and Mark's kids, or watch Diana graduate, or hold my mom again, or have tea with my gran. I may not drink way too much wine with Kerry, or babysit her angel-boy Tallen.

Then I wake up, and a few days later, I realise that I can still do those things. I am grateful. I love my friends. I love my family. I'm not rich, but we eat. I love my job, with all its quirks and difficulties and anxieties and rewards. The reason people seem to think I am happy is because, fuck man, I'm HAPPY. I just have to remind myself from time to time. As should you. You're loved. People love you. If you're reading this, you're breathing. Thank something, whatever it is - God, Buddha, Cthulu, The Flying Spaghetti Monster, that that is the case.