The first place I could ever formally name my odd reaction to light was in an office at the local neurological center. The words petit mal epilepsy (absence seizures) were almost comforting because they sounded so official, despite the fact that it was an affliction and, yes, it was afflicting me. At least my vocabulary for seizures expanded beyond crazy trips to Nowhere Land I take while riding a bus, while flipping on the trampoline, etc. I also knew that in older novels, characters with epilepsy were considered to be possessed.

I remember watching my mother sitting quietly in the corner of the doctor’s office that day, two years ago. I could see her face vanishing and reappearing as the doctor’s white-sleeved arm bent and extended over my face. He was moving my limbs around, checking for flexibility. After about two minutes of this air-Twister, he reviewed my scores on the EEG and MRI tests I had taken earlier that month. He said, “These scores verify that you have epilepsy. People with absence seizures are typically physically disabled.”

My mother’s eyes darted to me, her darling child, who was suddenly disabled. My own 16-year-old eyes seared into the doctor’s as he scrolled over the test scores in his hand. He must have caught on to my mother’s hyperventilating and my lack of breathing because he blurted out, “Oh, no, you’re not disabled! That’s why it’s so strange that you have this kind of epilepsy!”

Misunderstandings like this, with general people and professionals alike, have always been a part of dealing with absence seizures. I mean, consider what the characters in those novels had to put up with! A lot of misunderstandings are unavoidable, even in an open-minded society free of harsh labels like possession.

Following that adrenaline-rush-day of diagnosis, however, the effort to make people understand became tiring, especially when many people would mistake it for a mental instability. My story tapered down from a grand, elaborate explanation of the disorder—that would make any neurologist swoon from my knowledge of scientific terms—to a curt, “It’s what happens when the sunlight hits my eyes.” Developing patience was a part of growing up, despite how inadequate I felt at first from having the disorder.

So what are absence seizures, according to a person who experiences them firsthand? To all the people who ever sat next to me on a sunny day on the school bus, they were what you mistook for disinterest when I rolled my eyes and turned my head away from you as you spoke to me. To the people who have marched beside me in band, they were what made me drop the slide of my trombone to the ground. To all of the people who have the condition and may be confused and frustrated with all the complex terms they hear from their doctors, absence seizures are a test. Not a three-letter acronym test like the SAT. Not even a test that can measure things other people can read off a paper and tell you their meaning.

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The Awkward Age can be a transforming era in life that involves temporarily morphing into some kind of reptile—internally or externally. By the time I made it to the neurologist’s office, I was already a turtle: an introvert who retreated behind a hard shell. However, the antiseizure medications I was taking transformed me into a Teenage Mutant Neuro-Turtle—in some ways they empowered me, but in others, I was still abnormal. For instance, the first medication did nothing to remove my seizures, even though my doctor and I agreed to increase my dosage every two months if nothing happened. The most the medication did remove was the hair from my head and my normal bodily functions. I apologize for the disturbing images—if they disturb you—but that’s the truth. It’s worth knowing that it’s never wrong to approach your doctor if you don’t agree with the medicine he prescribes for you.

After a year of deteriorating on the first medication, I decided to switch to a different one. The second flux of pills was excellent in taking care of seizures, but it made me irritable, unhappy and antisocial. It wasn’t  righteous,” as a fellow Neuro-Turtle would say. My family tiptoed around me. I got the hint that things were wrong with me behaviorally when it came time to decorate for Christmas. I couldn’t enjoy even that. If there’s ever a time when you’re about to implode at the thought of stringing tinsel and making cookies, something needs to be checked out. And let me warn any readers who may be frustrated with the side effects of their current prescription: scrapping a medicine cold-turkey is not the right thing to do, no matter how much better off you think you’ll be without it. When I threw my pills away on Christmas Day, as a little gift to myself, I did not realize that I was putting myself at risk for a tonic-clonic seizure, the type of seizure I’d been fortunate enough to never experience. It may seem like this warning is obvious, but us Neuro-Turtles understand that sometimes a person is willing to do anything to get rid of something they don’t want in their system.

I think that in the two years since my diagnosis of epilepsy I am closer to the people who do understand the person, even if they cannot understand the condition. I still get questions like, “Can you babysit tomorrow night or would your seizures make that difficult?” from my mother, but I don’t take it personally. I’ve learned that another way to define absence seizures is that it is not me.

Despite all social misunderstandings and inconveniences involved with having epilepsy, I am stronger than my condition; it will not tie me down. Epilepsy complicates transportation for me, and it makes conversations board the bus difficult, but it will not hinder me from boarding that bus and getting to where I need to be. I move on, further and further in my life, despite the recurrent trips to Nowhere Land on the way. The closest I can come to describing the act of passing your own test would be through the words of the poet e.e. cummings: Strengths of determination are those “which I cannot touch because they are too near.”

I want to go to college to write and to study psychology. It is ironic that I yearn for insight on the mind when I suffer from a condition that can prevent mental functioning or focus. To counter my neurological adversity, I’ve doubled up on a prescription medication and purchased polarized blue sunglasses made especially for seizure prevention.

Kowabunga, dude.

-Cassie Hall