Chris Fletcher

After the Fit

The world, cold and silent as my eyes open for the first time,
The sensation of pain creeps slowly across my body,
My eyes flicker as the blood cries out for recognition,
Finally it registers and I lift my heavy body from the gravel,
My legs, weak and unstable falter while I stumble carelessly,
A strong arm emerges from the darkness and pulls me straight,
The words he aims at me float by without stopping to be heard,
English is such a hard language to understand, after the fit.

Sadness prevails as I desperately claw for anything to remember,
For the hardest things about epilepsy to accept, or explain
Is the pain in answering the first and hardest question you ask,
What is your name? the question I hate, What is your name?,
Words glide round my head until my mind is a patchwork of names,
The asker smiles and leans back, I feel beaten and destroyed again,
My mouth stutters and stumbles, restarts and repeats,
English is such a hard language to speak, after the fit.

No need for an ambulance I cry, but the words are dead before he hears,
The van arrives and I am eased in with the greatest of care,
Smiles surround me, and they wrap me up like meat for the market,
I feel guilty and still confused, I am intelligent and yet know nothing,
Monday morning and I feel worried for I know what will follow,
The taunts and names that persist do hurt more than sticks and stones,
My friends disown and hate me, after all I am the epileptic,
The English children are so hard to live with after the fit.

Chris Fletcher

These are the feelings of a scared little boy at school, I would love to read insights into your highs and lows, I love the passion that emerges when you start to write or draw when it is personal to you.

Chris Fletcher
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