Sometimes my brain tries to kill me.
It sounds melodramatic, but this is precisely how epilepsy works. It explodes in an electrical storm, and I might die.
Sometimes my brain doesn’t bother with the killing, instead choosing to give me a powerful, reality-bending experience which I am told many pay money to induce.
There are times when I am overwhelmed by a delicious tug of deja vu. It is not nostalgia; nostalgia denotes a painful yearning. For me, it is like a hazy feeling that I had been to this place before in an endless childhood summer; bright sunshine and the smell of cut grass mingle with offices and faceless hotel rooms.
There are times when time distorts itself, and I am falling calmly. A big, shit-eating grin crosses my face.
There are times when I feel entirely at one with nature. I can feel every atom in my body connected with every atom in the universe; I am a child of the stars, made of grass, fleetingly conscious. I am but a small part of something unimaginably huge. I see the fabric of reality and how I am woven in.
Then there are times it intensifies. I hear a sound; a high-pitched squeal, electronic angels singing. A peace descends, a lull before a storm. I know what will happen, I do not care. A big, shit-eating grin crosses my face.
My amygdala joins the party. The peace is replaced by fear, and my chest tightens.
Then there is nothing until I wake up somewhere else, tongue bitten to ribbons. I know that my brain has tried to kill me once again.
It has failed again.
Usually by this point I do not feel much; often I have been pumped full of diazepam which steals emotion.
It has been almost a year since my brain tried to kill me. I am sure it will again. For now, though, I embrace the spkes of altered reality. They are as much a part of me as all of my brain that works.