I woke up on the floor of my dorm room with a group of people surrounding me.

I tried to stand.

Why is everyone staring?

The nurse pushed me back on the floor.

I blacked out again.

I woke up inside of an ambulance with an oxygen mask on.

The paramedic said, "this may pinch," as he pierced my arm with an IV.

But I didn't feel anything. My body felt completely numb.

I blacked out again.

I woke up getting rushed through hospital doors.

I blacked out again.

I woke up in a hospital room.

The doctor asked me a series of general questions...

But I struggled to remember my name, let alone how to say it.

From this hospital room, I was wheeled into another. My parents walked in. I was so confused. My eyes analyzed what was going on around me. I tried to act as "me" as I could. As I came back to reality, my body was sore and my tongue was very badly bitten on the side. I knew what had happened.

After a series of tests, they said the results would be back within a week. I bravely went back to boarding school. Somehow, I was unafraid of what my body may do next. I continued on as I had before. After school, I was in the field house working out for the upcoming basketball season when I received a call from my dad. I could tell by the tremor in his voice and the way that he told me to find somewhere I could be alone, that he had the diagnosis. He told me what I had already known. I had epilepsy. He kept apologizing. I held back my emotion on the phone. I wanted him to know that I was okay. We hung up and I held myself as I cried on the bathroom floor.

I knew my life had changed.

The following weeks were filled with tests, doctors, and medicine. The doctor's appointments revolved around the caution of anxiety and depression that oftentimes accompany epilepsy. He prescribed me an epileptic medication with the warning that the next few weeks of my life would be hell. And they were. With each dose of medicine, my stomach burned. Shortly after I would throw up. Again and again. I was exhausted. My appetite was gone. I slept through classes.

I threw up most mornings. If I didn't, it was a good day. My hands still shook, even with the medication. They sometimes shook so strongly that I couldn't button my shirt, tie my shoes, put on makeup, or do my hair. But no one knew. I remember the morning of picture day, my hands shook so strongly that I couldn't even remotely get myself together. So I choked back tears and pulled my hair up. I was greeted with odd looks and people reminding me that it was picture day.

I knew that, thank you.

Two years later, after a week long battle with the flu, I couldn't get my medication to stay down. Epilepsy took my body away from me again. I don't even remember when I woke. I only remember seeing my headmaster outside of my dorm as I was rushed toward another ambulance. It was as if my body stripped my head and my conscious, it took my feelings and put them to rest. It detached my body away from me. It took away the hurt. The only recollection I have of the event is what my parents told me and what I felt in the aftermath. My body left my mind in the middle of a sentence. In the middle of a sentence, I was gone. I was seizing so tightly that I did permanent damage to my jaw. I was locked for so long that my body turned blue because I could no longer breathe. That was when my dad picked me up to perform CPR. When he picked me up, I took in a big breath of air.

It was as if I knew I was safe.

Two months following that, I was in a state of status migrainosis and status epilepticus. I could no longer walk or talk. I couldn't write. I couldn't shower. I couldn't stand touch. I could only think. The thoughts that began to cloud my mind were memories of childhood. Memories where worry didn't exist.

Back to reality... I vomited everything I tried to eat. I vomited while I rode in a car. I vomited just because. I cried. Every single night I cried. It was three months later, multiple ICU stays later, and countless, painful, tests later that they found out what was wrong. My recovery time was expected to be double the time that I was ill. They cautioned my parents that I would more than likely not return to the function or personality I had before. But look at me now.

Within that three month time-frame, I missed softball season. I was in the middle of deciding where I would sign for college. I missed senior prom, senior week, senior events. I missed everything. I had to sit off to the side at graduation and be assisted to receive my diploma. But what I missed the most was seeing my friends every day. Being in school. Feeling normal.

Over a year following that, I was placed in a neurology unit in Pittsburgh. I stayed there one week of the two that I was booked to stay. My parents weren't allowed to stay at night. With an EEG connected to my head and video monitoring me, the goal was for me to have another seizure. I was taken off of my medicine. Cut totally off. I cried in the arms of a doctor at the thought of losing myself again. I wasn't allowed to walk without a nurse, I couldn't shower, I got shots in my stomach every day and fluids through an IV. So my parents spent their days there to keep me company. My mom brought washcloths to clean my skin. They kept me sane. The days that I spent on no medicine were some of the hardest days I've had to push through. My body was going through withdrawal. Headaches and vomiting were a daily occurrence. Strobe lights and breathing exercises meant to induce seizures were also on the daily menu. I stayed strong until I could no longer choke back my tears. After a week, I left the hospital on a new medicine that no longer burned my stomach and no longer let my hands shake.

Fast forward two and a half years later to the present.

I struggle every day. Some days I struggle to wake up. Others I may only sit through half of a class. I may go out with friends, only to return 30 minutes later. But some days are good days. Those days give me hope to keep fighting. I've tried multiple medications while remaining in school. The things I experience daily, I would never wish on anyone. Seizures happen all the time. One could be happening as I type this. They don't always cause you to go unconscious. They slow your thinking or they make you throw up or they blur your vision or they confuse you. They make your heart race and they throw off your balance. They make you cry.

Epilepsy is something that I've struggled with greatly. It has been at points, something that I'm ashamed of. I've accepted myself for who I am, however, that doesn't mean others will. But the reality is that I am myself before I am epileptic. I have had to make sacrifices that no 15-year-old girl should have had to make or an 18-year-old girl should have to make or a 22-year-old woman should ever have to even consider. I juggle school and doctor appointments. I battle needles and EEGs in between exams. I've experienced people that are less than considerate; ignorant people. It's something that's made me strong. Epilepsy isn't something for the weak. We fight every single day.

I can't help but be thankful for what it has done with me. I've learned things and saw things and felt things I never would have before. It has turned me into a compassionate person that respects all battles, not just my own. It has made me a more vulnerable and emotional person. It has taught me that it's okay to be that person. It has taught me to love deeper and be thankful for every single second of good health. For those that don't know, epilepsy is a disorder in which nerve cell activity in the brain is disturbed. It does not affect who we are. What we can become. It does not affect appearance. It does not take away intelligence or passion. It should not be something that people keep tucked away in the corner. This is the most honest, transparent, and stripped down version of who I am... And I am finally okay with it.

Every single human on this planet has a story, here's just a page out of mine.