Zgodba o epilesiji - Epileptic Brain Poem

Apilepsin as a mentol bonbon (mint candy)   (Lačni Franz 1996)   »Bonbons" (natrium valproate) : I eat them as from a conveyor belt. My thinking tranforms itself into a pathological solution-seeking. How come I can not tame the brain, why is it more and more my predator?  Epi activity grows. The sweetnes of the bonbons has tricked me and drags me to the increasingly desired remote green-ness of the desert.  Apilepsin (valproates class) would almost calm me. Does not work. I flung the pills into the bathroom wall.  Everybody hurts

Apilepsin kot mentol bonbon (Lačni Franz 1996 ) »Bonbone« (natrijev valproat)   jem kot po tekočem traku. Moje razmišljanje se spreminja v bolestno iskanje rešitev. Čemu ne morem ukrotiti možganov, zakaj vedno bolj postajajo moj naravni sovražnik?! Epi dejavnost se stopnjuje. Sladkost bonbonov me je izigrala in me vleče v  vedno bolj odmaknjeno želeno zelenost puščave. Apilepsin (skupina valproatov) bi me naj pomiril. Ne gre. Tablete sem zalučala v kopalnično steno. Everybody hurts

Let’s start with … Homerus "Blind is he, who sings to us.." (F.Prešeren, Glosa) The desired study was changing into a nightmare. The irony of the insight, how I should playout the epileptic axioma and carry out part of the study obligations, was materializing itself. Ego versus alter ego. The first one did not allow a way out, the second one realized, that there is nothing other, but a way out. Exit … One will need to choose a path that does not exist. The illness takes a toll, one after another … My parents want surgery, even if there is nothing that can be operated on. But at least they would do something, it would not be like in “Mesto Goga”, where everyone was just waiting for something to happen. The narrow prism through which they see me know is different, not positive at all, and creepily painful. One needs to go pass that, one needs to go away… Rare friends persist, the discourse becomes small talk, ‘love’ does not underst

»Slep je, kdor se s petjam vkvarja«…   (F.Prešeren, Glosa)   Željena edukacija se je spreminjala v moro. Ironičnost uvida, kako bi naj izigrala epileptične aksiome in ostala del študijskih obligacij, je postajala vse bolj oprijemljiva.   Ego versus alter ego. Prvi mi ni dovoljeval izhoda, drugemu je bilo jasno, da ni drugega kot izhod. Exit… Treba bo izbrati pot, ki je ni. Bolezen pobira davek za davkom… Starši želijo operacijo, čeprav ni ničesar, kar bi lahko operirali. Ampak vsaj nekaj bi naredili, da ne bi bilo kot v »Mestu Gogi«, kjer so vsi samo čakali, da se nekaj zgodi. Ozka prizma skozi katero me vidijo sedaj, je drugačna, nič pozitivna, je srhljivo boleča. Treba je nekako mimo tega, treba je stran... Redki prijatelji o(b)stanejo, diskurz se prelevi v »small talk«, »ljubezen« ne razume in to se mi v drobovje zapiše kot najbolj neverjetna stvarnost, ki je povezana z epilepsijo. Prekinem študij v upanju, da ga morda nekoč nadaljujem. Odsvetujejo mi otrok

A handful of hope It seems illness is not shared democratically, finally every individual experiences, how something was given and how taken away. I sit in the enormous hallway of the Faculty. My back is supported by a large glass construction. I don’t feel the cold, I only observe the shiver of the palms, where study literature rests. Two thousand pages and some more. I would rather read “For whom the bell tolls”. Arbor vitae (the tree of life – the cerebellum) is loosing control over coordination in my body. The muscles contract in their own way, their time-table is unpredictable. Pain in the abdomen is sharp, the colour of my face is somewhere between the fifty shades of green. I feel a touch on my shoulder – a professor addresses me, worryingly: “Facies gastrica”, right? (the face of a patient with a ulcer). I nod without any expression. He squeezes my shoulder even more strongly and leaves without a word, probably thinking I am worried about the exam. B

Zdi se, da se bolezen ne razporeja demokratično, a v končni fazi vsak posameznik zelo dobro občuti, kako mu je nekaj dano in nekaj odvzeto.  Sedim v ogromni avli fakultete. Hrbet mi podpira ogromna steklena konstrukcija. Hladu ne čutim, opazujem le drget dlani, na katerih počiva strokovna literatura. Dva tisoč strani in še nekaj zraven. Raje bi brala »Komu zvoni«.  Arbor vitae (Drevo življenja – opp. Mali možgani) izgublja nadzor nad koordinacijo v mojem telesu. Mišice se krčijo po svoje, njihova časovnica je nepredvidljiva.  Bolečine v želodcu so rezke, barva mojega obraza je ulovljena med petdesetimi odtenki zelene. Na ramenu začutim dotik – profesor me zaskrbljeno nagovori: »Facies gastrica«, mar ne? (obraz bolnika z ulkusom na želodcu). Brezizrazno prikimam. Še močneje me stisne za ramo in nemo odide, najbrž z mislijo, da me skrbi izpit. A ni knjiga s tisočerimi listi, ni strah pred preizkušnjo mojega znanja, v meni se sesuvajo sanje.   Navodilo pacientu z e

The weeds of the past and the dangerous liaisons of the future An afternoon in late August. A German Shepard accompanies me and protects me – against my own shadow. We walk on the cut grass of the fields nearby. I stop infront of a haystack. I lay down. Grass… Someone should love me. I think of my translations of songs of Balašević. I was still a kid. The translations were clumsy, English was stiff, but I understood the verses more than I should. Abnormal EEG confirmed the diagnosis. Epilepsy. Now, I don’t translate love songs anymore, I monitor absences, periods of being absent, amnesia, tiredness and the characteristics of the first grand mal (generalized clonic-tonic seizure). And then comes love – how should I … I shouldn’t and I can’t be selfish enough, to expose somebody to this pain, this undefined imprint of the shoes in the future, this confused power game, when the closest are lost in the art of love, because in their eyes I became another person and a person

Pozno avgustovsko popoldne.   Nemški ovčar me spremlja in varuje – pred lastno senco. Hodiva po pokošeni travi bližnjih travnikov.   Zastanem pred kopico sena. Zleknem se. Trave...Nekdo me mora imeti rad. Razmišljam o svojih prevodih Balaševićevih balad. Bila sem še otrok. Prevodi so bili okorni, angleščina trda, a sem stihe še predobro razumela.   Abnormen EEG je potrdil napotno diagnozo.   Epilepsija. Zdaj več ne prevajam balad, zapisujem odsotnosti, obdobja zamračenosti, amnezije, utrujenosti in značilnosti prvega velikega epileptičnega napada ali »grand mal« napada. ( generalizirani klonično – tonični napadi) In vmes ljubezen – kako naj... Ne smem in ne zmorem sebičnosti, da bi nekoga izpostavila tej bolečini, temu neodločnemu odtisu čevljev v prihodnosti, tej zmedeni igri moči, ko se najbližji izgubljajo v umetnosti ljubezni, ker sem v njihovih očeh postala drug človek in oseba z drugačno ljubeznijo. Nihče ne razume mojega strahu – samo ena oseba,