Shame

At 3am last Saturday night I had an epileptic fit in my sleep. It wasn't serious and I don't remember much about it, though I must have made some noise. All I have is the foggy recollection of coming round to find my mum sitting on the corner of my bed, as mothers do when looking after children. I rolled over and went to sleep. I wasn't particularly into the idea of being mothered. As usual, I just wanted to pretend it hadn't happened and move on.

This only happens a couple of times per year. These days it's usually my wife who picks me up off the floor and reminds me what my name is.

It's not that I feel ashamed of my condition. I don't, although when I was a kid it was hard for me to talk about it. But when it happens, it's usually because I've drunk too much the night before and not got enough sleep. So there's an element of responsibility there. Given that I do have some control over the odds and the fact that if I can last a year without having a fit I can learn to drive, I feel something between disappointment, failure and shame - that I've let myself down. If I never drank to excess and never allowed myself to get overtired, I'd be driving within a year, not to mention having far fewer scars on my body.

It's 01:50 as I write. Time to get some sleep.