Anything I could do, he could do better... (Article 21 of the history of my epilepsy.)

Anything I could do, he could do better...

Between January 1980 and April 1985, I had my most introverted active period to judge by the quotations I have filed from my primal feelings, dreams and insights during my life. Much of my feelings of shame, associated with my epilepsy, then was washed ashore connected with the painful feelings of inferiority in every possible context. A typical example is a dream I had the night of 7 and 8 December 1981. The dream is about a lad, Bo, with whom I became friends in 1955, and I still keep in touch with. 

It was a mix between a pleasant dream and a nightmare, which was the major part. We were playing to catch up. What was pleasant in the dream was that I moved effortlessly and I felt like one with the wind. However, being the nightmare element, despite my easy mobility,  I was always caught up with, no matter how elaborately I stretched myself and figured out clever solutions and shortcuts behind shrubs and trees. The one I played with was constantly superior to me. Bo was the outstanding during the dream. He was better looking, was physically superior to me (he was an old elite gymnast), had stronger muscles, thick and wavy hair, and he had tanned skin. From an appearance point of view, he could be a dream for any girl. 

He never wanted to lose the game we played whether it was a physical motor or chess. He would always win and I let him, there was nothing else I could do or dared to, as long as I was firm friends with him. Orally, and intellectually I did not feel inferior, which meant I could handle his constant physical supremacy, which was his weapon in our unwritten pact that led him to put up with me. Mentally, I was responsible for the verbal output, the jokes and sarcasms, and my driver behind this production was a general feeling of inferiority, poor physics and restlessness. Add to my appearance and physical inferiority the feeling blow I got when it was found I had epilepsy, with all that it meant in the 1960s macho world not to be accepted by the military forces. For most youths this was a disaster. Most of the friends of Bo, apart from me, are from the military and Gaza services, and so it stays until this day. 

The sense of panic that at times arose in me was the most painful when the male circle began speaking soldier memories. When the surrounding debated military mobilizations I threw myself at full internal mental mobilization to suppress my feelings of not being able to and not being allowed to participate. My head, my mouth and my feet increasingly paralyzed in the same way as in the painful birth process, and I was overwhelmed by anxiety. 

To cope with this annihilation, I shut off myself and sharpened my mental spears which I should be able aggressively to stick out to deal with any questions or imagined potential attacks. No one embarrassed me ever more seriously in such a situation, but it was still just as awful every time a colleague or boss with a title of a reserve officer began talking military memories. I was afraid to be singled out as unskilled and disabled as manager if they knew that I had no officer training and had been eliminated by the military because I had epilepsy. 

All the friends I have sought in my life have had several common features with Bo. Physically superior, with good looks, not very aggressive and I have imagined that I was smarter and through verbal intellectual fantasies and jokes, I have kept myself afloat together with them. My father gave me the same feeling of not being easily duplicated. He was muscular, powerful arms, and he had a thick blue-black hair. Add to this that he had, by all admired, blue eyes and had school reports, which were full of top scores. 

This man never had time for me, for my sake, just when he should ever criticize me, educate me or put me to work in the garden or in any other context. He was impossible to compete with, and he engraved a deep insecurity, which I only now understand that this lack of contact and trust turned to a feeling of being uncertain and afraid. I have for 40 years fought to avoid feeling the pain of my father's lack of positive attention. My brain has found endless escape routes, stenosis and fantasies to avoid feeling pain. In this way, my mother had a relatively grateful task to dominate me. She could never replace my father but in her own way she pushed me forward, as if it was obvious that I would manage without the help of a father. 

My whole life I've been using every fiber of my body, every ounce of power in my veins to survive and fight while most of my peers and friends have been able to live and were alien to me in their lifestyles, attitudes, tastes and objectives. I have missed a lot and have not always understood or been understood by my closest, but I have not departed from my inner convictions for 40 years. It feels like some compensation to know that my human evolutionary system, my instinct, has “wanted my best” when my parents could not manage. I am, nevertheless, pleased with what so far has been made available to me with insights into my life. I have made many mistakes and errors but had the good luck that they gradually have turned positive and proved to be useful when I eventually reached an understanding with my life. 

When there is pain, there are no words. All pain is the same. 

Toni Morrison