Forty Minutes I’ll Never Remember

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There are moments in life when you lose control completely, after pushing yourself to the very edge of falling apart.

You can ignore the warnings for months, years even, until something inside you breaks through and says: enough is enough.

For me, it didn’t arrive with madness. There was no explosion or dramatic collapse in the middle of chaos.

It came quietly, in the routine of an ordinary morning. A check-up, a renewal of a prescription. The kind of appointment you forget as soon as it’s over.

But this time, my body decided it had had enough of waiting. It chose that morning to remind me, in no uncertain terms, that I couldn’t keep fighting this way.

And it made sure I would never forget it.

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November 9, 2024 — 9:51 a.m.

It was a regular check-up to renew my prescription. I told myself the medication might help. Maybe it was a placebo. I wanted to believe I could get better. I wanted to convince myself it would work.

November in Sydney is a sweet spot. The air is clear, not a cloud in the sky, and the remnants of winter still brush your hair. You can feel the sun bake on your shoulders, but the breeze stays cool. It is not a sunburnt summer yet. The rain has gone and the sky is open.

This year felt longer than it should have. The middle chapter of a five-year slide into a shell of myself.

Even playing guitar, once the thing that made me feel like I mattered, meant nothing. Where I used to find comfort and reassurance, there was only sadness. I could not even sit with my favourite songs anymore. That’s when you know you’ve checked out. When even the things that made you you go numb.

All this runs through my head on the short walk from the car to the medical centre. It is no more than fifty metres. But fifty metres is enough for fifty thoughts with every step.

I wanted to get better. I also felt this could be my last appointment. Maybe I was here to tick off a to-do. To tell my girlfriend I went to the doctor so she could feel reassured for a moment. I really didn’t care anymore.

10:07 a.m.

“Hey Brian, come on in.”

“Hi, Doctor. Good to see you.”

I start with a lie. I have walked into this room with a glint of hope more times than I can count, and left with more questions than answers.

It is not a typical doctor’s office. The walls hold bright diagrams, notes from patients, little plush toys on the shelves. Cards say “Thank you, Doctor Jessie, for everything.” For these minutes I feel safe. I will not be judged. I can leave the little bit of hope in the room if I need to.

“So how are things, Brian?” she asks.

“They are… fine… you know.”

What else was I going to say. She already knows I am suicidal. She knows I have thought about giving up.

“Okay. That is a good start. Any improvements with your sleep?”

I want to tell her the truth. I slept okay last night. I went to bed at a reasonable time and fell asleep within an hour. It felt like relief. I could have cried myself to sleep, but for a good reason. It was the first time in almost five years I had a good night’s sleep.

I do not say it. If I let that hope grow, I fear it will be snatched away the moment I leave.

“No, not really. Same old. I hardly close my eyes, let alone sleep.”

There is the usual ten-second pause between our words. She wants me to get better. Not because it is her job. Because she cares. My doctor should be paid more. She is part GP, part psychologist, part therapist, part older sister, part friend, part loving mother figure.

She never pushes. She never forces medication. She names my pain as real, and says it is okay to feel like there is no hope. It does not stop her from trying.

“Look, Brian, you drove here, and it is pretty early, so it is a good sign you were able to wake up.”

She is right. And I do not want to let that hope in. I tell myself it will just be ripped away.

This time, it will not be hope that is ripped away.

I often think about how my time would end. If I surrendered to the pain and depression, how would it happen.

Today, I am about to get one answer.

10:47 a.m.

I wake on the floor, on my side. My doctor is on the phone to the ambulance. Three receptionists crouch over me, asking if I am okay. At first I cannot hear much. The world is muffled, like I went underwater for a long minute. My head throbs. There is a bruise next to my right eye. Someone slides a pillow under my head.

After a few minutes I manage, “What the hell happened.”

Jessie keeps her voice calm. She sets a hand on my chest. “Brian, you had a seizure. I want you to stay lying down. The ambulance is on the way. Everything is going to be okay.”

I had a seizure.

Okay.

How.

One moment she was praising me for getting out of bed and driving to the appointment. The next I am on the floor with a black eye. The clock has leaped forty minutes. 10:47 a.m. It makes sense now.

Was I really out for forty minutes.

I hear Jessie on the phone. “Five minutes. Full-body seizure. He did not regain awareness until about forty.”

I had regained consciousness after five minutes but was hysterical and delirious. I hear her call my girlfriend. “I want you to stay calm. Brian has had a seizure, but he is going to be okay. The ambulance is on the way. He knocked his head and he is lying down now.” Then she calls my dad. Rinse and repeat. What a doctor.

My first clear thought is ridiculous.

“Am I going to get a parking ticket. There is only a one-hour limit where I parked.”

For anyone, being told you seized for five minutes, blacked out for forty, and will never regain the memory of that stretch is scary. It is worse when there is no family history of seizures or epilepsy. The strangest part is that, in a way, I expected it.

Not a seizure. A collapse. I knew my body would give in. It finally did. Not enough to destroy me, but enough to tell me I have reached my limit.

I could have seen this as the end of hope. I was alive.

Conscious. In good care. And the clinic got the parking ticket waived.

But here is the truth I could not hide from any more: no test, prescription, or session could fix the one thing I was doing to myself. I was destroying myself, and I knew it.

My life had become a numb chamber. I did the things I used to enjoy but did not enjoy them. I think that is what being a shadow of yourself is. I tried to play my favourite songs again. I did not want to touch the guitar. I thought about selling them.

That night, I wanted to say that everything had hit me and I understood the severity. What I felt first was relief. The seizure stopped me. My body said, If you will not stop, I will do it for you.

I felt guilty for that relief. Guilty for sounding ungrateful. Maybe it was the kind of hope I needed.

I don’t think this was a life-changing day. It might be the day I start changing my life.

Maybe depression had won that round. It did what it set out to do. It broke me down. Its mission was complete.

Now it is my turn to start the fight again. This time, I am going to try to win.

📌 P.S. If this post resonated, would you consider sharing it with a friend?

📹 Check out my latest YouTube video where I talk about the seizure I had:

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