The Switch

Bro
I’m really pissed at how you’ve handled life Mr. Weaver. Essentially, you let one bad decision turn into many, and it seems you’re beginning to fold under the pressure at this point. Your kids need you, you must do better and you mustn’t let any of the hurdles set before you continue to cripple you. God has you here for a reason, and as long as you’re alive, this is something that you must understand. And in being here, you have a duty that you will and must uphold.
I love when it rains. It’s the only time I feel safe, despite the conditions being a little bit more dangerous. I’ve always felt this way— the worse the weather, the safer I felt. A beautiful sunny day is a nightmare waiting to happen.
Most of my traumas in life have taken place on beautiful sunny days, I’m talking the type of stuff that hits you so hard that it shifts your personality and how you think.
Like a seizure. The first time I passed out from a seizure, I was 12 years old, and this begins the moment of separation between who I am today and who I was at that moment.
Prior to me passing out— I was an honor roll student with a wild imagination who liked to read books. In that moment— I remember laughing, joyously, it felt like a dream to be at the movie theater on a beautiful sunny day. It was rare for me to be able to go somewhere, and there I was— out with my mom and my 2 younger brothers. Cameron was 7 if I was 12, so I didn’t want to watch the kid’s movie. I wanted to see “Friday” by Ice Cube. I had been the only person in my classes who had never saw it. It’s all everyone talked about at lunch.
A few minutes into the movie—I remember thinking for the first time ever— wow what an adventure I’m watching— me living in a small town, I would never have had access to that experience if not for them making the movie. The movie was really good, I was impressed only a few minutes in— but a few minutes is all I remember of the movie. I woke up in the back of an ambulance, staring at the movie theater and into my mom’s teary face.
As soon as I regained consciousness, i expressed concern for her. “Mom what’s wrong? What happened?”
“You passed out, and we called the ambulance just lay down and relax you’re going to be ok.”
“Why did I pass out Mom?”
The only other memory is of a hand press me back as I was attempting to sit up, and then I passed out again on the way to the hospital.
Before that moment— I was more normal. Normal meaning—before 12, I’d taken Knives to school thinking I could impress certain people and finally have a friend, but that was kindergarten. I’d accepted that I would have no friends, and hadn’t gotten into trouble afterwards.
After the seizure and to this day— for the past 30 years— I always wondered why any time I was faced with the option to make the right decision, it seems I make the wrong decision automatically, as if programmed to do so. As if I was born to be wrong, a burden, a glitch. And maybe if I share them here, someone else out there might feel a little less alone in their own glitches.