I'm conscious before I open my eyes.
I lie a moment or two in the dark.
Either I can hear nothing, still zoned out, not quite there, or maybe some worried voices, or a silence of acceptance - she'll come round in a minute.
And I know that when I open my eyes, once I'm with it, we'll share a knowing glance, or I'll have some reassuring to do.
I don't need anything.
Maybe a water.
I tend to know how long I've been out by how rough I feel.
Sometimes, with eyes closed, I'd wish I could be asleep, or transported, or to rewind time. Knowing I'll have to deal with being the one lying on the floor. And the ordeal of sitting up, standing, and working out if I can last the day or if I need to go home, to be asleep.
Once, the worst time, there was light in the darkness. It felt like I was being dragged across the room, fast, and there were flashing lights, like a tunnel. Of course, there weren't. Something was happening. I don't want to know what. I woke to a crowd of faces, and the rehearsal studio lights beaming down on me.
It all feels like a bad dream now, a long time ago. It seems to be over. I don't open my eyes to an audience. I go from dark to light in the comfort of my own space. And I feel just fine. And that feels good.
Written as part of Cassy Fry's DIYCreativeClub challenge.
(Bit of context for those that don't know to make sense of this - I have a condition called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It used to make me pass out, a lot. I'm doing really well these days!)