Post-traumatic Convulsive Disorder by David Caston

I would like to thank you for the  useful information on this site. I am 38 years old. On Nov.21, 1995 I fell two stories from an extension ladder. I suffered a traumatic brain injury. I woke up from the coma 2 weeks later in a hospital. Ten months later I had my first seizure, grand mal. I was prescribed Dilantin, and I had a bad reaction to this mind-altering drug. My blood test showed that I was at a toxic level. I was put back in a hospitalto come down from this toxic drug, and my prescription was changed to Tegretol.. Worried about the toxicity of these drugs, and what a life time of taking them would do to me, and not having seizures for a while, I decided to wean myself from them. I did fine until I stopped smoking marijuana.  The last three seizures happened when I hadnít smoked marijuana for a few days. I was sure of this after the third one. (just a couple of months ago). I thought it was some new theory that I came up with. I was ignorant of the fact that this has been studied.

"Always," says marcel stripping one off. "Don't forget to go to the members meeting. I didn't see you at the last one."

Gordon slips out of the curtains, to the relief of those still waiting in chairs, and separates the thick heavy curtains of the smoking room. Inside the well lit room the stereo is playing classic rock tunes and member #1 is sitting at table across from the Spanish dude who's examining the chess board. Gordon seats himself at the coffee table and asks the East Indian lady for her scissors so he can roll up the tight dark green bud which is riddled with fine red hairs and has aroma of a primordial forest. The resident philosopher has taken up the big comfy chair and is proposing an Internet site where people can petition their government for legalization.

"Not a bad idea," says member #1. "But we cant even get people to make it to the meetings. What we need is some people who are going to get off their ass and do something."

Just then the curtains parted and the tall blond guy rolls in a chair, with their old buddy, who though he is now staying in a hospice, still wanted to come out and be with his friends. He is still the life of the party. He gestures for his other friend with the green, green, eyes, to roll a joint for him as he has lost control of his limbs, and nods for it to be passed to Gordon. The guy with the cane comes in and rolls some indica, he is really in pain, and every movement stiff. Then suddenly the Reki Massage lady and the Herbalist come looking for their twelve o'clock appointments.

Gordon rousts himself from the intimacy of the small group and after checking the free clothes bin headed for the front doors. There sitting on the window sill, intent upon reading through some papers, is David Malmo Levine, whom Gordon had seen making a speech at the Cannabis Day rally. The young activist is facing trafficking charges yet continues to work for the cause busying himself with writing and getting the message out that we need not have this 'reefer madness' mentality.

"The war on drugs should not even be against us! Here is a harmless herb, a weed, even, that's bringing so much relief in a myriad of different ways," Gordon considered to himself. "People, some people, are standing up to be counted, fighting stigma and taking the risk for those too lame to stand up for themselves." Gordon had to stop to ask to shake David's hand.

As he got on the bus going back he knew that he was going to be alright, that the compassion club was going to be there, that he didn't have to be ill anymore, and that he had friends.