I spent 8 hours in hospital on Tuesday for having a seizure. They found no cause, and I was useless because I remembered nothing about it. It was like the blink of an eye: I was reading my phone, then suddenly my dad was standing in my room looking at me in horror.

“You just had a fit,” he stammered at my blank expression, before calling an ambulance.

How could I have a fit – a stereotypical epileptic fit from what I looked up later on – and have no memory of it? All I felt was tired and my mouth felt numb. Nobody in my family is epileptic. This made no sense whatsoever.

It happened. And after eight hours, bloods, chest x-ray and a CT scan (had that yesterday), nobody knows why. I suppose there’s a “life comes at you pretty fast” joke in here somewhere, but mostly…I’m scared. Did I cause this with my admittedly not exactly clean living life? Is it finally time for, to quote my favourite novel, “the momentum of change” to begin?

I don’t know. I’m the sort who acts fairly blasé about the idea of my death, but death is still a frightening concept even to the most suicidal.

I don’t know where I want to go from here. But I don’t want to stay here.