For twenty long years, epilepsy had been my constant companion. I had grown used to the unpredictability of my seizures—the sudden falls, the loss of speech, and the days I would spend in a haze, trying to piece together fragments of my own life. Every episode left me vulnerable, dependent on the kindness of others, and painfully aware of my limitations. I had learned to live with the stigma that came with the condition, the whispers behind my back, and the awkward glances from strangers. But nothing had prepared me for the betrayal of those who claimed to be helping me, only to exploit my situation for their own gain.
It began subtly. There were people in my community who offered support, promising assistance with medication, therapy, or even basic daily needs. I welcomed their help, grateful for anyone willing to ease my struggle. But over time, I began to notice inconsistencies—money missing from my account, false claims about my care, and decisions being made on my behalf without my consent. I felt powerless. My trust had been taken for granted, and I realized that some had used my condition to manipulate me, profiting from my vulnerability while offering nothing in return. The sense of violation was overwhelming.…CONTINUE READING
