As I fell into a seizure on the bathroom tiles, my stepmother kicked the door open and shouted that I was ‘faking it to avoid chores.’ She had no idea the paramedic’s body cam was already recording when she pulled me by the hair, leaving bruises the camera caught in crystal-clear detail.
I was sitting on the stiff plastic chair in the emergency department of St. Vincent Medical Center when the familiar electric buzzing began behind my eyes. It started small—like static—but within seconds, the world tilted. My hands jerked in my lap. My breath hitched. I knew exactly what was coming.
“Not now,” I murmured, clutching the armrest. But seizures don’t wait for permission.
My mother, Lydia Collins, stood up instantly—not out of concern, but annoyance. “Oh, cut it out, Emily,” she snapped, loud enough for half the waiting room to hear. “You’re not getting special attention today.”
I tried to warn her, tried to say, “Mom, it’s happening,” but the words dissolved into incoherent gasps as the seizure hit full-force. My body stiffened, then jerked uncontrollably as I slid from the chair to the floor.
“What did I tell you about this nonsense?” she barked, grabbing my arm—not gently, not carefully, but with anger. She hauled my limp, convulsing body upward, my head snapping back from the motion. “Get up! People are staring!”
A nurse shouted, “Ma’am, stop! She’s having a seizure!” but my mother ignored her, yanking harder. In the chaos, my forehead slammed against the sharp corner of the metal chair beside us. A flash of pain exploded in my skull, and everything went black.
When I came to, I was in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm, my head wrapped in gauze. The room was cold; the fluorescent lights hummed above me. A doctor, Dr. Aaron Novak, was speaking quietly to someone outside the curtain. I heard my mother’s voice—shrill, defensive.
“I told her she needs to stop this dramatics,” she insisted. “She throws these fits on purpose.”
The curtain slid open, and Dr. Novak entered, his expression tight. “Emily, I’m glad you’re awake. We need to talk.” He looked at my mother. “Both of you.”
My mother crossed her arms, ready to argue, but he held up a hand.
“I reviewed the footage.”
My heart stuttered.
“What footage?” my mother demanded.
“The hospital upgraded to HD security cameras last month.” His eyes hardened. “Everything that happened in the waiting room was recorded.”
For the first time in my life, I watched fear bloom across my mother’s face.
And for the first time in my life, I realized I wasn’t powerless anymore.
The next forty-eight hours unfolded like a slow, inevitable collapse—one my mother had built herself brick by brick.
When Dr. Novak informed her that the hospital was placing a mandatory report to Adult Protective Services for medical neglect and physical abuse, my mother’s first reaction wasn’t remorse, just rage.
“This is ridiculous!” she shouted, pacing around my hospital bed. “You’re twenty-three years old, Emily! You’re an adult, not some helpless child.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Novak said calmly. “She is an adult. And you assaulted her in a medical facility.”
My mother pointed at me. “She pretends to have seizures—”
“I’m literally on anti-seizure medication,” I whispered.
She ignored me, turning back to the doctor. “You don’t know her. She loves attention. She does these little episodes when she’s stressed.”
Dr. Novak’s voice dropped. “The footage shows your daughter collapsing, losing motor control, and hitting her head because you were dragging her during an active seizure. You are lucky she’s alive.”
My mother opened her mouth, but no words came out—just a shaky breath.
That night, the social worker, Karen Delgado, came to my room. She sat at the edge of my bed, a folder in her hands.
“Emily, I want you to understand your options,” she said gently. “You are legally an adult, which means you can choose not to involve your mother in your care moving forward. You can file a restraining order. You can press charges. Or you can simply walk away.”
I thought about it. I thought about twenty-three years of being called dramatic, manipulative, overly emotional. I thought about my mother ignoring my symptoms for years, refusing to let me see specialists, insisting everything was “just anxiety.” I thought about the countless times she told family members that I “liked to act sick.”
My voice trembled when I finally spoke. “I want her out of my life.”
Karen nodded. “Then we’ll help you take the steps.”
The next morning, my mother stormed into my room before the nurses could stop her.
“Are you kidding me?” she shrieked. “A restraining order? Against your own mother?”
I didn’t look away. “You hurt me.”
Her voice cracked. “Because you made me! You were embarrassing me!”
Those words were all I needed to hear.
It wasn’t love. It never had been.
Security escorted her out of the building.
Later that day, Karen brought me copies of the footage—not because I wanted revenge, but because I wanted proof I wasn’t crazy. Proof the world could see what I endured.
When I watched the video, my stomach twisted. Seeing myself seize on the floor, helpless… seeing my mother yank me like I was nothing… seeing my head hit the chair…
I didn’t cry. I just felt something inside me grow stronger, heavier, more solid.
“I’m pressing charges,” I said.
Dr. Novak put a hand on my shoulder. “Good. You deserve protection.”
For the first time, I felt the difference between fear and freedom.
One was a cage I grew up in.
The other was a door I was finally walking through.
When I was discharged three days later, I didn’t go home with my mother. I went instead to my friend Daniel Kim’s apartment—a quiet, clean space above a bookstore in downtown Portland. Daniel had been my classmate in forensic science courses, and when he heard what happened, he texted:
If you need a place to stay, my couch is yours. No questions asked.
The first night, I slept for twelve uninterrupted hours. No screaming. No accusations. No footsteps outside my door.
I woke up feeling something unfamiliar: safety.
Karen helped me file the police report, the restraining order, and the victim statement. Daniel drove me to the courthouse, never asking me to explain more than I wanted to.
Two weeks later, the detective assigned to the case, Detective Marissa Hale, called.
“We’ve reviewed the footage,” she said. “This is clear assault during a medical emergency. The DA’s office wants to move forward.”
My throat tightened. “What does that mean for her?”
“Arrest, arraignment, and likely mandatory counseling. Possibly probation. The injury to your head makes it a stronger case.”
I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or devastated. Maybe both.
My older brother, Chris, called me the same night after hearing from relatives.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to Mom,” he snapped.
“She dragged me during a seizure,” I said calmly.
“You know how she is. She panics.”
“She almost killed me.”
He didn’t respond. He just hung up.
The next morning, the news broke quietly among our extended family: Lydia Collins had been arrested.
I stayed off social media, but the messages still flooded in. Some relatives accused me of betrayal. Others confessed they had witnessed my mother’s cruelty for years and had been too afraid to intervene.
Daniel made hot chocolate and sat with me on the couch while I read the messages.
“You’re not wrong for protecting yourself,” he said softly.
The trial wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t filled with shouting or theatrics. It was straightforward, clinical. The footage played on a large screen, every frame a mirror of the reality I had lived.
My mother didn’t cry. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t look at me at all.
When the judge issued the ruling—one year of probation, mandatory anger management, and a five-year no-contact order—my mother only stiffened her jaw and marched out.
But for me, that moment wasn’t about punishment.
It was about recognition.
Validation.
The quiet, powerful truth that I wasn’t imagining my suffering.
I spent the next months rebuilding my life: regular neurology appointments, a stable medication plan, real friendships, real independence. Daniel eventually became more than a friend—slowly, gently, in a way I never knew relationships could feel.
One evening, as we sat on the fire escape watching the streetlights blink on, he asked, “Do you ever miss her?”
I thought long and hard.
“I miss the idea of a mother,” I said. “But not the woman she actually was.”
For the first time, saying those words didn’t hurt.
They set me free.
