Can we talk about the nightmare that happens after a seizure, and how it effects our relationships? (The post-ictal crash)

I just need to vent, because being on either side of this illness is completely exhausting. Everyone talks about the physical danger of epilepsy, but nobody talks about the raw resentment, confusion, and walking on eggshells that happens between the seizures.

A few days ago, I had a grand mal. Afterward, the immediate physical emergency was over, and my boyfriend did exactly what a caring partner is supposed to do—he hugged me, made me dinner, and took care of me. But a few hours later, the post-ictal chemical crash hit me like a brick, and I was crying off and on all day. I felt so incredibly low and depressed and while technically I knew it was my awful brain chemistry after the crash, it didn't help.

Because my seizures have increased lately, I’ve had to step back from my job and apply for disability to give my health a financial breather. While trapped in this dark, hopeless mental state, I asked him a heavy question that was clawing at my mind: "Would you be okay with me being on disability forever if I can't make a living outside of it, or do you want to leave?"

He immediately got deeply upset, told me I was self-sabotaging, and asked if I was pushing him away intentionally and wanted him to leave. It felt like a total slap in the face after taking care of me like he always does in a medical emergency.

Yesterday I finally realized we aren't actually fighting each other—we are both just taking the emotional shrapnel of a category 5 electrical storm.

I have temporal lobe epilepsy, which I know many of you probably do to, and it tears right through the limbic system (the amygdala and hippocampus), which is the command center for emotion and fear. The storm completely drains the brain's supply of serotonin and dopamine, causing a temporary medical state called post-ictal dysphoria. When I ask those hopeless questions, I'm looking through a broken chemical lens; I'm not trying to manipulate him, I'm just drowning in a 48-hour chemical panic because I’re terrified of being a burden.

This chemistry isn't an excuse, but it is an explanation.

Meanwhile, he is dealing with a massive adrenaline hangover. Watching someone you love lose control of their body puts the caregiver into high-alert survival mode. When he’s suddenly met with my absolute despair right after, his own fear for our financial safety spikes—and that fear masquerades as anger and frustration.

To stop the cycle, we are implementing a strict rule: An absolute 48-hour lockdown on heavy topics after a seizure. No talking about career changes, no navigating financial issues, and no evaluating the relationship. We have to start treating the emotional darkness exactly like the physical shaking—as a medical symptom, not a character flaw.

Does anyone else experience this exact post-seizure relationship fracture? How do you and your partners handle the invisible chemical fallout without tearing each other apart?