A mother's daughter relationship with anxiety and epilepsy

This past week, I have failed to fathom the inexcusable anxiety in my life. Last night my mother suffered a mild seizure and was rushed to the hospital by my paranoid father as well as myself. Prior to the incident, I had a vociferous argument with my mother, over the consumption of anti depressants and anti anxiety pills. I seem to dimly doubt my mothers conviction that these pills were dangerous and I should not engage in any idea of taking them. In between trying to let my mother know, the seriousness of my condition and the influence that external pressures exerted on me, I insinuated that she lacked serious psychological capacity to judge the effects of medicine. My accusations against my mother were deeply harsh and neither of us deliberated what we communicated and we were embroiled in an abysmal battle, configuring the negative and ontological aspects of each other's identity. My mother was raised in a lower middle class society in Apartheid South Africa and the benefits of tertiary education were never really endowed upon her, until her mid twenties. Her traditional upbringing, concomitant with values of family, marriage, children, respect for elders and cultural tradition, has made it difficult for me to anchor in any level of acquiecence for another form of inexorable transgressions. Reluctantly, and more often out of respect and integrity, I subtly entice my mother into mainstream feminist ideology, and she becomes incessantly exhausted. After a prolonged argument with my mother, and a severe politics of comparison, I agreed that I would no longer personalize my relations with her. Bluntly I said that I was capitulating on her friendship and her motherhood and our relations would not exceed beyond bill paying and polite small talk. To which my mother plausibly and with a breathe of fresh air concurred.
After some time, my mother was in a state of severity, she was incapacitated and unable to judge her own condition, even under her seizure, with her eyes wide open, she could not hear myself or my father speak and it was an incredibly arduous task getting her to the nearest hospital. I insisted that I should be the driver as my father, in his usual over reactive and pugnacious behaviour was in no manner capable of driving my mother to a hospital.
Along the way and repeatedly I kept thinking as to how much of this dilemma was really my fault and I even implied to the psychiatric nurse that I was the one responsible for this. Dangling the bottle of Celexa in my Bard College Sweater, the night seemed to be surprisingly bitterly cold, for an African Summer, I was confused as to what had transpired and what really triggered this reaction. My mother had been diagnosed with epilepsy since the age of 18, however not in the last 12 years, as she suffered an attack, not even as mild as this one. There are stood, contemplating with my anti anxiety pills, the very catalyst of my mothers trauma, in my pocket, almost bursting into a near anxiety attack.
Its almost as if I had this emotional attachment to my medication and to this thing called "celexa". It seemed that celexa was my way out of everything, that I literally became physically attached to it, during my mothers dilemma. Indubitably this thing called celexa, has put my mother on a series of nervous breakdowns about my anti depressant intake, little did I realise that my dependencies and my self reliancies were here adversities.
Perhaps I am exerting too much blame on my self, my mother is now undertaking an EEG at a local clinic and I am anxiously awaiting the verdict... still with my celexa, laying low in the pockets of my favorite sweater.