Howdy,
I have chronic migraines. They came every once and a while when I started college—I don’t know what happened—but in my sophomore year, they came in full and debilitating power. The kind of power that people go to the emergency room for because they think their brain might explode.
I’ve learned how to manage it. Can’t eat sugary foods. Can’t sleep in. Can’t go to sleep late. Can’t have bright lights or get too hot. Can’t skip a meal. Can’t live without worrying about pain and logging every feeling into my headache journal.
I have my migraine pills—max dose, only two per 24 hours, or else my liver and kidney will quit. I can feel it coming a day before a bad one starts. The other night, I had a sleepover with my friends and we played music and ate chicken nuggets, but I knew I would wake in pain. I walked back to my apartment the next morning, head hung and trying to keep the remnants of the chicken nuggets down. It’s gross but it’s my life.
The migraine monster assaults me in full force when I have things to do. I complete school assignments through squinted eyes and an icepack on my head. I stay in bed while my friends go to enjoy the plans we made weeks ago. There’s a good amount of guilt that comes with being sick. Guilty that I’m not as productive as I should be or that I cancel plans—or worse, my friends stay behind just because of me.
I try to joke about it so as not to receive pity. Pull out the classic, “it is what it is,” or leave it out of conversation completely. The only person I really tell the gritty details to is my mom—the mom who passed these wonderful migraines down to me—though I don’t complain to her because she already knows. Doctors have tried to ask me to rate my pain on a scale from 1-10 but I’ve never been able to figure out what that means. If 10 is the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life, then shouldn’t I save it? Surely it has to get worse than this. In retrospect, I think I rated the worst pain I’ve ever had in my life as a 7. When I fell and broke my hand, I didn’t cry or tell my parents how bad it hurt because I didn’t want to ruin our family vacation. I didn’t go to the doctor and now my hand hurts when I play the guitar too long. Doctors don’t take me seriously. I wouldn’t either.
There really is no lesson here. Perhaps I’m due for some complaining.
Anyways…I’m on day 2 of a headache but at least I’m on day 2 of a headache ~in Washington, D.C.~
If I don’t write tomorrow, Happy Indigenous People’s Day :)
For better writing about chronic illnesses, including migraines, I recommend Shannon Barry (@barry_happy) on Instagram
Sincerely,
Me, an avid hater of correct grammar.
pretty good read