Notes from the Migraine

Your mind is too much yolk in a brittle egg. It is heavy, but every time you try to put it down, however gently, it starts to split apart again. The softest pillow is a bag of sharp stones.

Every sense is heightened, each sensation a new source of pain. You can feel light hit the skin on the back of your arms. You're hearing is hyper acute. These would be superpowers if you didn't want so badly to be blind and deaf and numb.

You are just a too-large head. Your limbs are afterthoughts, useful only as restlessly moving angles that cannot get comfortable. They are the Eastern European family with you in steerage for the transatlantic journey to America, with their loud music and strange food. It is a marriage of inconvenience. The only thing you have in common is mutual suffering.

You forget a life without pain. You know you have lived a life mostly free of unhappiness. You know this must end sometime. Those sound like stories told to distract yourself. You can no longer separate the person you are from the pain you are experiencing. You are this pain, without shape or border. You are draped over the universe, smothering it, feeling it try to scrape and pound and cut its way free.

You can't remember falling asleep. You wake up feeling shaky; something vital has been carelessly scooped out of you in the disappeared hours. When it started you hated everything, every source of sound and light and idea that tried to force its way into your too-crowded brain. Now you hate yourself, weak and confused, but you may start to enjoy living again.

You never really wanted to die. There was one thought of pure terror and delicate hope to get you through it, to force you through it: This could hurt more.

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