I count days like cars, or like my kids count down the time until Christmas. Yesterday was day 7. An entire week had come and gone without a single migraine on the horizon, the last one being quick and painful and conveniently occurring at my daughter’s horse riding competition. I find myself unarmed– no sunglasses or Relpax for miles.
At times, my vision blacks out and resembles a scrambled television. Last week, I was lucky, my surroundings simply looked warped. But noise, oh–God, the noise. The announcers over the loud speakers, coupled with people just trying to talk to me and I don’t hardly remember anything that was said.
No, I wasn’t on drugs. But, I at the time, I wish I had been.
Today was supposed to be ‘day 8’ in my little countdown. Until I woke up with my head swimming like a fish tank. A bothersome pain that quickly turned into a light sensitive migraine that nearly knocked me in a pile of mud like some 7-year old playground bully.
Cue the drugs– I try to start with half a dose of Relpax. I’m not sure why unless it just boils down to self-denial. I endure the near immediate sensation of my insides being torched. Followed by the unmistakable feeling that my ribs are going to crack one-by one.
I enjoy all of the suggestions that I have received, no really, I appreciate them. Thus far, I am taking magnesium, vitamin B complex (for the Riboflavin), I sleep next to a Himalayan salt lamp (if you ever wanted to lick it, don’t. Yes it tastes just like salt.), I jump backwards three times in my front yard on full moons only, and I recently visited New Orleans so that the local Shaman could take some blood in order to ward off any bad mojo. It’s safe to say that I have ran the gamut, so to speak, on all of the glitterific natural remedies.
And I still find myself counting down the days.
So I’m lying in bed. Then what? Following a gruesome nightmare that feels as though it is a real life experience and the initial wave of anxiety, I want to write. Of course, wanting to write and actually doing so are vastly different.
Wanting to write involves the mere desire meshed into a bit of torture. Ideas fly around and once the medication wears off, the creative notions are dissolve as well.
Writing is much more complicated. The process involves sitting up which is nauseating at best. At its worst, I feel like bricks are layered upon my body, my head swims, and I sweat while struggling to take steady breathes. Because I am lazy, I will sum it up as giant crock pot full of shit, marinated in piss (bake @ 350 for 30 minutes). I can hear clanking metal from my husband who is outside working on our SUV in a desperate attempt to wear the kiddies out so that they slip into bed easily.
And I sit and type nonsense that I can’t even tag or categorize with my screen turned to dim and my body full of medication.