Migraine.
A brain melting, mushy face making migraine, exploded into being shortly after breakfast yesterday. Each blink of my eyeball pumped bursts of fire followed by nauseous waves of misery through my brain. I spent the day lying still in the hopes that the throbbing stabbing pain would not happen if I didn’t move. Or breathe. Or live. Dying, the only option that would make the queasiness, the excruciating agony brought on by a single blink of my left eye stop. The massive thunderstorm raging outside in bursts of intense lightning and furious thunder and heavy rain mirrored the waves of wretchedness rendering me useless on the couch.
Yesterday was a total loss.
This morning, I’m fragile. Careful to not open my eyes too wide, less the light reflecting off the waterlogged leaves sets It off again. Moving slowly around the house as if my gentle steps will not wake the migraine from its shallow sleep. Trying not to search too hard for that elusive word, scared the throbbing will return, frighten all the words away, leaving me stupid and moaning in a pile of pity again.
A brain melting, mushy face making migraine, exploded into being shortly after breakfast yesterday. Each blink of my eyeball pumped bursts of fire followed by nauseous waves of misery through my brain. I spent the day lying still in the hopes that the throbbing stabbing pain would not happen if I didn’t move. Or breathe. Or live. Dying, the only option that would make the queasiness, the excruciating agony brought on by a single blink of my left eye stop. The massive thunderstorm raging outside in bursts of intense lightning and furious thunder and heavy rain mirrored the waves of wretchedness rendering me useless on the couch.
Yesterday was a total loss.
This morning, I’m fragile. Careful to not open my eyes too wide, less the light reflecting off the waterlogged leaves sets It off again. Moving slowly around the house as if my gentle steps will not wake the migraine from its shallow sleep. Trying not to search too hard for that elusive word, scared the throbbing will return, frighten all the words away, leaving me stupid and moaning in a pile of pity again.
The only benefit from the day of wretchedness, a Mohawk fashioned from the endless stroking of my poor throbbing hair. Today, I’m afraid to touch it. It still hurts. Every strand is still weeping with the memory of yesterday.
Such is my life, my hair sporting attitude my self can’t back up…
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