It begins with tingling lips.
A buzzing in my fingertips, as if an electrical current runs beneath my skin.
Then, the edges of my vision begin to go dark.
Floating spots dance across my eyes, accompanied by the pop of ghostly flash bulbs.
My sight becomes like origami, folding in again and again until I’m looking at the world through a narrow cardboard tube.
Vertigo sets in. I’m on the Tilt-A-Whirl, even as my feet remain planted on the floor. I give up and give in, slowly lowering myself to lie flat on my back on the wildly spinning merry-go-round of my bed.
My nausea begins to rise. Sometimes, so does my lunch.
Light becomes a hot, angry blade, piercing my pupil and exploding out the back of my skull.
My temple throbs like a too-ripe fruit beneath the hot sun. I feel as if my skin will split and spill the pulpy flesh of my brain all over the bed. In utter desperation, I wish it would; it might actually bring me some relief from this agony.
This happens four times a week. Every week. And we don’t know why.
I can’t make plans. I can’t keep appointments. I can’t keep promises.
I’ve lost hours, lying in the dark. I’ve lost days when I should be with my family. I’ve lost opportunities and friends and even my ability to work.
I live in Migraine Hell.