That’d be me. Call me by my supermodel name, Chronic Migrainelle.
Control is an illusion, and the fight against reduction is perpetual.
Its been going on for weeks now. Every day feels like an attack from one side or the other. Just when I think there will be one calm day with somewhat reasonable expectations of me, then I get hit again.
I remember planning my future, where I’d go to college, what I’d study, and how my future career would allow for some flexibility for the unexpected. It was a logical, researched and well-thought-out plan.
I’ve come to realize much of the anxiety, distress, and ultimately dis-ease in my life originated from my stubbornness to follow this plan at all costs. The amount of energy expended trying to control my life depleted my ability to respond to the inevitable “shit show.”
It takes great restraint to focus my efforts on what is happening right now rather than attempting a stranglehold on the cornucopia of “what ifs.” Now, my plan is like following a map to a destination unbeknownst to me. The map helps guide me, but I must find my own way.
The tangled mass of vibrant colors shooting out of the head makes visual the struggle to explain the traumatized mind. Surviving each day is challenging enough, but then we face trying to describe the sensation to others.
Under a tree, it's leaves rusting in the midnight breeze.
On a swing, dangling above the ground with the child in me.
Near the ocean, hypnotized by the waves casting salt in the air.
Counting the stars, infinity playing out before my eyes.
Loved by the moon, lighting my world in the darkest of times.
Burning stress, piercing hurt, and crushing fear
Pile on, forming a jagged mountain of pain.
Then, a feather lands atop with a whisper of breath.
Giant boulders crash down, roaring like a freight train.
The taste of blood in my throat, a migraine of molten lava,
And my heart, pounding out of my chest, beating in my ears.
The breaking point smoulders from holding it in too long.