In the Middle of a Migraine

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Abstract

ized ableism and misogyny forbid me from resting. Laying in bed in the middle of the day? What have I done to deserve such a luxury when the kitchen still needs cleaning? The feeling of failure at all that I could be doing if I would just. get. up. push me into fetal position.I hate that I cannot stop it. I work so hard just for a psychosomatic thing to slow me down. The migraine itself is awful enough. Lights hurt. Sounds hurt. Life hurts, but I must go on despite the churning. I fantasize about a lobotomy, wondering if it will cure my guilt, too.Some days I actually succumb to sleep, calling it a day at 8 P.M. and spending the next feverishly making up for what I missed. Others, I simply ignore the pain until my eyes start twitching, begging me to

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shut them. But there’s still too much to be done.I just want my head to be my head, and my body my own. I want to collapse into the walls closing in on me. The pressure would feel so nice, if just for the first few moments…My thoughts are too fragmented to defend against the screams telling me to JUST! GET! UP! Why are you being so lazy? So selfish? Don’t you know other people have problems too?So I pull the sheets over my head, hoping for a brief reprieve as the tears of shame wet my pillow. I pray that the to-do list won’t seem as daunting when I wake up.If you liked this article, feel free to give me a clap, comment, or follow! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my work.</article></body>

Written while an ice cream scoop was carving out my right eye.

I write from the depths of my bed as an ice cream scoop is carving out my right eye. The same brain that craves sleep will not let me rest. I am consumed with doubts: am I faking it for attention? Do I really need to see a doctor? It’s not that bad, right? I’m just being dramatic.

Internalized ableism and misogyny forbid me from resting. Laying in bed in the middle of the day? What have I done to deserve such a luxury when the kitchen still needs cleaning? The feeling of failure at all that I could be doing if I would just. get. up. push me into fetal position.

I hate that I cannot stop it. I work so hard just for a psychosomatic thing to slow me down. The migraine itself is awful enough. Lights hurt. Sounds hurt. Life hurts, but I must go on despite the churning. I fantasize about a lobotomy, wondering if it will cure my guilt, too.

Some days I actually succumb to sleep, calling it a day at 8 P.M. and spending the next feverishly making up for what I missed. Others, I simply ignore the pain until my eyes start twitching, begging me to shut them. But there’s still too much to be done.

I just want my head to be my head, and my body my own. I want to collapse into the walls closing in on me. The pressure would feel so nice, if just for the first few moments…

My thoughts are too fragmented to defend against the screams telling me to JUST! GET! UP! Why are you being so lazy? So selfish? Don’t you know other people have problems too?

So I pull the sheets over my head, hoping for a brief reprieve as the tears of shame wet my pillow. I pray that the to-do list won’t seem as daunting when I wake up.

If you liked this article, feel free to give me a clap, comment, or follow! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my work.