First the heavy heart, then the weight of work, then the norm of hormones, then the limbs of aging and mind like tired(sometimes like last night before bed on porch I am I swear twenty-six going on an eighty-three). Today feels much like another start, and me a bit of newborn—the usual that happens post-long term migraine. This one tapped in at just over forty-eight hours. Monday I slept for thirteen, and last night close to the same. Out out damn spot.
On the bus I was just pushing my fingerprints into my temple(the left)—first steady then tough then sweet. I pull my hat lower and lower until only my mouth is left, a jaw pulled in but not too clenched because that stoic response of tension just adds to it. No crying either. No pleading to pain or God or genetics; this only more suffering caused. I walk to the house in a numbfunk of what kind of feels like a drug rush—I can feel my feet in the bellies of my teeth. I crave lo mein, barbeque, potato mountains with tidepools of melted butter and garlic. Migraine cravings are so weird, so insistent. I manage the lo mein because I cannot stand the thought of another night missing dinner. I float home with the bag. Dessert is saliva, abundant. Strands of it into napkin; find toilet and heave. So much for dinner, a waste of money.
I lay in bed and think of how one might describe it. This pillow is a railroad spike covered in a dust of glass and acid. My bed is a car wreck, no metal soft. Trying to think, do, talk, take action around this great big blank spot, just c’est impossible. It is a wall that builds quick. I squeeze the ends of mattress until tendons shout. It is a time of dim to no lights and minimal sound, trashcans at bedsides, pushing palm against nearby wall and pushing as hard as I can for as long as I can. The great big blank spot which starts as concentrated as an asterisk on fire grows over hours, fogs the lens. More fingerprints to side of head, the left the left. Turn head, stretch. Hands under pillow with elbows into bird wings—the position that worked last time. The left eye twitches, the left arm throbs. I am so thankful for no one to talk to, no one to look at or listen for. It would be too much and I am feeling somewhere like yellow, gray in the gestures. The hours come and I cannot use them, they go.
I think about the hospital being just across the street; I think about going. I am so exhausted. I put my shoes on. I scramble for my insurance card, but fall asleep with it in my hand.