Migraine Is As Migraine Does by Melodie Yvonne Ramey
I suffer… I mean everybody does, but migraines are just another level. It’s a burden I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy. It’s a crippling pain that erases the fear of death to the point that I just want to cut off the part of me that hurts. I feel as though if I could just saw down the middle of my head, down to below my upper teeth, and make a swift cut to the right that I could stop it before it reaches the rest of my body. Alas, it is already in the rest of my body. My stomach sours every morsel that slides down my throat. Every single smell, whether friend or foe, assaults my senses to the point of fatalistic nauseation, and I can think of nothing else besides the end. The pharmacist’s solution is slow, and a three-hour wait feels like an eternity. This is what my hell will be like… except I imagine it to be an icy cold abyss for me, and not the warmth of a welcoming fire that I long for. There’s nothing to do besides wait, and try to not let my thoughts sour as much as my belly. I can’t allow this evil thing to ruin this day in this most ineffective way. Through these eyes this world is the cruel thing that my past mentors have taught me. In the real world nobody cares about your personal shit. You chop off that fucking head, you get back out there, and run around like the rest of them. I don’t know if I can be like the rest of the chickens.
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