Relentless I sat up immediately in bed, eyes wide and arms scrambling to move my cocoon of covers away. My kitten chirps at me in shock and dashes under the bed. This did not matter. The only thing that matters is the distance between the bathroom and me. I have sense to make sure the door is closed behind me so I don t lose my six-month old kitten in the darkness. As I ran to the room at the end of the hall, the rough carpeting grabbed onto my socks but I follow my homing signal: the blue night light that shines in the small bathroom where I will puke. I ran in and kneeled at the base of the toilet, the waves of nausea churning and churning like a storm inside me. I dry-heaved to no avail. Sweat gathered at the nape of my neck, and my hands were moist as I pushed hair behind my ears. Saliva flowed in my mouth, copper tinged, making me believe every time I spit into the basin would be the time my insides would come up. I could hear my kitten s vague scratching at the base of my bedroom door down the hall and the flow of water in the pipes of the sink. I tried to stand, hoping I could make it to the medicine my neurologist had given me for nausea. My vision blacked out. I nearly fainted, narrowly grabbing the sink. This constant pain in my head never goes away. I m aware this seems impossible. However, about four years ago, on August 20, 2010, I got a headache that I would rate a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10. On a typical pain chart a 7 out of 10 is described as severe pain that interferes with concentration and basic needs such as eating and sleeping. That pain never left. This is because I do not have just headaches. I have intractable chronic migraines and another condition called new daily persistent headache. Both conditions mean there is always a
throbbing sensation behind my forehead or a stab, stab, stab motion behind my eyes. Sometimes it means there is a steady thrum of unpleasant electric jolts at the base of my head. This pain almost completely rules my life. It controls every part of my work, schooling, relationships and emotions. My nightly trips to the bathroom have become part of a painful routine that asks me to deal with a suffering that no doctor can seem to cure. These trips, however, aren t my only struggles such a ruthless, tyrannical, and relentless agony. Echoes bounced off the empty walls, and I knew the mirrors in the corner would reflect something I didn t want to see. The basement was dim and cold, all life in the house moving on with near trivial ease on the floors above me. On my way down here, I had seen my family s collective happy mentality, and I didn t want any part of it. That wasn t how I felt right at that moment and seeing it all around me only made the feelings inside me grow darker. I looked at the rubber punching dummy in front of me. I punched. The ceiling shook and the bungee cords snapped the figure of my opponent back into place. The sound of heavy metal was all I could hear. Tears streamed down my face as my fist continually connected with the rubber dummy s face. I punched and kneed and kicked at my pain. Each time the dummy snapped back into place, the stoic grimace etched into the rubber and always staring back at me, reminding me I could not win. When I stopped to finally catch my breath, I looked down and saw my hands. They were red and raw. A few knuckles had started to bleed and there were bruises already forming around the rings I wore. I didn t need to roll up my pant leg to know the damage I had done to my knees. I slid to the ground and laid my head on my knees as my sobs overtook me. In my rage all I wanted to do was destroy it but I knew it wasn t going away.
I didn t take the news of my migraines very well: not when I was 15 and not as a college student now. It made me furious. The workout dummy in my basement was soon more than a quick consolation in my anger, it became an outlet. Other people wanted me to talk about my feelings. The dummy was inanimate and silent. That was something I needed, something I still do. It stops me from lashing out at my loved ones when I just don t have any tolerance left in me. It gives me something unbreakable to hit as frequently and as hard as I need. It s not the fragile wall in my room that now has an unfilled hole in it. That hole reminds me how important the dummy in the basement is. How important isolation is at times like those. The migraines are something that I alone have to deal with on a regular basis, and that's bad enough. I don't care to project that onto other people. A middle-aged doctor sat at the computer and typed in a prescription. I looked at his saltand-pepper colored buzzed hair. He typed without hesitation and politely asked me questions. As I looked down at my feet, I listened to the steady and loud clacking of keys. When I shifted my weight on the examination table, the sanitary paper crinkled underneath my weight. I knew the answer to the question I was preparing myself to ask. away? So are there I mean, do you treat other patients like me? Where the pain never goes He nodded and turned to face me. Oh yeah, there are a lot of them. Not as many that never get relief, but you re not the only one.
I tried not to frown. I had hoped if I was the only one that perhaps that was why we hadn t had any success. It was selfish of me to think that way. No, it was hopeful. I don t think anyone should have to suffer like I was suffering. I really wouldn t wish this on anyone. So what s the outlook like? For people like me? He took a breath and paused, lacing his fingers together as he clasped his hands. Well, there are two things that can happen. There s the path you re on, trying different things and finding a balance where something works, but you aren t so entirely tired that you can t function. Typical. A balance to rule them all. It was almost funny that he thought I was on a balanced path. The road I actually traveled was in torn up and without any sign of direction. Perspective really is everything. And then there s the opioid route which we obviously want to avoid with you completely. That leads to addiction and then you may be great for six months, but then you start getting rebound headaches from constant usage. I just nodded. I couldn t tell if I was disappointed or felt nothing at all. These were the responses I had expected, right? So pretty much, nothing new? We re on just on the same track? you. Truthfully, yes. A lot of my patients have had migraine free moments or days, just not I kept nodding and offered what I knew was a weak smile. Even though I knew he was simply being honest, the accuracy of his words hurt. Just not you.
We finished up the appointment and he shook my hand, wishing me the best until he saw me next. I gathered my things and walked out of the empty office, watching the receptionist laugh with a postal worker. My mind was numb as I took the elevator down two floors and left the building. my head. The sun was shining and people were bustling about. There was still a stabbing pain in I had to be at class in an hour. I'd be surrounded by a bunch of people my own age, but I would feel worlds apart. I feel alone. In the middle of the night, do they leap from bed with such pain they must vomit? Do they descend the basement steps to fight an opponent who always wins? I know people have their own stories and pain. Finally, I wanted to share mine. I ve spent so much time in class where I feel as if I live in a glass case. Some days I sit on display and hope that someone will walk by and reach through. That somebody will be able to help me escape. Other days I beat on that glass with such ferocity that I wonder how it does not break. Most days I watch the normal world go by. I watch the happy smiles and the quiet heads and I wish.