I am thankfully passed all this but I had twenty or more years of migraine (now 72 but was told that by my mid fifties I would lose them. I didn't. Fine if you are a menstruating female but not true of a grumpy old pensioner, trying to write. Mine disappeared in the mid sixties. In light of this here is a story I wrote from that time:-
I've got to get this paperwork finished by tomorrow but all I can hear is this thump, thump, thumping bass above me. I want to get into my head. I 'need' to get into my body, to get this stuff done but no matter where I go in the flat, this incessant noise grabs my attention. I could kill the bloody bastard!
The pills don't work anymore. I've got a splitting headache and I know tomorrow it will have turned into a full blown migraine: Three days in bed, vomiting, sweating like a pig, stuck in delirium...
It starts with tension in the neck. I can sometimes feel a sharp pain where it joins the skull. One day I know this blockage will turn into a stroke that will kill me but there's nothing I can do about it. I tried anger management but left after punching the guy who ran it. He knew how to push my buttons, so I pushed him back. The guy above me is different. I fantasize about taking a sledge hammer to his music centre (Kicking in his door and kicking that thump machine into a million pieces). Any resistance from him and I'd do the same to him. The reality of course is different...We pass in silence or polite greetings. He doesn't care one iota about my feelings, the arrogant sod. It's like being in an abusive relationship. I hate him but my feelings don't touch him. This is a living hell.
I won't let him drive me out of my own flat. Sound smashes your ability to concentrate. It splatters all over the place, so that you become a flat, empty, mindless husk like him. Responsibility is about seeing but he wants to remain blind. Drinking, partying to all hours. Where does he get the money from? How's he even fit for work? Still I never am - mainly because he makes me sick, literally! Why do we have to carry these wasters? Why!? Why!!? Why!!!?
A silent, contemplative society - that would be my dream (A monk to his viking raider). Peace! Peace! Peace! That's all I want! Christ, is that too much to ask?
I'm a workaholic - I admit it but where would this society be without people like us? They'd just let things fall apart or worse still, rip them actively to shreds. They'd rob people, beat them up, threaten and cheat them, just to get their needs met or expect to be spoon fed like the babies they are. They resent the world and everything in it, including themselves. Work is a four letter word in their vocabulary. Honesty is another swear word to them. They'd rape and kill, to get what they wanted but ask politely? No way! They kill cats, grunt obscenely and drive their cars and lives into the ground because they don't really want to be here. Drugs, alcohol, lack of sleep, reckless abandon of all sorts - anything but settle down and develop inner resources, inner knowledge for dealing with the world they find themselves in. They're damaged goods that they helped damage. Self-sabotage motivates them, not thought. They call people like me boring: Shopkeepers, accountants, academics just as they called the first farmers the same because they were the mighty hunters - posturing and pouting, in their antique roles as time passed them by. They see themselves as predators still and we as their prey. And why not? We've got the real power in society, not them. They are the victims of this world - dinosaurs left behind when the rest of humanity caught on, to what we were about. We want to see a different world - they are only happy if they can take their old one with them. They want to convert the new world to their old ways, dragging us down into their hell. We don't conquer the outer world and turn it into replicas of our own lives. we conquer ourselves and our primitive fears, to better appreciate anything new and different we encounter. Still enough about them and our efforts to convert them to a better life, raising their consciousness to our level.
I know an attack is coming on because get this vile taste in my mouth that reflects the mental bitterness I feel inside. My skin feels like it's flea infested. I get severe indigestion because I feel life is hard to swallow. Perversely I also get the munchies, where nothing I eat satisfies this craving inside (Stuffing down my feelings because being sick means no longer being able to control them). Coffee is one of my triggers. I know this from vomiting up a cup I'd drunk half an hour earlier, in a distilled version (no sugar or milk, just the black steaming caffeine).
I reckon the reason migraine is on the increase in this society, is because of the ever increasing pressure on its members. It's like an orgasm or a massive electrical discharge. Things build up to a climax then explode like a volcano. Epilepsy is that way and I think migraines are no different.
It's like trance dance as seen in voodoo and whirling Dervishes too. Continual motion, leading to inevitable collapse of the organism through adrenal fatigue or society through panic attacks par excellence! I believe were just vacuoles sucking in and blowing out experience or electricity generators, accumulating then discharging energy. I believe too this explains ageing as motion between two points and again dementia as chronic delirium or loss of contact with the world, leading to balance problems, loss of appetite and inability to keep food down (The big trip of unconsciousness as opposed to small deaths on the way). All of this fascinates me and why not? My doctor says I'm talking rubbish in his own particular, polite, professional way. I accept his reaction with a pinch of salt. What does he know? He should be on my side of it.
I awake the following morning. Awake, is that what I really am? I feel like death, staggering about the flat like a zombie. It took ages to drag myself out of bed and look in the mirror. Yes that confirms it - I am dead again. That sallow skin, those lifeless eyes - black around the edges, bloodshot within. Tongue out. Yes it's that white flag of surrender again (another overnight snow storm, covering it). Sometimes it's yellow with vile bile and it tastes bitter and ugly like my mood too.
I just want to curl up and die - oh God, here it comes! The wretch throws himself down before the God of the toilet seat and retches. He prays to the Lord of Vomit. 'Please accept this humble offering - yurp!' Oh God, here we go again. Yurp, yurp, yurp! Nothing there but I don't listen to my stomach. Once more with feeling - yurp!'
I sit there for five minutes, leaning back on my heels. Is it over? Is another eruption on its way? Eventually I stumble back to my feet and walk shakily back to my bed. 'I'm ready for my shot, Mr Romero! No, I don't need anymore make up and I remember my lines perfectly. Groan, grimace, stagger isn't it?' I don't need the thump, thump, thump of his music above me anymore - I've got the recording going on in my head already. Sorry no, make that the sound of blood pounding around somewhere in my crunched cranium.