I have to admit, what do I even knock on? My own head? Since the awful July & August my migraine frequency / severity has improved. I think my brain got mighty confused when Teva’s drug was yanked out of there, and the hemiplegic-like migraines happened, with a hospitalization even before that. But I think things have plateaued. I have a lot of mild to moderate uncomfortable symptoms daily, but fewer severe migraine attacks.

Today is Zo’s birthday. I got a migraine before it was time for cake. I cried hard. I realized I hadn’t cried since I learned Radiology had screwed up my MRI.

I accidentally published this when I meant to save it as a draft, but that’s okay. I don’t mind having unfinished thoughts floating around out there.

In my last entry I wrote about feeling melancholy, not black hole depression. This is edging closer to that. Because nothing triggers me like mistreatment by doctors and medical professionals. The last two times I can remember feeling truly like I’d rather be dead than continue on were when Dr Goliver refused to even give me an IV in the ER And was really rude and said it was IM Toradol or nothing; and when Dr Power basically yelled at me and threw me (figuratively) out of his office when I was honest about how badly I was doing. I remember running and crying out of the Hospital office building until I fell into the snow and not getting out of bed for days. After the bad ER visit I came home empty like a zombie and didn’t say much to anyone but then screamed and shrieked into my pillow. I was in bed for days that time too.

Perhaps because I am off the wicked Cymbalta or just because I’m used to it or possibly because I’ve grown as a person or something, I don’t take doctor bullshit as much to heart now. But this is coming closer to that despairing feeling that nothing about my migraine situation will ever really be improved. I don’t even allow thoughts of ending my life, as painful as things can be, because of John, X and Zo. I’d rather have intractable pain with them than permanent, isolated unconscious quiet dark. This would hold true even if there were a heaven that looks like a Maxfield Parish painting. I probably wouldn’t end up there anyway, and if there’s a hell it’s a combination of Hieronymus Bosch and MC Escher. Bloody mutant möbius stairs. No thanks. I’ll take my own incessant but familiar pain and wooden stairs that end, and my family.

I am down to 4 imitrex tablets (two of them only 50 mg). I have a neurologist who should no longer be allowed to practice because his incompetence is staggering. I still have weird unexplained symptoms after thinking I had an aneurysm for a week because of a botched MRI.

I have started peeling the skin off my heels again. Klonopin doesn’t seem to be helping this. I am angry. I want to have control over something. I want this insidious, ghostly malificent Medusa in my head rooted out like weeds, evil black viney strands pulled out one by one and left in a heap on the floor like hair at a beauty salon. I want the snakes neutralized. I want the swelling of my basilar artery which made so much sense for a week to be there and be pulverized by modern science. I want to see the person who made the mistake with the contrast.

“I am not as fine as I seem!

Pardon me for yelling and telling you green gardens

Are not what’s growing in my psyche, it’s a different me

A difficult beast feasting on burnt down trees

Freeze frame, please let me paint a mental picture portrait

Something you won’t forget, it’s all about my forehead

And how it is a door that holds back contents

That makes Pandora’s box contents look non-violent

Behind my eyelids are islands of violence

My mind ship-wrecked this is the only land my mind could find

I did not know it was such a violent island

Full of tidal waves, suicidal crazed lions

They’re trying to eat me, blood running down their chin

And I know that I can fight, or I can let the lion win

I begin to assemble what weapons I can find

‘Cause sometimes to stay alive you gotta kill your mind”

~ from Migraine by 21 Pilots

I don’t have enough weapons on hand to do what I want to do. I want total oblivion for a solid 8-10 hours where I feel no pain, no anger frustration or fear or wishing. I want to matter to a doctor again, specifically the one providing my migraine care. I want to stop making my husband’s eyes go dead when he realizes that the rote words he’s saying are completely meaningless. He sounds like a robot. “It will be okay. We’ll get you more imitrex. We’ll find a new neurologist.”

Nothing to fix. Everything to fear.

Be My Head

You can be my head
Oh, I really need one
‘Cause it’s used all its better days
You can be my head
‘Cause I’ve ruined this one
Blasting holes where it used to be

And if it’s not a big thing
You could swap or lend me
You should stop and ask me
Be my head, and I’ll be yours
Be my head, and I’ll be yours

You can be my head
Oh, they’ve eaten this one
Putting swirls in this giant hole
You can be my head
‘Cause I can’t afford to buy one
Seeking stars in its other side

And if it’s not a big thing
You could swap or lend me
You should stop and ask me
Be my head, and I’ll be yours
Be my head, and I’ll be yours
Won’t you be my head, and I’ll be yours

Be my head and I’ll be yours

Be my head and I’ll be yours

Be my head and I’ll be yours

– The Flaming Lips

Isobel’s Birthday was a success, for her. And that’s what matters.

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