Conversations

We’re walking on the trail, heading toward another remote location.

“How far is the swimming hole?” I ask my sister. Her boyfriend is a couple paces in front of us.

“About a half mile,” she says.

I know it’s not far but my head is tingling. The climbing temperatures, humidity and walking is getting to my head. I weigh it in my head. They’re happy, walking around like this. They love it here. I do too but I’m thinking ahead. My head is about to bloom into chaos, the pain will ravage me soon. I just hope I can get across the wire bridges before they do.

“Why?” she asks.

I smirk, I don’t even have to say it anymore.

“My head,” I begin.

“We can go home,” she says immediately.

I feel guilty like I always do. I’m cutting their day short. Both of their days off from work is going to be spent at home rather than where they want to go. We walked around for most of the afternoon but I still feel bad.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Don’t apologize,” her boyfriend says, “it’s not your fault.”

“We’re just happy you came this far with us,” my sister smiles, “we got to go where we wanted and had lunch. Successful day,” she tells me.

I feel a little bit better, still guilty.

When I get to the car, take some aleve, and close my eyes I know it was the right choice despite my guilt. They’re both happy I was able to spend the time I could with them.

Boiled Over

I wait in line  at the pharmacy. I hate doing this, I’d rather anyone in the world pick up my meds for me. This whole process is tiresome. The pharmacist working the register is the one I hate, Chuck. He makes everything so complicated – more than it ever has to be.

I give him my name, spell it out twice, my birthdate. He turns around and grabs it off the shelf. Rings it up. I’m tapping my fingers on the counter, annoyed.

“It will be eighty dollars,” he tells me.

I roll my eyes, “did you run through the insurance or the discount card?” I ask.

“The insurance,” he replies, “it’s cheaper.”

“No it’s not, could you run it through this discount card – it will be thirty,” I tell him. I had the exact same conversation two days ago with him – there’s a note that he just ignores.

“If you could just have a seat,” he tells me. I roll my eyes and have a seat on the bench near the window.

My sister and her boyfriend wander over to me.

After some small talk and general consensus that Chuck is an ass, my sister’s boyfriend talks.

“Why does this happen every time?” he asks me.

I’ve had it. Finals just ended. The anxiety of running low on my medicine after what happened last time when I was out is too familiar. My head hurts.

“Because I have a fucking condition that can’t be cured and the medicine is fucking expensive and I’m going to have to take it the rest of my life and I don’t want to pay almost two hundred dollars a month when I can play sixty a month the rest of my life,” I spit at him.

He’s annoyed too that I have to do this but he asked the wrong question at the wrong time.

Boiling, Bubbling

I have that stupid shit eating grin on my face that only Vicodin gives me. I’m still in pain but I do not care. The world could end and I’d still grin.

“How late were you up ’til?” I hear someone ask.

“Two,” I reply. It’s not late unless you consider the 6 am alarm and the almost hour drive to my 8 am final. It doesn’t help that I was working solidly on the paper that goes with the test for the entire day before hand as well.

“Why were you up so late?” they ask shocked.

“Paper,” I reply.

“Why didn’t you start it sooner?” they ask.

And it’s the wrong question. Maybe I’m still defensive about my choices and my denial about headaches being a disability.

I couldn’t start it sooner. I woke up with  a migraine. I don’t need to hear shit from you too. I hear it enough from myself. I know I should have started my paper a lot sooner but I have a chronic condition and I work when I can. I don’t have the pleasure of feeling great all the time and being able to work on homework whenever the fancy strikes. We all can’t live such a charmed life. I had other papers due, other projects. I woke up with a migraine I didn’t know I was going to have but it wasn’t a migraine just a migraine strength stress headache that was a slippery mother fucker that took way too much medicine to just leash – not cure. I knocked it down to a 8 instead of an 11. I struggled through every key stroke every thought felt like a sledge hammer. So, of course I was up late working on my paper late because I had to work harder on it than everyone else. 

The words itch on my tongue. They crash into each other in my brain, a big jumbled mess.

Like your life I hear in my mind.

I don’t say it. I couldn’t.

I just shrug.

Explanation for my Recent Absence

It’s been like a month since I published anything. It’s a combination of too many things. School picked up a lot faster than I realized. It literally swept me off my feet – not in the romantic way – rather the ripped the floor out from under me and I was in free fall scrambling for any type of purchase.

I went to Jeff on Tax Day. It was good – we’re keeping on keeping on but recently since the appointment I think an increase of the dosage would have been beneficial.

I had final projects due before the week of finals (who the fuck does that?).  I have finals a few days and the days I wasn’t being tested I was studying or writing papers.

I think I could have at least told my readers but I didn’t. I had “blog post” in my to-do list for a while but I just removed it. I wanted to pretend I wasn’t that girl for a little bit the one with migraines all the time. I took it off my list and stopped worrying about it. I took way too much otc pain killers and when they didn’t work I slept. Almost a month of denying it. Denying I had a disability, denying that my body doesn’t work right. I put off going to the pharmacy – sending other people – to pick up my medicine so I wouldn’t have to be a 20-something picking up anti depressants getting looks from the pharmacist, from the technicians I went to high school with. I didn’t think about taking the cymbalta, the near constant dizziness (a side effect), and having to take this the rest of my life. It was a vacation from myself. I listened to a few of my friends talk about therapy while I didn’t think about how I should probably go back but can’t. I can’t because I’m in such denial about everything.

Not opening a new blog post just added to the image of being normal. I don’t blog about a condition I pretend I don’t have.