I keep coming back to feelings unexpressed; locking the door to keep the wolf out; forgetting the part where the wolf huffs and puffs and you can just say goodbye to your lock and your door and duck because you are in for it, pal; the wolf is armed. Can't dodge bullets.
The more I've worked on Migraine…coming at it from North East South and West, the more I'm convinced that my thoughts, my feelings, my dreams—especially the ones I really don't want to deal with—are like Migraine's favorite things; welcome mat; invitation to just come on in and clean house.
It's happened to me—I shouldn't be passive about it; I've done it to myself—too many times to dismiss it as once in a while or that was really unusual. I mean, I don't have enough fingers to count.
No. It's real and I'll step out on the high-diving board: I think it's universal.
There; I've said it and I have no regrets.
I mean, look; I've seen Migraine described as a disease; an affliction; a neurological boondoggle; a state of being; inherited. Only agreement would possibly be that it's not fatal; and that there's no single way to treat the multiple iterations; which leads, of course, to the prescribing of an army of different drugs to match each one.
It's sort of like Whack-a-mole. Nail one and there's another right behind it. Infinite line disappearing around the block and into the sunset.
As far as I'm concerned; it's all on me; I own it; I need to deal with it; I need to track it down; one by one. Acknowledge that none of Migraine comes from somewhere else; it begins and ends with me. Part of who I am; the way I experience my life; relationships; my history; my wishes.
Address my dreams.
Which, of course, leads directly—no detours—to self-examination.