How migraine makes me mad at myself

Naked statue in Luxembourg gardens

I promised myself that I would no longer use stock images on my blog (other than in Monday Joy posts as that’s the point of Monday Joy) so from now on you’re going to get a load of random photos at the top of my blog posts. I mean, where possible they will be relevant and not at all random but today you have a statue of a naked man that I took in Luxembourg Gardens in Paris because, well, why not?

Today I planned on sharing my photos and thoughts on Paris, but instead I’m going to write about being mad at myself. It’s been a while since I’ve done a fibro-related posts, and I guess that’s because I’ve been doing pretty well lately so writing about pain hasn’t been as natural – or necessary. For the most part of the last month, I have been busy fairly busy at work and home and my body – although sore on occasion – has largely behaved itself.

But then I realised, that’s not quite true. Whilst my back, neck and legs have been generally okay, my migraines have been off the chart. I’ve been restricted to lying in a dark room on multiple occasions, I’ve vomited on station platforms more times than I care to think about, and I’ve been popping pills like an addict. And, amid all of this, I have one overriding emotion: anger. Anger at myself.

My migraines are always triggered by something – normally stress, but often a dramatic change in heat, or light, or lack of rest and lack of food. I’ve been a migraine sufferer since I was 12 years old and in the last twenty years I’ve come to know my triggers pretty well. So well, in fact, that I can now predict when a migraine will occur and can manage it accordingly. I can make changes to my surroundings and my activities to make sure migraines don’t happen or to get rid of them as they start. Often one or two slip through the net but in general, I know what to do. Why then, have I had so many recently? Because I’m a moron.

I’m absolutely furious at myself because I am stressed and I’m not dealing with that stress very well. Yesterday, instead of going to a therapy session after work to help me cope with said stress, I went out drinking with friends and endured yet another migraine. And when I felt it coming on, did I leave the pub? No I did not, I stayed until I was one of the final three heading home as the pub closed. I cried on my way home, I got into bed feeling like an axe embedded in my skull, and I tried desperately not to vomit on my duvet. That situation was completely avoidable, and yet I didn’t avoid it.

Then I tried to work out why. And I think I know the answer – which only makes me even more mad at myself.

I think I’m sick of being sick. I tried to think of the last day when I didn’t feel unwell in some shape or form, and I couldn’t. I watched a woman get on the train yesterday who just oozed health; she was wearing running gear, she had perfectly radiant skin and she was holding a bottle of water as she hopped on the train all smiley and healthy and happy. Ugh. I looked at her and thought, “I wonder what it must be like to feel healthy.” I have no idea. Literally none. I am constantly battling pain, pretending I’m fine, ignoring an ache, and quite frankly I don’t want to give in to being an ill person all of the time. I want to be a healthy person that goes to the pub after work. And so I do. But, as it happens, work is difficult enough in itself so my weekday evenings are precious as hell. And guess how many free evenings I had this week? Zero. None. Zip. Nada. And as a result, I got more ill and now I am mad at myself.

What an idiot.

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