She felt in the right corner of her brain a heaviness, the inert body weight of some curled and sleeping animal; but when she touched her head and pressed, the presence disappeared from the coordinates of actual space. Now it was in the top right corner of her mind, and in her imagination she could stand on tiptoe and raise her right hand to it. It was important not to provoke it; once this lazy creature moved from the peripheries to the center, then the knifing pains would obliterate all thought, and there would be no chance of dining with Leon and the family tonight. It bore her no malice, this animal, it was indifferent to her misery. It would move as a caged panther might: because it was awake, out of boredom, for the sake of movement itself, or for no reason at all, and with no awareness. She lay supine on her bed with no pillow, a glass of water within easy reach and, at her side, a book she knew she could not read.
She lay rigidly apprehensive, held at knifepoint, knowing that fear would not let her sleep and that her only hope was in keeping still.
This is a superb description of a migraine. I often think of mine as a "thing" - something living in my head that awakens, tries to kill me, then goes back to sleep after I've drugged it. The thing in my head can cause pain that makes me nauseous. Light means blinding pain. Noise is unbearable. Each step I take pounds my head further, as if the thing has a bass drum and my footfall is the mallet.
The thing scoffs at Tylenol, untouched. But my tiny little perscription pill is like a sleeping pill. Slowly, by inches, the thing releases it's grip on my mind. My brain feels like it received a shot of novacane - numb but aware. My stomach continues to lurch.
As it eases, I move very slowly, especially my head. Like sneaking out of a baby's room, I do not want to wake it (it will wake up screaming) and have to start all over. It is a menace. A threat always just around the corner, unpredictable.
I've been having a particularly bad time with this thing for several months now. It makes writing a real problem because thinking hurts. (go ahead - insert blonde joke...)
If you do not have migraines, thank your lucky stars.
I'm going to lay in the dark, in the quiet, and hope it's gone when I awaken.