It hurts to move, and forming words into coherent sentences in this moment is akin to scaling Mt. Everest with one hand. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball in a darkened room, my face on an ice cold pillow, and wait for the agony to subside.
(PDF) Joan Didion's Style | Leigh Gilmore - ycurefimyn.tk
I write grant proposals for nonprofit arts organizations. Ordinarily, not a problem. For I had no brain tumor, no eyestrain, no high blood pressure, nothing wrong with me at all: I simply had migraine headaches, and migraine headaches were, as everyone who did not have them knew, imaginary.
Migraine and I go way back. Somewhere around kindergarten or first grade I began to exhibit symptoms of the ailment suffered by my mother, grandmother, aunt, cousins, and who knows how many others in our family. As a kid, I had no context for the pain. No ability to see it coming, to understand my triggers, or to self-medicate.
I only knew two phases: no migraine and migraine. There were tears and vomiting and fatigue. So many canceled plans, aborted sleepovers, missed school days.
Very few could understand how I could possibly be so sick from something so, in their minds, minor. I stood before her oversized mahogany desk, the pain searing through my forehead and the nausea in my stomach like waves lapping the shore. It hurts. Just let me leave. She never did. She sent me back to class.
Her visits are less frequent. She comes on now slowly, lingering, teasing me with minor flicks of pain — an ache behind the eye, a slight throb in the temple — before thrashing about my brain with absolute abandon.
So, eyes glazed and mind numb, I take the lazy way out. I plagiarize myself. I copy and paste our mission statement into an intro paragraph that I could type in my sleep.
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I drop in a statistic on the number of schools served from economically-distressed neighborhoods, and type up one of my favorite quotes on the critical need for arts education programs. But I will always feel proud of the fact that I completed a project under deadline, with Migraine holding court. The question of self-pity. Seven days after September 11, , I left New York to do two weeks of book promotion, under other circumstances a predictable kind of trip Newton Leroy Gingrich R-Ga.
It occurred to me, in California in June and in Atlanta in July and in New Orleans in August, in the course of watching first the California primary and then the Democratic and Republican national conventions, that it had not been by accident that the people with whom I had preferred to spend time in high school had, on the whole, hung out in gas stations To make an omelette you need not only those broken eggs but someone "oppressed" to beat them: every revolutionist is presumed to understand that, and also every women, with either does or does not make 51 per cent of the population of the United States a potentially revolutionary class.
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- Trapped in her Life, Joan Didion Lies in Bed with a Migraine.
Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself After Life. Those were the first words I wrote after it happened.