For hours, for days the migraine was ailing me. It approached quietly, from afar, first as a dull, shapeless discomfort, gnawing, then throbbing, and finally growing into a terrible, inhuman pain, turning time into a huge blister. Streets, objects, and people, all familiar from before, now showed their ugly side, as if turned inside out. Human faces looked distorted, disfigured, disclosing their secret ugliness and meaning otherwise hidden from me.
In my head, I could hear that stubborn humming noise of pain, interrupted by unbearably sharp screams of distress. Through that inhuman pain, I felt the twilight zone approaching, threatening to reveal to me a totally new, horrifying world.
Apart from pain, fear was my constant companion. Shapeless, undefined fear. Not fear of something. Not fear of somebody. Just fear. Another presence. A shadow. And the pain that stretched into eternity. People around me were on the other side. They did not feel the pain, they could not understand me. It seemed as if the pain radiated a gluey, reeky phlegm, polluting the atmosphere around me. Sensing something, people avoided me. Nobody stopped to chat with me like before. What can the healthy feel for the sick? Pity? Loathing?
They chatted among themselves about petty, meaningless things, turning to me only with superficial, insincere questions about my health, not even listening to my answers. They sounded so hollow, so disinterested. Maybe I never knew the truth about them before.
It was like a plot of the healthy against the sick and hurting. Disgusting. Even in the physician office-when I finally realized I needed professional help-it was not much better. I had to wait long hours to be admitted. My file was lost or misplaced and it took another eternity to find it. The pain was getting worse. I could not stand it any longer. Human voices and the noise in the background sounded distant, unclear; everything was enwrapped in a drowsy, painful, gluey vomit of that huge octopus squashing my cranium.
Finally, I was admitted into the doctor's office. She was young and healthy, smiling and beaming. I hardly told her how I felt, she immediately replied:
"Yes. I know. It can hurt enormously." Then, looking at my jacket that I was taking off, she added: "Where did you get that beautiful jacket? I have always wanted one just like that. Do you want a sick leave? You work, right?"
I didn't know what to say. I was hoping to get help from her. I though she knew what I needed.
"I love your hose," I heard her again. "Such a pretty shade. I love legs to look bare, don't you?"
My head felt bare, as if the hair and the skin were gone and the brain, completely exposed, pulsated painfully.
"It's your sinuses. Only sinuses can hurt that bad. I'll prescribe an antibiotic. That'll help almost immediately."
I got up and started getting dressed to leave, while she was writing the prescription.
"No, don't wear anything on your head. If I had such thick, beautiful hair, I'd never wear anything on top of it. My hair is thin and limp, you see. " and she touched her blond hair."
Who is styling yours? Natural? No kidding. I envy you."
I couldn't listen anymore. Can a creature like that know how to help me? I hated her. I hated them all. Without exception. They were doing it all just to torture me. Nobody heard. Nobody understood. And nobody cared. They were all healthy and on the other side. What world did I belong to? Where was reality? I felt like tearing that strange membrane between my world and theirs.
At home, I scrutinized myself in a big mirror. What was that woman talking about? There was no trace of beauty that I could spot. My eyes were full of fire, deep in their sockets, surrounded by large, dark-blue rings. My skin was sallow, dry and colorless, my hair brittle and lusterless. Even my body, drained of life juices, appeared suddenly aged.
I remembered what another doctor, an old man, had told me: "You are still young. Remember that, and enjoy life. There is no better medication than that. You don't know yet. It all comes later."
What are they talking about? Am I going crazy? I must help myself, nobody else will. I took the prescribed medication and followed the directions carefully, trying desperately to return to the world of the happy, healthy ones.
The pain was withdrawing slowly, reluctantly. I knew it would be back some time again. Tired, exhausted, I was gradually sinking into the abysses of sleep.
I must have slept a long time. When I awoke, it was a bright, sunny day. The birds chirped outside. The pain totally gone, I felt hungry.
While preparing food: eggs, milk, and honey, I was listening to my favorite music. Music. How thirsty for music I was! As if returning from a long journey, I felt eager to enjoy my home and everything I loved in it. I noticed, anew, every single little thing around me. Each had beauty and a new meaning now.
I took a long bath, to wash off even the last traces of the painful, nightmarish experience I had gone through. It almost felt like a joyous ritual: the warm water, my own body that looked new, too. What a fox, I remember a man in the street, following me, saying. I was offended then, now just smiled. Powdering myself, I decided, looking into the mirror: I'll have my hair cut shorter, perkier, younger. Also, I'll get some new, tight, attractive clothes. Spring is coming!
As if returning from a long journey where I have learned so much, all the objects acquired a different look full of beauty and new meaning. Temporarily liberated from pain, my life turned into an even more precious gift to be enjoyed.