It started when I was 12 at watercolor camp.
I was jumping on a trampoline and eating watermelon, waiting for my paintings to dry. I can still taste the watermelon and I can still smell my instructors sickly sweet perfume. That was the first time my vision started to disappear. It happened slowly, starting with a blurry blob almost identical to the type you get when you stare into the sun or at a bright light. That’s what must have happened, I thought. I bounced too high, tilted my head back and glanced at the sun. I closed my eyes hoping to rid myself of the sun spot, but when I opened them back up it got bigger. It was pulsing, bright, and sharp. The melon churned in my stomach and the perfume made me nauseous. When my parents picked me up an hour later, the blob had morphed into a long white glitchy slash in my vision, and was accompanied by that deep sort of nausea you just can’t shake.
My dad gets migraines too so between him and a trip to the doctor the diagnosis was quick (they’re genetic). The cure, not so much. No chocolate, no cheese, no soda, stay hydrated, no additional estrogen, acupuncture needles in between the eyebrows every week, four large herbal pills that smelled like rabbit food every morning and every night. Nothing worked. They named the blob for me though: an aura. It sounded mystical, like a fairy. It kinda looked like a fairy too, shimmery and bright. But a fairy that taunted me, its visitation bringing on hours of pain, vomiting, and a pounding jagged feeling behind my eyeballs. Because of this, my aura became my biggest fear, even when the migraines stopped for years at a time I’d get a pit in my stomach should I accidentally peek at the sun. My left hand became my respite. I’d count each finger to ensure one wasn’t missing. Five is easy to count to, deep breaths in between.
The only cure when my aura came was to isolate myself in a silent, dark room, take a bunch of extra strength Excedrin and wait it out. If I was extremely lucky I would fall asleep in the fifteen minutes before the pain hit. “Going under the wave” I now call it. Sometimes it was quick but sometimes it was endless. Trips back and forth to the bathroom all night to stick my fingers down my throat, hoping that would end the nausea so I could finally sleep. Forgetting faces and names. Sweating through the sheets. Letting intrusive thoughts creep in “You have a tumor, duh! Don’t fall asleep or else you’ll die because of the tumor that you definitely have.” Those were the scariest parts, when I was left alone with my throbbing brain. You can’t think yourself out of pain. The day after a migraine it felt like someone took my head in their hands and shook hard. On those days I’d do everything with a light touch, afraid I could set it off again and be visited by my fairy godmother of boundless agony.
The doctors concluded it was likely hormonal, and that I should be careful around obvious triggers like not drinking enough water or exertion on an empty stomach. So I did, and for a while the migraines went away. After a while I became less careful. I took long bike rides, laid in the sun, and ran without hydrating. The very moment I stopped to take care of myself, like clockwork she’d come, reminding me I wasn’t invincible. The worst part was the anxiety that followed when I thought she might be on her way. Sometimes counting my left hand didn’t even work and I’d lay down in a dark room anyway, migraine-less, pit in my stomach, swallowing saliva that tasted like watermelon.
I wonder if other people feel connected to their aura the way I do to mine. Part intense fear, part pity, she’s just the bearer of bad news after all. She leaves when the pain starts. Maybe she’s warning me so I can get a head start.
Anyway, I got two migraines last week, both times after surfing. It really shook me up. It’s a scary feeling to think you know your body and to be reminded you don’t. But it’s comforting to know that your brain is looking out for you, however fucked up it may feel. My aura, my fairy, the starry geometric designs that float across my vision from time to time is just as much a part of me as my ability to run or swim or laugh or count to five on my left hand.
Two Whole Weeks of Exhalations:
I’m in Costa Rica now! Getting pummeled by the waves and my very own brain cells, thanks for bearing with me during my short absence. Here are more bits from the last two weeks.
Absolutely everything Jenny Dorsey writes, she is brilliant and I have learned so much from following her and Studio Atao.
Maybe the best ROSALÍA song:
The Valley Haunts Instagram
Remember Chris Evans’ sweater in Knives Out?
Somebody please buy me this spoon? Why do I need this spoon so badly?
This note left on our car written in dust