Dirt (Fathom Mag)

By the time the scraps of last year got swept up and the new weavings of this one began, I was desperate. I had spent three days in bed, shuttered in my room with a migraine that refused to quit. My husband’s words tried to steady me, “just take your meds and sleep it off. Sleep is the only thing that ever helps.” Each night I went to bed hoping the pain would be gone when I woke up in the morning. Then morning would come and I’d be right back to square one, the wound-less ache, mimicking a bullet to the temple, cycled on repeat. 

As often happens during these episodes, all my hope was replaced with hopelessness, my plans with powerlessness, my best intentions with inability to carry them out. Chronic pain doesn’t just steal from you; it steals from the person you hoped to be. My husband canceled the New Year’s Eve party we were scheduled to host, blacked out our bedroom windows, and kept our kids quiet as I buried my head in the covers, relenting to the agenda of the pain.

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