Tagged: life

Miss Migraine: Understanding limitations

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The Adventures of Miss Migraine is an ongoing column about my life with chronic migraine. A version of this post appeared first on my blog of the same name on June 2, 2015. I wanted to share this again now because I’ve been in a bad migraine cycle on top of having a full-to-bursting schedule. This go-round, though, I’m making sure to fit dog walks in no matter what, because they really DO make me feel better.

“You jump into things without thinking about how much work they’ll be.”

That’s what my partner said to me one morning. “Give me an example,” I said.

“I do most of the dog walking.”

Okay, stop. What? I’ve had dogs my entire life. I have been walking them for almost as long.

My partner’s statement made me feel like he thinks I’m not willing to do the work required to take care of our dogs. Like bringing these animals into our lives was some whim, because I saw a cute puppy in the pet store window and thought it would make me more attractive or something.

(Just to be clear, our dogs are not from pet stores. Pet store dogs often come from puppy mills, where the mothers are bred over and over again until they die. The people who run puppy mills don’t pay attention to things like the suitability of the dog for breeding, they just want to make money. My corgi is from a responsible breeder and our German shepherd is a sort-of rescue.)

My corgi Lexi sniffing the air.

Lexi is sniffing the air at the dog park (Dec. 5, 2012).

I adore my dogs. Every day I look forward to coming home to their excited greeting and unwinding from the day by taking them for a good long walk. With one rather large caveat.

Enter chronic migraine land.

Sometimes (okay, a lot of times), I have a horrible migraine, and walking becomes incredibly painful. Each step is like a hammer blow to my head. So yes, my partner does a lot of solo dog walking.

To be fair, ninety-nine percent of the time he understands my limitations and gladly takes on extra work so I can rest. But when he gets tired or has a headache himself, he sometimes lashes out at me–because my migraines are just as frustrating to him as they are to me.

When he says things like that, even if he doesn’t really mean it, it plays directly into my guilt and self-doubt over the fact that I can’t do any kind of physical anything without getting a migraine (thankfully, this has changed in recent years, thanks to a change in medications and a lot of hard work on my part).

I often feel like I don’t deserve to have dogs. Or own a home. Or be a writer. I feel like I’m not good enough, because there’s a brick wall (migraines) between me and the thing that prevents me from engaging fully.

Intellectually, I know it’s silly to think about things in terms of deserving them or not. I can only do what I can do. My partner knows that. And a majority of the time, he respects that.

But it’s hard and frustrating for both of us when we feel that I’m not able to pull my own weight.

How do you react when family members accuse you of not doing enough?

#FridayReads: Read A Book Day 2018

Yesterday was National Read A Book Day.

Well, Kelly, you might ask, did you read a book?

Well, I might respond, is the sky blue? Is the grass green? Do humans need oxygen to survive? Are we still trapped in a hell dimension?

Which is to say, of course I read a book.

I’ll say a bit about the book I read, but first I want to draw your attention to two delightful essays on books by two fantastic authors. The first is this Twitter thread by Chuck Wendig (you might remember him from the whole gay Star Wars character thing right before The Force Awakens came out, and also that he gives zero fucks about your bigotry).


It’s a long thread, which you should read, but here is my favorite tweet:

Ah, yes. So true, Chuck. So true.

But on a more serious note, books are magical portals of escape! It’s like having a space ship in your pocket. Or a time machine. Or a jet. Or all of these things, and then some.

And more than that, books are vitally important repositories of knowledge, wisdom, and stories–you know, those things that we’ve been making up since the dawn of time? Those things that form our worldviews, our mythology, our religions? Those foundational elements of our very society and humanity?

Neil Gaiman, whose work I’m 100% confident saying saved my fucking life in high school, wrote an essay on the importance of books, libraries, and librarians. Artist Chris Riddell illustrated it, and you should read the whole thing, but I want to put the following image in a frame. Or get it tattooed on my arm. Something.

Words by Neil Gaiman. Pictures by Chris Riddell. Click through for the full essay.

The text in the image reads: Fiction is the lie that tells the truth. We all have an obligation to daydream. We have an obligation to imagine. It is easy to pretend that nobody can change anything, that society is huge and the individual is less than nothing. But the truth is, individuals are the future, and they do it by imagining that things can be different.

I was a miserable teenager. Depressed. Self-harming. Not *quite* suicidal, but man did I think a lot about suicide. Multiple English teachers took me aside to have conversations because they were worried I was going to hurt myself. They were right to worry. Thankfully, I had books. Books saved me. Those teachers saved me. Libraries saved me.

Books are fucking important, and if anyone tells you otherwise, they probably voted for our dipshit fuck president and you should probably run very far away from them

So back to what I was reading on National Read A Book Day.

Yesterday, I finished a re-read of Batman: Hush, which could easily go on my list of ten most important comics. I don’t remember the exact issue I started buying Batman month-to-month, but it was somewhere in the late 500s, and the Hush storyline started with #608, so it came pretty early in my Batman issue reading life. I’d read lots of Batman trade paperbacks before, but this was the first (Batman) storyline I remember reading piece by piece each month.

Reading Hush now took me right back to being an awkward goth teenager, convinced I was in love with a boy who certainly didn’t feel the same way, writing bad poetry about death, and escaping it all by submersing myself in novels and comic books.* I was prepared for my memory to not live up to the reality, but actually Hush is a pretty damn solid Batman story. It’s got everything a good Batman tale should have: Batman/Catwoman romantic tension, action-packed fights, a mystery that keeps you guessing, and Alfred’s dry humor.

Even back then, my bedroom was set up around my books. I had a bunk bed with a futon on the bottom. I hooked up a clip on desk lamp to the top and had pillows and a blanket to make a proper reading fort. The bookshelves in my room were cheap Ikea things, the actual shelves bowed from the number of books stacked onto them. I kept sturdy bags in my car for the sole purpose of filling them with library books whenever I had an excuse to be near the library

I remember reading Hush on that futon, my latest haul from the comic shop in a paper bag next to me, the issue spread across my lap. Thirty-two pages never took me long to read, but when I finished Batman, I had Ed Brubaker’s Catwoman. And then Fables. And then Star Wars. And after I’d gone through my monthly comics binge, I had David Weber’s Honor Harrington books, and Lois McMaster Bujold’s Miles Vorkosigan Saga, and Tolkien, and the volumes of Sandman I checked out of the library over and over.

Clearly, the whole book thing stuck, because now I write them, and teach other people how to write them, and work in a bookstore, where I get to talk about books all day.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Missing Lexi

Me, Jaina, D.J., and Lexi at Great Smoky Mountain National Park.

I had a dream about Lexi the other night. My dad’s dog Neo was there, too, and they were both puppies again. We played tug like we always used to, and when I squished her she got mad at me (also like she always used to).

Neo was about a year old when we got Lexi, and the two of them used to play together in our backyard. Neo was a huge German shepherd, and he could fit most of baby Lexi’s body in his mouth. He would flip her over and she’d paw at his muzzle, grring at him. They both liked to dig holes, so in the summer Neo would dig a hole and Lexi would “help” by laying down in it. We had to say goodbye to Neo almost two years ago, so I like to think they are running and digging and barking with each other wherever dog souls go when they leave this earth.

Neo with his favorite ball. I couldn’t find a picture of the two of them together.

Lexi liked to dig right up until the end. Most corgis aren’t diggers, but Lexi sure was. She would paw at the dirt with reckless abandon, getting it everywhere, including all over her fur and nose. I’m not sure she ever had a goal in mind—sometimes if it was hot she’d unearth the top layer of dirt to get to the cooler layers beneath, but mostly she just dug.

The first month of not having her was difficult, but I’ve been missing her a lot these past few weeks. I’m not sure why it’s been hitting me so hard lately, but every little thing reminds me of her. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I still expect her to be on the bed between us. She would raise her head up and look up at me to make sure everything was okay before falling back asleep.

Jaina doesn’t bark when we get home. She’s always at the door with her ears back and her tail wagging furiously, but she doesn’t vocalize other than maybe a happy whine. Lexi always started barking as soon as she heard the car door shut—and she kept barking until she was good and ready to stop. My parents’ shepherds bark like maniacs when anyone gets home (including me if I’m visiting), so it’s kind of weird that Jaina doesn’t.

D.J. and I have been spending a lot of time with Jaina since June. Taking her for lots of walks, making sure she gets plenty of play time, spoiling her with trips to the frozen yogurt place, taking her out to dinner with us, things like that. I know there are moments when she misses Lexi, too. I brought Lexi’s bed down from the third floor, and I watched Jaina sniff it. I saw the recognition of Lexi’s scent in her eyes and body language, and then she laid down next to the bed for a few minutes.

I spend a few minutes with Lexi’s ashes every day, and trace the impression her little corgi paw made in the clay. I still can’t help buy cry when I think about her big round eyes imploring me for another treat. But even when I miss her so fiercely it feels like there’s a supermassive black hole in my chest, I’m happy, too. Happy that we got to share each other’s lives, happy for her companionship and loyalty, happy for all the adventures we had, the mountains we climbed together.

The intense loss I feel is an indication of how strong our bond was, how much we went through together. One of my college professors once said that grief never goes away—you just stop feeling it so strongly every second of every day. You still feel it, and it’s always there, but the time between moments of grief becomes longer the further away you get from it. But, it’s still there. That always rang true to me.

So I let myself have my time with Lexi every day, and I let myself cry, and I let myself miss her. It’s the best thing I can do for myself.

 

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