Migraine Escapes

I have a migraine and I need my happy place. 

What is your happy place? Is it a sun-filled room, or a childhood hiking trail by the Caspian sea? Is it your grandparents’ linen closet, where you’d take turns climbing up to the top of the neatly stacked pillows and blankets? Did you ever take the turn that was yours? Was your fear of heights passed onto you in the womb? A vague, distant story about a thrilling roller coaster while mum was pregnant with you. What about all of your other fears? It’s hard to pinpoint… you were around 9 when you saw a body get pulled out of the Caspian sea. Shrieking mothers and kids telling stories of seeing a dead body with a blue-ish purple hue. Eyeballs spilling out of their sockets.

Is your happy place imaginary? Or does it have the warmth of tea and the smell of jasmine? 
Where do you go when you put the eye mask on? Right after you take more pills than the recommended dose on the ibuprofen bottle? Because any pain is more durable than a migraine. It used to be the sea, at night. Because sunlight is the enemy. And so are sounds and smells. Even if it’s a child’s laughter or your favorite show. Even if the whole place smells like your grandmother’s garden or your favorite takeout place. The pounding in your temples increases with the slightest proof of the existence of your humanly senses.

There’s a knot in your throat and movement, and talk, and touch, trigger it. Your lips are clenched together, to keep it all inside. He would turn the volume up on the TV and turn on all the lights in the house. You would take a scarf and tie it as hard as possible around your temples. Hoping to stop the veins from pumping blood to your skull. The walls are thin.

Escape to your happy place. This dark room is a start, but perhaps not dark or quiet enough. The sea at nighttime. The sound of waves, the cold sand escaping through fingers of your clenched fists. You breathe in and out – you’re out here and then… the nightmare haunts. You’re in a foreign land – the place of your birth. With a foreign man who speaks your mother tongue. Here you are, by the Caspian sea, at night, and the waves are crashing and you are terrified. You look at your phone and have no signal. You’re miles away from a home that no longer boasts of a massive linen closet (because things changed after you left and people moved and sold things and places). And you’re sitting down on cold sand with a man you know nothing about and are married to. The knot is now in your stomach. It’s like when it’s your turn to climb the pillows and suddenly you want someone else to go instead. The fear crashes like waves onto your internal organs, and suddenly you wonder why your happy place has always been moonless. You hear footsteps or maybe it’s a shadow of a loner in the distance, and you think maybe you should have taken martial arts lessons as a child. There is nothing scarier in the whole wide world than a man. 

You look at your husband and say it’s probably time to leave. He looks more scared than you do. As you lock eyes, logistical possibilities crowd your mind: divorce? Learning to love and cherish? Moving away to a land where the sun never sets? of a promising future filled with homeliness sunlight… he puts his hand out – fingers cold and slippery as icicles, the waves inside making a colossal splash, whatever the opposite of safety and love is… You walk to the car, with a faster pace than is deemed normal, and you lock your door. The car starts and as soon as the lights turn on (as if on cue) your anxiety kicks in and you look at the gas tank icon: empty. Waves, crashing. You look at your phone, no signal. You turn onto a street with no lights. You look back, you look forward: no cars no houses, no people as far as the headlights let you see. Cold sweat sits on your body, under the scarf and the mandatory hijab, and you loosen the knot around your neck. Your eyes are fixed on the gas tank as if through some magical power the handle will move. No phone signal. No gas. There’s now a heavy fog that the headlights can barely break through. Fog was your favorite option to select while playing on your gaming console, racing cars at 10 years old. You’ve been driving for 20 mins on a low tank in the fog. Not a comforting word in sight. Fear as we both look ahead. It’s dark and uncertain. It doesn’t feel like an adventure, but a horrible mistake. You feel a migraine coming along, and think of a new happy place. The moonless Caspian sea at night will no longer do.