Writing When You’re a Migrainous, Mostly Depressed Person

Writing can be a difficult task when your mind does not respond to your desires, when the slightest pain destroys all motivation, leaving you feeling weak and defeated.

Migraine

Some days, when I wake up in the morning, I can barely open my eyes. That’s how violent the headache is; the Migraine, this pain so perfect that it feels human-made, this evil so deep that it makes every move a torture, this chronic harm that makes the weight of your hair unbearable on your head, that makes the light of a candle more blinding than the beam of a lighthouse, or the song of a bird as deafening as the engine of a World War II bombarder.

Migraine, number one enemy of my writing.

The only thing I can do on days like these is lie in bed with a pack of ice on my forehead and paracetamol in my blood. Drink water, close my eyes, and imagine a blue light in the darkness of my bedroom. The only thing I can do on days like these is lie in bed and think. That’s when story lines and characters start developing in my mind. I create a hundred stories and more, of which I’ll remember only the best bits a few hours later.

I’ve hacked the Migraine, it won’t stop me from being the artist I am.

Depression

Some days, when I wake up in the morning, I only want to go back to sleep. That’s how bad Depression is. It makes me lazy and sad, wondering what’s the point in getting up. It makes me feel useless and worthless. It makes the world look gray and cloudy, filled with death and fueled with pain. It makes life look like nothing more than a grotesque vaudeville leading to death, a futility, a waste of time.

Depression, number two enemy of my writing.

The only thing I can do on days like these is listen to sad songs, and comment to myself how right they are. The loneliness and the pain. No one capable of understanding. The only thing I can do on days like these is listen to sad songs and get inspired. That’s when emotions and feelings transform into words. I write poems and confessions, as if throwing up this bitter bile to the face of my therapist.

I’ve hacked the Depression, it won’t stop me from being the artist I am.

All of this to say…

… that there’s never a good reason to not write. If I’m healthy enough to complain (and write an entire blog post) about why I can’t write, then I’m healthy enough to write. The only thing left to do is grab a pen and a notebook, and start putting words on paper. The Migraine will fade because I’m not focusing on it anymore, and Depression will go because I’m not feeding it anymore.

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