Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay
It’s Sunday afternoon. I’m lying on the sofa, a cushion between my knees. The culmination of pressure in my head and ears commands my attention. I feel as though I’m continually falling. I can’t rely on my legs to keep my balance. I’m dizzy. The force inside my head is making my eyes water.
I’m trying to focus my gaze. The small fan is rotating slowly; every few seconds it blows in the direction of the table making the tassels of the table runner dance in the soothing breeze. The window shutters are closed, keeping out the strength of the brightness from outside.
Around the corner from where I am lying, is my boyfriend who is in the kitchen, preparing food. I know it’s scary for him too – the unpredictable nature of this condition. The extractor fan whirrs tiredly amidst the muffled tap of the wooden spatula on the frying pan. There’s a soft hum of the radio and the smell of onions softening.
I’m frustrated. Trapped. I try to convince myself better, to think myself OK. It doesn’t work. My tinnitus squeals with more intensity than the usual soundtrack to my days. I want to be better. I’m so angry with this condition. When it decides to strike there’s no fighting it. Fighting will only aggravate it. I have to wait it out.
I remind myself to make sure I focus on the good days, to seize and enjoy them. But, on days like this, I have to let it win. I can’t beat it, I can only manage it with acceptance and with obedient patience.
In a dark and quiet room, there is no peace. High-pitched sparks are flying like shooting stars in my head. It feels like foam insulation – the type that builders use – has been sprayed into my left ear and is quickly expanding inside my skull, my jaw, my neck. Like an arm wrestle in stalemate, a band tightens around my head pushing against the strength of the packing. The pillow hurts my head when lying down. Sitting up, my head feels so painfully heavy.
The boat is more rocky than usual. The world seems to be spinning faster or has it slowed down? My arms and legs feel weak and loose. Simple coordination tasks demand a disproportionate amount of concentration. With a lack of coordination-control and a pounding head, I feel both drunk and hungover. I’m walking on sand, sinking with every step.
I’m looking through thunder clouds full of murky unclear pressure. Lights cause pain behind my eyes and it’s difficult to focus.
My body is on high alert. I’m more sensitive, nervy, jumpy. Even the smallest of noises make my heart tingle with nervousness. My energy is draining by the second. My thoughts are muddled, jumbled.
I’m trying to be patient, waiting for it to pass; trying not to feel guilty for not doing the things I wanted to, for not being productive. I don’t feel how I used to. I don’t feel like myself. I don’t want to be this person. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be.
Diagnoses are ever-changing, multiplying and evolving with every new symptom.
Whether it’s days or weeks, this time, until the symptoms fade back to a low rumble, I know I will get through this.
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