Dear Mr. H. Migraine,

I hope my letter finds my dearest and oldest companion in an agreeable mood and temperament. Although a letter would seem silly, as you are such a frequent visitor, we never communicate during your visits, and I would like to talk about our long and sordid relationship. I hope for us to work toward a better partnership.

You came into my life similar to how lightning meets the sands of a beach. There was no warning, and your very presence dropped me to my knees. The immense power you had over me was all I could do was hold myself together in fear that I could not keep the fabric of my being together. You do not have a face, although I am unsure if having a face would make you more or less scary, as your presence alone is terrifying even to recall. 

The moments ticked by as I stubbornly refused to make a sound or submit to your will. The clock’s ticking was in rhythm to your punishment of me, so loud, as if it was more significant than the clocks in the town squares and as if I could hear each gear moving, whirling, and ticking. 

Even after all this time, I am still unsure of what I did. I am sure of one thing: you are the immortal henchman of punishment. You are unkillable, indestructible, and unstoppable. You are the embodiment of strength and power. Your power over the human body is something to behold, and I admire its brilliance and beauty.

You start with confusion and a sense of foreboding. The voices of others become more acute. The sunlight and lightbulbs are just a little too bright, and the colors are too vivid. My eyes searched for you. You arrive at an iridescent geometric spot of doom before moving to aphasia. Every day, items or words are wrong; I am losing my understanding of reality in real-time, and I know it’s happening. I cannot deny that you are pulling me toward your chamber of unequivocal torture that is imminent, and there is nowhere to hide.

Conversations are slow to comprehend, and replying to questions sounds like talking through water. My voice is not my own. You leave me unable to communicate. I slur my words, saying things completely different from what I meant. This part causes extreme anxiety and is a double-edged sword. Anxiety speeds you through the express line to torture, but that thought alone produces more anxiety for the dreaded next step, the inability to remember what day it is, who your loved ones are, and even your name. So, of course, my only option is to repeat over and over my name is…, and my husband is…. It’s like you do this for your amusement of seeing me completely forget those around me that I love the most. 

Then, as you envelop me in your embrace, it comes like a tidal wave of every moment of regret and wrongdoing in the form of excruciating agony. I can only lay still, not daring to tip my equilibrium and press my eyes too tightly together to let out a tear, as it only adds to your torture. The pressure is like being at the ocean’s bottom while seasick. Every moment is spent contemplating every wrong thing I have said or done as though you are not long for the next life. At least you hope so because, at this point, death is a welcomed savior from you.

Your visits are sometimes brief, and other times, you stay like an unwelcomed squatter for days or weeks as though you will never tire of torturing me. The explosions of iridescent colors are so bright that they feel like daggers, open or closed, through my eyes. It makes no difference. You forced me to be blinded by you throughout the process for days.

Now, we are both getting older, and even though you are still all-powerful, we must take time away from each other more frequently. Let’s come to a truce. I don’t wish you to visit my worst enemies, but I would like you not to see me so often. I would like to spend the time I have left with my husband and family.

I understand you want to take me as you have so many; that is the nature of what you are, but you won’t win. I was born during the “Storm of the Century,” in the middle of a category five hurricane, and it portended my strength and my sheer stubbornness for survival. We can continue this dance if you insist, but you will have a long wait until I pass on an old woman warm in my bed when I am good and ready to go, but you will never take me by force. So do your worst; I am ready. 

Sincerely, Calliope Richard
(Style score 100%)