Since last Sunday, I have had a migraine.
It is thought that the author Lewis Carroll suffered from migraine, complete with auras. In fact, he wrote of at least one episode in his diary. Some have speculated that this, or the medication he took for his migraines, explains the outlandish scenes and characters from Alice in Wonderland.
I’m not sure how much of his creativity can be explained by neurological problems or narcotics, but I know how migraine can alter one’s perceptions of the world around her or him. Sounds are louder, lights are brighter. Mild smells become overwhelming and nauseating. Small annoyances become huge aggravations, while small tasks become exhausting. Then there’s thinking. It becomes fuzzy, jumbled. Peoples’ conversations – both the migraineur’s and their companion’s – become difficult to comprehend.
It is not a fun way to live, and even if I could write like Lewis Carroll, I’d give that up to stop having migraines.