I was about 10 then when I first had them.

There was nothing unique about the day. I woke up to the pounding, knocks visiting me, continuing to visit me as I stood alienated, isolated, and bullied.

I could have ended it and now I sit writing this more than a decade later at 21. Coping has gotten easier I’ll admit, yet the knock, knock, knocking of chronic pain remains.

Here I am a soldier on this war-torn battlefield of life, not knowing what time’s hands say about the conclusion; whether I will find victory in the coffin, wounded the whole journey until that final home stretch or if the other side will come over the hill,  dotting the horizon with triumph’s stature  and a white flag waved in surrender.

I often think about Wednesday, and how even if the week has felt like trudging through the quicksand of pipe dreams, reaching Wednesday is suddenly seeing a vine right as I’m about to drown in an unrealized future.

I mean the vine in question may be a deadly viper, waiting for me to get out of the frying pan before consuming me in the fire, preferring its victims extra crispy. But I’d be a fool to not risk grabbing onto tragedy, and using my Swiss Army knife spirit to turn it advantageous.

Dear migraines, I have no idea when you’ll leave me, but I promise you this: I am fighting.

I am not afraid that this is not the end. I am not afraid that this is not even the beginning of the end. However, I am thankful that perhaps this is the end of the beginning.

I live in the parts where it is always Wednesday. I see as much behind me as I do in front of me, and you won’t prevent me from seeing both sides of my story.