2:50pm. A typical October afternoon. I turned to look at one of my students, and suddenly, the ceiling tiles started spinning, spiraling like a whirlpool, sinking downward. I clasped the table in front of me, willing myself to stay present, look at my students, and manage the classroom, but I could only muster the strength to hang on and count down the minutes before class ended, and I could run to the bathroom to throw up. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
The bell rang. I laid my head on the table, contemplating whether or not I could stand up and even make it to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes went by, and I remained trapped in my own body, superglued to this spot, this table, this safe harbor. Finally, I pushed myself off the table, shoved the heavy metal door open, and staggered into the light. The sunshine burned my eyes, and I leaned against the wall, making it support me while I wobbled around like a drunk. I dragged myself to the couch in the teacher’s lounge, laid down, and closed my eyes, praying that, miraculously, I would somehow get my faculties back and be able to drive myself home.
After seeing five specialists, taking a series of seemingly endless medications, and several ER visits over two years, I found out that this ordinary afternoon was the beginning of my battle with vestibular migraine, or migraine-associated vertigo, a diagnosis and a chronic illness that would hinder my ability to do the most mundane and ordinary tasks. Showering, getting dressed, walking, reading, completing sentences, recalling words, and driving on days with vertigo were now all herculean chores.
Many nights I would collapse on the bathroom floor, melting like candle wax, tears dripping down my face, angry at the world and exhausted by how difficult daily life had become. Most mornings, I cried the whole way into work, frustrated that I was left with more questions than answers and looked “normal” to everyone else on the outside. I became a chameleon, constantly changing colors to blend in with the world. “How are you today?” “Good, thanks.” That’s what people wanted to hear. They certainly didn’t want to listen to the truth. I was a vase that had been shattered one too many times; jagged edges pieced together, but when the light hit it, all its imperfections and cracks showed. I learned to fade into the background, observing but not engaging in conversation, watching in awe of how easily most people seemed to glide through their lives and daily activities. Each day, I put on my mask, march one foot in front of the other, and try again.
*Note: I wrote this story several years ago to chronicle my experience of the onset of my vestibular migraine disease, a journey that began in October 2016.
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