The only real difference between medicine and poison is the dose....and intent

I started a new drug on Monday. It's not that the old stuff wasn't working, it just wasn't working well enough. The Headache has reared it's ugly head enough times over the two and a half years it's been around this time, that it seemed like a good idea. My neurologist (grown-up points, right there) pointed me to something that's only recently been deemed effective against neuropathic headaches. See, we're learning new words today, children.

I've slowly increased the dosage of the new stuff, pills that are so small I'm not even sure I've swallowed them until I let my tongue go a-wandering inside my mouth, while decreasing the dosage of Neurontin. So far, so good. No flare-ups yet. I'm only down to five Neurontin pills though, so there's still some way to go. Here's hoping.

Pills aren't really my thing. Up until six years ago, I couldn't even swallow pills, really. I was one of those people that ask their doctor for medicine in liquid form. I've always been like that. When I was seven and had pneumonia my mom ground up the antibiotics in ice cream. I didn't eat vanilla ice cream for a while after that...

Yet another thing Mah Girl has taught me. She's kept the calendar page where she wrote “Martin lost his pill virginity”.

Still, pills aren't really my thing. I hesitate before I even take Ibuprofen for a regular headache. Eating ten pills a day, which I did at one point this week, was excruciating. And not because I have a problem swallowing them anymore, just that I don't like eating pills.

I think it comes down to being a control freak. Having to pop pills meaning suffering from something I can't control. Which annoys the hell out of me. But I like being a control freak. It's sort of comforting. A damp blanket of borderline derangement that I like to wrap around my mind. Mmm, comfy.

There are other worlds than these

If I had a choice what to do with my time, I would write. Spend my days hunched over a laptop, tappin' away. Creating worlds. Crafting words.

I think a lot of people nurture dreams of writing. “If only I had the time I would write a novel”, and all that. I have spent some time wondering why this is. And I've come to the conclusion that I can only answer for myself. I have no idea why others want to write. Do you? Do you want to write, and if so, why? Tell me.

For me, it's all about worlds. A word, a phrase, a picture, a movie, a smell, can trigger a landslide of images and words inside my head. If I don't get them out, by writing them down, I think I would go mad. Seriously, full-blown, off the wall crazy.

There's a theory that every writer has two personalities inside of him, sometimes working together, sometimes in all-out war. Here's my take on that.

There's the Writer, who's the creative font, the one that can sit down and write hundreds of words without meaning, just to write. Just to see the pen move across the paper, or fingers across keyboard. He's the guy that stands up at the party and recites poetry, perhaps not correctly, but with passion and a smile on his face.

The Editor, on the other hand, is all about rules and regulations, structure and grammar. Creating something with no substance and, even worse, no form, is anathema to the Editor. There has to be a beginning, a middle and an end, and a clear path leading from one to the next to the last, preferably before he even sits down to write. Mindmaps and outlines and synopses are his favored tools. He's the guy who corrects the guy standing up at the party reciting poetry. And smirks while he does it.

For those of you that know me, it should come as no surprise that my Editor is stronger than my Writer. I'm a planner and a control freak. My Writer spends most days in a dusty corner of my mind, bound, gagged and blindfolded, while my Editor spends two weeks dissecting a single sentence, over and over and over. When he has a bad day he goes over and pulls a couple of the Writer's fingernails, just to watch him squirm.

I've read some books on writing, and discussed the craft a lot in the writing class (the good one) I've taken, where the idea of morning writing sessions has come up. This is the idea that you should get up an hour earlier every day and write. Keep the pen or fingers moving, regardless of what comes out. Even if you just write “I can't write. I can't write. I can't write” for sixty minutes. The very idea makes my Editor run around screaming in my head. Maybe that's why I have The Headache...

I need structure to write. Peace of mind. Time. Sure, an idea may come to me at the oddest moment, and I write it down, usually in my phone or in an email I send to myself, like a little treasure for me to unearth and polish a few days later. But if I try to sit down and just write, let the words flow, I feel miserable with the meaningless shit that comes out. Words without meaning have no meaning. On occasion, I've had what the class calls “a writing frenzy”, but it's a rare occurrence and even when I do, I manage to write something that has meaning and that I can edit into something worthwhile. “I can't write. I can't write. I can't write” over and over says nothing to me except that: I can't write. And I know that ain't true.

Pain is always new to the sufferer, but loses its originality for those around him

The Headache has been tormenting me for a couple of days. Its hard to describe how unfocused I become when the attacks punch through the haze of Neurontin. Before the pills, before they diagnosed me, the attacks were so bad I cried, and I spent two months cooking, reading and talking walks. Woke up several times each night from the pain. Sitting in front of a computer was impossible, and I could only get through a movie with a couple of pauses.

Since I started poppin' pills this time around, which was in January 2007, its broken through the drugs a few times. Two weeks in late 2007, when I had to stay home, and an odd day here and there. And now.

This time around its nowhere near as bad as in November of 07. I had to stay home from work Thursday and Friday, because I couldn't focus and didn't get enough sleep, but I intend to work tomorrow, unless it gets a lot worse. There's only three working days this coming week, so I should be able to get through it regardless.

Staying home and feeling the headaches has allowed my mind to wander. When it hits, it obliterates every single thing going on in my head, and my mind just zooms off into the distance. I lose focus. I think of odd things. Some tie into other things I've had going on, stuff I've been writing or just thoughts and feelings, some are completely new. I write some of them down, I forget some of them when the next attack comes crashing in.

The Headache sucks. If I could change one single thing about myself here and now, it would be that. Remove the headache. Screw losing 20 kilos and screw thicker chin hair and screw winning the lottery. The Headache must go.

I have a telephone appointment with my neurologist next week. My guess is she'll say the same thing as last time, “you should be happy the pills work”, and I want to talk about redoing some tests and whatever. I've done the CT and the MRI and all that, but I want to do them again. Check it all again. I already have a second opinion, which is from the neurologist I'm seeing now, but whatever. I need to be sure.

Because when the mind wanders, it sometimes wanders off in darker directions than it should.

The mastermind always wants more. It's criminal nature

At home today. Feels like someone punched me with a blunt object across the right temple. My eye is more bloodshot than last night. I've felt the headache over the last few days, but dared to believe it wouldn't flare up again. I'm still hopeful, though I've slept a few hours today, the head is still throbbing and I'm still tired. Pointless. What evolutionary quirk decided that headaches were a good idea?

A side note (though not really). Six people answered this. There still has to be a few lurkers out there. Come on. What are you afraid of? Tell me who you are.

Male or female?
Age?
Where do you call home?
How did you discover the shows in my mind?
Have we met? Or be you a stranger?
What should I write more about?
Name a blog or three you think I would like.
Name a band I should check out.

Drift like sleep

Drove through a flat and grey Sweden today, in a rental courtesy of Drunk Carl. Wovenhand on the stereo. Thy will be done, here on this highway.

Rainwash against the windows. Not a single snowflake, as far as the beard could see. When did it all change? White blooms to white and freezes white again.

Now cocooned in the comforts of home. Old home. Eyelids heavy. Right eye bloodshot. The headache is acting up. Sleep sounds like a good idea, but won't happen for a while. Jeff Dunham is on TV.

That state of mind where you realize that you're actually on vacation, that the office actually won't fall apart without you, is right around the corner, held off by the excellent combination of exhaustion and a major sugar rush. Hopefully it really hits me tomorrow.

Fuck you, you fuckin' fuck

Fuck. F U C K.

It's really the only word that fits. My headache is acting up. Tiny, tiny men run around inside my head, between my right temple and my right eye, and play with teeny tiny jackhammers.

Go here for more info on the headache of headaches.

This week is one of contrasts. On Thursday I go north for three days of creative writing with my class, which is always inspiring and fills me with energy. The same day it's two years ago my friend Henrik took his own life. Again...fuck.

I've only had to deal with a handful of deaths in my life, so I don't really have a frame of reference, but I do know that his death affected me harder than others have, and probably will. The main reason why is probably that he was like me, in a lot of ways, and if I can see myself in him, then chances are I could probably recognise at least some of the reasons why he decided to end his life.

Now, I've never contemplated suicide, but as far as anyone could tell, friends, family, everyone, neither had Henrik. Then again, they do say that people that do commit suicide never talk about it, but that might be a cliché. Put together with the fact that no one knows why Henrik killed himself, I find myself faced with the possibility that things may surface in my life that sends my thoughts in that very dark direction.

I know this is unreasonable. But feelings often are.

Every head has its own headache

For a few years now I’ve suffered periods of chronic headaches (I know chronic is supposed to be “all the time”, and as such it can’t be periodical, but I don’t know how else to describe it). When it first happened, I had no idea what it was. My right eye got all bloodshot, and I had severe stabbing pains just slightly above and in front of my right temple.

I spent an afternoon at the emergency room, watching an endless parade of old men holding the hands of their dying wives, drug users zonked out of their minds and screaming incoherently, car crash victims, and so on. It was horrible and emotionally draining.

Finally some med student barely out of Anatomy 101 found the time to meet me, had me stand on one leg, made me touch the tip of my nose with my eyes closed, brushed my face with a feather, etc. At first they thought I had Horton’s, which is sometimes called “the suicide headache”.

After being bounced around between a few doctors, I finally ended up with a neurologist at Huddinge hospital, who is part of a team that work exclusively with headaches. The final diagnosis is that I have SUNCT (I’ve learned what the acronym stands for – Short-lasting, Unilateral, Neuralgiform headache attacks with Conjunctival injection and Tearing – but have yet to say it in full while drunk).

SUNCT manifests in a variety of ways. Some people suffer a few hours of attacks and then never feel it again, and some have it all their lives and no drugs help.

I don't like the drugs, but the drugs like me

For me it was periods of attacks, about two months at a time with dozens, sometimes up to a hundred short stabbing attacks every day. I had problems sleeping, couldn’t watch TV for a long time or sit by the computer. I read books, took walks. Cooked a lot. My neurologist prescribed me a few different drugs, before we tried Neurontin. It’s normally used as an enhancer drug for epileptics, when their regular meds can’t do the trick, but also has documented results for various kinds of nerve pains. Such as mine.

For a glorious list of possible side effects and such, go here.

The last time the attacks started was January of 2007. They still haven’t stopped. 19 months and counting. Whoop-de-fucking-do. I eat pills three times a day, at 08:00, 15:00 and 22:00, seven pills in total. 3+2+2.

I’ve had them for so long now that the headache feels like an integral part of me. Which is just sad. The pills go with me everywhere.

Today, while Googling around for Neurontin info I found out that it’s been linked to a couple of suicides in the States. At first I wrote this off as The Land of Law Suits nonsense, until I found this. For a few minutes I seriously considered not eating my pills tonight. Until I read the whole article. A 0.43 percent increase in suicidality. Ehm…hardly something to worry about. I hope.