Sunday, August 28, 2011


As I was cleaning piles of paper,
what is the matter with me and these piles of paper,
anyway, I was cleaning them up, finally and happily getting organized
I found this story written in my mom's own handwriting.
No wonder I don't like to go through these piles.
Her life was challenging....

My old friends? (sarcasm) As Mom used to say, "If I had a nickel for every headache I ever had, I would be rich."

Mostly in the left eye, shooting up through my skull, burning, boring, penetrating down on my left side of my neck deep in the muscles of my neck.

Give it up, Joyce. The day is given over to my pain. Discouraging, depressing. Who could understand. Isolating. It seems that only someone else who suffers chronic headaches could understand. Lynn has learned to accommodate after I learned to be straight with him and expect his understanding.

I always felt shame about anything that hurt my body. A need to hide.

I keep so much secret; like I must hide myself from discovery.

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