Rushlight's Muse

About Me

It's not me, it's the medication....

My info

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The short story:
I'm a Christian living in east Texas. I've lived for many years with powerful migraines. I've recently had brain surgery and started having seizures. These and other trials have taught me a great deal about faith, love, friendship, and the value of a long, hard belly-laugh.

About this blog

I started this blog to try to force myself to write more and more often.

Dogs have some of the greatest impacts on my life right now. They heal me with their presence. They are my partners at work. They are sources of triumph and humility. And slobber. But we'll talk about that later....

gustongue.jpg
Gus (RIP)

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DAD Dog Toby, alerting on a scent article.

I have spent many long, agonizing hours in my life in the throws of migraines.  It has had a profound effect on me as a person.
 
Early into my treatment by my first neurologist, he told me that he has had patients try to use their talents in some way to express how their migraines make them feel.  He explained that he had one woman who painted a complex piece depicting her pain and feelings during a migraine. 
 
In an attempt to do this, I wrote the following piece:
 
 
You sit alone in the cold grey of your cell, its thick walls isolating you from most of the world.  You've learned to recognize the booted steps of your jailer when he brings you bread and water, sometimes a greasy bit of meat or mealy apple.
 
You've also learned another sound, can hear it from quite far off.  The torturer comes on booted feet, and he's placed brass tacks in the heels so you can be sure to hear him coming up the stone hallways.  Clack-clack-cli-cli-clack he comes.  And at the first faint whispers of it you hold your breath to try to hear which way he's going, but it's hard to tell for the thundering pulse in your ears.  The clacking gets louder and louder and soon stops in front of your door.  The rattle and scrape of keys in the rusty lock...and there he is. 
 
There's nowhere to hide.  And you wish he's ask you questions because you'd tell him anything, anything, to make him go away.  But he's only here to practice his craft, which he does with great skill and precision.  For hours you wallow in the rich agony that makes you welcome death, but you aren't allowed even the respite of unconsciousness.  You writhe and retch and moan until you are a sodden, broken mess, and then he leaves you just as matter-of-factly as he came.
 
Until the next time.
 
 
 
 
 

Deer down

The Animal Rescue Site

Sanctuary for Kids

 
 
 
 
 
from the East Texas Woods