How do I explain my migraines to others?  They ask politely how I'm feeling.  They offer words of advice and sympathy.

"Migraine?" they say.  "When I have a 'headache' I just sleep it off."

Sleep...if only it would come.  "Maybe someday I'll be able to just sleep it off, too."

My migraine is so much more than headache.

My migraine is the mania that comes days before the other symptoms hit. 

My migraine is the restless, can't sit still, have to start and finish every major project I can think of feeling.

My migraine is the feeling that I can do ANYTHING--until the other symptoms come (and they always do, after the mania).

My migraine is the twisting, turning, sparkling lights and "floaters" that appear in my eyes.

My migraine is the blank, black spots I see (like a puzzle with missing pieces). 

My migraine is the squishy, flip-floppy, achy stomach that comes just before the vomiting begins.

My migraine is the pain.  It comes at the very same time as the aura and the vomiting. 

My migraine is the throbbing, aching, soreness in my scalp, neck, and jaw.

My migraine is filled with pain--pain that hides all the good in my life.  Pain that has a way of swallowing up all that I look forward to, hope for, and smile about. 

My migraine is pain that sometimes becomes such a part of "me" that it stays for days...and days...and days...with no relief or comfort at all.

My migraine takes up so much of me that there is no "me" left...

My migraine leaves me with no energy.

My migraine leaves me sleeping, finally, once the pain has gone.

My migraine leaves me wishing I could somehow find the energy to lift my body from the bed to make my children a meal.

My migraine leaves me praying that I will someday feel "normal" enough to have a "normal" family life.

My migraine is a drawer full of current and past medications.

My migraine is a steady stream of medications, all of which have had side effects.

My migraine is meds that make me sleepy, nervous, constipated, grouchy, and empty-feeling.

My migraine is airline flights to see a specialist.

My migraine is painful shots in my head and neck--pain that hopefully will bring short-term relief.

My migraine is countless pills, shots, and suppositories, all with very little help.

My migraine is medical help that my family really can't afford.

My migraine is more than just "me" and "mine."

My migraine is the worried look on my son's face as he sees the sunlight bothering my eyes.

My migraine is the words of concern my boys have every time I feel even a twinge of head pain--they have become so sensitive to my health that they warn me of an impending migraine before I even feel it.

My migraine is the quiet, whispering voice my children use when they know I'm too sick for them to speak normally.

My migraine is my son saying, "Mom, if we are extra good tonight, do you think you will feel all better by morning?"