If my life was a fairytale, the wicked witch that cast this curse upon me is jus' jelly and as soon as my true love shows up and plants one on me, I'll be fine! Happy, in fact! Ever after, even. My boyfriend will be glad to hear it.
If my life was a movie, my migraines would be indicative of poor life choices or self-loathing or that I need to forgive my father. Once I overcome my obstacles (in montage, accompanied by a kicky pop song) and tearfully reunite with all of the people who have wronged me, the pain will lift or at least I'll have some kind of epiphany wherein I realize that the pain was never about my head, but about my heart.
If my life was a song, it would be bluesy and melancholy, or country and woeful, or rock and angry, or pop and hopeful.
If my life was someone else's it would likely look different. They might use triptans, or reside in an assisted living apartment. He might have a kid that also suffers when daddy suffers, or she might have kept working long after I did, having found strength that I simply could not summon.
I'm not sure what I'm getting at here, honestly. It's all stories, different versions and perspectives, different morals and attitudes, different reasons for sharing the things we do. My story is winding; sometimes wild and strange and sometimes so boring we could all cry from the dull. But when I tell my story, what's important? Surviving the pain, or when it beats me? My good days or bad? Is it possible to live the story while telling it, and do both effectively?
I'm not sure. Maybe not with migraine, maybe not for me. But that won't stop me from trying, because MAYBE I CAN.