“More Than a Headache” by Madison DeCicca

I was fourteen when it started. Freshman year of high school. Everyone else seemed to be figuring who they were and what they wanted to become, and I was just trying to make it through the day. Suddenly, my body became a war zone. My mind was unsure whether focusing or surviving was more important.

It isn’t just a headache. And I feel the need to say that again: It is not just a headache. People throw the word “migraine” around like it's a slightly worse headache. For me, it’s been a daily, stabbing, throbbing, paralyzing nightmare that I can’t wake up from. A nightmare that changed every aspect of my life.

Every single morning, I wake up in excruciating pain. Not the figurative type. Real, sharp, pulsing pain all over my head. This pain blurred my vision for six months, I could barely see straight. Though my vision is better now, it still comes back to haunt me sometimes. I still can’t go out in the light some days, and even everyday things like using a computer for school can trigger or worsen the pain. No amount of sleep fixes it. No food, no fresh air, no screen break. It’s always there. And “drinking more water” isn’t going to be the magical cure.

There are many days when I can’t open my eyes in the morning. Not because I loathe school like many teenagers. But because my brain simply couldn’t handle the overwhelming pain the light caused. There were weeks I had to isolate myself in a blacked-out room, missing class after class, test after test, moment after moment where everyone else got to live. I missed over two months of school. I lost friendships, and saw my perfect straight A’s slip. I felt like a spectator of my own life, watching it slowly fade away.

Yet, the world didn’t stop spinning. That is what they don’t tell you about chronic migraines and chronic illness in general: life continues on. Teachers still require you turn in your work on time. Your job still expects you to show up. Your team still has practice and they count on you being there. You’re still expected to smile, function, participate and succeed. Even when you’re in constant pain and your body is falling apart. I’ve had to fight through my long shifts at the grocery store or difficult classes like I’m not in agony every second. There’s no pause button. The world does not slow down because you’re sick.

People didn’t understand.

They still don’t. I’ve heard it all:

“Just take Advill”

“I get headaches too – it's not that bad”

“ You’re being dramatic”

“ It’s not possible to have a headache everyday”

“Everyone’s tired, just push through it”

There’s nothing more disheartening than being in constant, life-interrupting pain and having people around you treat it like you’re faking for attention. If people could feel my pain for one day, they’d be begging for relief by breakfast.

And that's the thing: I’ve begged and begged. I’ve sat in so many cold doctors’ offices, I’ve lost count. General physicians, neurologists, eye doctors, and headache specialists. You name the specialist, I’ve seen them. And I’m beyond grateful to my doctors. But the worst part is they all start to sound the same. They offer a new pill, new

supplement, new suggestion, a new promise. And every time I pray maybe this is it. Maybe this is the solution.

But it never is. Sometimes the medication even makes the pain worse. Sometimes it takes away my ability to concentrate, or sleep, or eat. Sometimes, it feels like it steals part of me – my energy, my ability to be present, my ability to be a teenager. Honestly, the side effects are often worse than the migraines themselves. I’m constantly asking myself questions like these: Is a slightly less painful migraine worth not being able to feel emotions? Or is feeling nauseous better head-splitting agony?

I expected my freshman year of high school to be fun and worry free. Obsessing over boys and what I was going to wear to the dance. I never thought “choosing my pain” would become part of my daily routine.

There’s this aching feeling of hopelessness that comes when you try everything and nothing works. You start to dread the doctors appointments even more than usual because you know the outcome. People tell you it’ll get better, but what if it doesn’t. What if this is just how my life is supposed to be?

Through all the pain, there’s one moment that shook me more than any physical symptom ever could. It was the look on my dad’s face when he realized he couldn’t help me. I’ve seen my dad worry before, but not like that. I think he tried to hide his fear from me the best he could. But it was so blatantly obvious. I could hear the fear in his voice and see it on his face whenever we talked about my migraines. Once I realized this, I wasn’t just scared for myself anymore. I was scared of what this was doing to my loved ones.

I don’t want to sugarcoat this essay. Chronic illness isn’t pretty. I could try to end on an inspirational note. I could explain how I’ve “learned to be strong” or "discovered resilience” or how I've “become more empathetic”. And yes, all those things are true and my experience with chronic illness is part of what makes me who I am. But at the end of the day: I’m still in pain. Every day of my life.

But here’s what I’ve come to believe: There is power in naming the pain. There is power when you say “ This is what I’m going through,”even when no one else can see it. There is power in surviving even when it feels like you may not. Even when surviving looks like staying in bed and pushing through another migraine wave. There is power in learning to advocate for yourself. Even when teachers and counselors try to dismiss you, you must fight. And there is so much power in knowing you’re never alone, there will always be someone to lean on.

Chronic pain takes things from you. It takes your time, your energy, your connections, your trust. But it also gives you an ability that can’t be taught. The ability to keep going when everything is screaming at you to stop. That is the kind of courage I never wanted, but earned. The courage that tells me if I want to do it, then I can.

I used to feel embarrassed about how much of life my migraines have stolen from me. Now I feel angry, because I realized it’s not my fault. And in an odd way, that anger is motivating. It makes me want to tell my story louder, so others don’t feel alone. It makes me want to push for more research, awareness, and compassion for the millions of people that suffer from chronic migraines and chronic illness. I don’t want people to feel the same pain and suffering I do. The anger makes me want to shatter the idea that chronic illness looks a certain way

It’s possible to look “fine” and still feel like your skull is splitting in half. You can smile and not be able to see what you're smiling at because your vision is so blurry. You can be there, even when the world says you’re lazy or dramatic.

I’m still figuring things out. I don’t have a solution or a happy ending to share yet. But I have found pieces of hope throughout my life. In the friend who doesn’t question my pain, or in the school nurse’s office, or with the sweet French teacher who helped me succeed in her class. I learned that even when your body is fighting you, you have to fight back. Grit and tenacity will be the reason you survive.

And that’s what this essay is for. It’s for the fourteen-year-old who had no clue what was happening or why she felt like this. It’s for the person reading this who thinks they’re crazy for reading feeling so horrible. It’s for anyone who is fighting the unrelenting battle that is chronic illness. This essay is for anyone who has ever felt like their illness was invisible, ignored or dismissed.

It’s not just a headache.

And remember you are not alone.