It's sad to be sick. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an Original Essay Your Body Lets You Down. You can't do the things you would normally like to do. Your duvet has become your new best friend and everything smells pretty stale and sweaty. You must miss the reunion concert of your favorite childhood band. You're really pissed about this because you booked tickets last year and couldn't wait. You lack training for a new role at work. You miss out on the opportunity to go shopping alone. You don't know how to cook. You start to lose control. You drag yourself to a series of doctor visits but no one knows what's wrong. Thirteen “professionals” later, ten diagnoses and they finally give you a blood test for a possible cause. What you know is not true. "But you feel better, don't you?" Because it can't go on that long. “Stop being so miserable.” “If you ate your carrots, you wouldn't get sick.” The words “stroke” and “aneurysm” are uttered deliberately nonchalantly, are thrown over phone lines to avoid lawsuits, and are the reason you find yourself under house arrest for nearly 24 hours. “It's cheese. You eat too much cheese. "It's chocolate." “You shouldn't eat it.” (You want to scream. They mean well. But now you'd really like to hit a wall. It's not cheese or chocolate. Or exercise. It's your head. Your head is broken. You go back to live with your parents, released every end week from your boyfriend for "good behavior." You're trapped within the confines of your own headaches, riding the crest of a wave of migraines before being hit with nausea and dizziness that drag you down. You lose your identity as you you stick to that of all the other plans: you are no longer sure that you will be left alone in case you implode, you become the best shadow in the world. “You should walk more.” “You need to go out more.” , you would feel better.” “You have to get up now.” They give you pills, lots of pills. Those to stop the nausea make you vomit everyone else seems to be standing. "Oh, you look much better - doesn't he look much better?" "How are you feeling today?" Better?" "You look better." You are pushed through a donut in the back of a truck (the only CT angiography you might be offered) by a man who, in an attempt to be funny, pretends to have lost all his equipment. This is not funny. You don't laugh. Instead you despair of the events leading up to this moment; the moment you're tied up in a head brace, waiting for an injection that will make you think you've peed yourself. on you, alone in the back of a truck with a madman. “I'm so happy to hear you're better.” “Migraine they say? Surely it's gone now?” "Are you still better?" "Why not?" Now you are convinced that it is a brain tumor. Google assures you it's a tumor. It's not a tumor. It's not a hemorrhage. You're not having a stroke. It's just a migraine. A blocked migraine. One who was stuck for twelve weeks, seemingly for no reason. This is why you struggle to stand, can't see well, and have to lie on the floor, locking your knees in an attempt to make the world stop shaking. "I'm just worried that if you go home, I won't get better." “You'll just stay in bed.” "You have to promise me you'll exercise." With a diagnosis in tow, you can go home. Now you can live on your own and drive a car, just for a little while. You can go back to writing your essay and paying your council tax. You can go back to the pieces of your life that.