Sunday night, my head started aching as if it were about to split open and I couldn’t sleep. There wasn’t too much work that had to be finished before the week started, but work hadn’t left my mind for even a minute.
“Whatever has your eyes staring into the void right now, it’s going to be here again, in a few hours.”
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Monday morning, my headache didn’t go away. I’m not someone who gets headaches. And I’m definitely not someone whose headache gets bad enough to cause light and sound sensitivity. After a Monday that ended in a full-blown meltdown, I went to the hospital Tuesday morning, listening to my boss’ advice. After a series of checkups, the doctor ordered an MRI. The first thing that came to mind after hearing that was, “So… I’m actually going to be unreachable for a while?” and I felt relief.
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My MRI appointment was set for later that same afternoon, but I went to the hospital early on purpose. Perhaps I could sit and read for twenty minutes. There was a certain quiet on that lower floor, where my phones had stopped getting service. For one reason or another, everybody had finally stopped texting me.
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I got on the machine. The nurse handed me a pump-like thing and told me to squeeze it if I felt uncomfortable inside. She reminded me not to move or swallow too much. The moment I placed my head on the device, I felt like I had shifted dimensions. My phones, and every other stimulus that usually occupy my brain during the day, were far away. As soon as my body was stabilized, my mind started slowing down. I couldn’t help but feel like I was on a ride at an amusement park. That same childlike thrill you feel right after getting on a ride completely took over me.
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Since I couldn’t move, I fixed my eyes on the narrow wall of the MRI tunnel and just waited. The first sound that echoed sent a gentle tremor through my body. I listened to each noise like it was music, unmoving, staring at the wall. It took me a while to control the Cheshire-like grin that settled across my face. Soon, I started seeing the shapes on the wall shift. The instruction to stay still eventually faded from my mind, I was already pinned down. The sounds that everyone else refers to as “noise” reminded me of some electronic/witch house songs I listen to. I smiled. I thought, “This beat is actually good…” and smiled again. I started layering new sounds over the existing ones in my head and danced with the rising sounds echoing through my brain.
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The sounds of the machine completely drowned out the static in me that is shaped by stress, panic, urgency and anxiety. During those twenty minutes, where I wasn’t required to do anything at all, I felt like I’ve established a connection with my own existence. Afterward, I caught my own eyes in the mirror of the changing room. I looked like I had just gotten a massage. The MRI machine, which most people associate with emotions such as unease, fear, and panic, became my refuge. For the first time in a very long while, I realized those twenty minutes were the only time I wasn’t surrounded by performance, pleasing, overthinking, or pressure. I didn’t have to move, respond, or be fast. My mind was finally calm.
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That peace didn’t last long. The 17 messages that hadn’t been delivered due to that basement floor were waiting for me the second I stepped out of the hospital.
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