Between the Temples

On the reality of stuff that's all in your head.

The whole thing started eight weeks ago, when I woke up with a pulsing between my temples, like my brain had opened a nightclub. The day went on and the pulse got heavier, achier. It didn’t stop me from sitting at my desk, or going to work, or doing any of the thousand and one grown-up chores that constitute being a grown-up, but the pain was there through it all. I went to bed with the drum and bass thumping inside my brain.

I woke up to the same drumbeat making me physically aware of the pulpy grey mass in my skull. Did all the things you’re meant to do for a headache: plenty of water, screen-free work for the day, bed early that night. Woke up the next morning with the headache. It started coming back at nights. I stopped sleeping for longer than a couple hours at a time.

After sleep, reading was the next thing to go, and for the weirdest reason. First it was the usual complaint: I couldn’t focus on a page for more than a paragraph. I tried to force myself to stay in my chair and stare at the words like a meditative act (keep bringing the attention back to the page, back to the page, ignore that thought, back to the page, put down your phone, back to the page…) and that’s when it happened. The overwhelming need to lift my eyes up and to the left. I could feel the position of my eyeballs in their sockets and, like an itch that demands scratching fingers, the muscles behind my eyes demanded I stretch them. Specifically up and to the left.

This kept happening as my eyes tried to reach the bottom of the page. Up and to the left. As the days went on and my books were read more slowly, choppy, fragments of comprehension at best, this developed into a full-blown tic that required my whole head. I’d be fine until I opened a book, then I’d have to lift my chin up like a reverse nod, flexing the place in my neck where the top of the spine meets the base of the skull. It felt mechanical, like a stiff joint that needs flexing, but I’m not entirely stupid — it was clearly psychological.

This tic made reading impossible, except for Michael Crichton novels, at first, then kids books. Like push ups for the brain, I forced myself to sit down with a big-boy book and follow the words, so I picked up William Styron’s Darkness Visible, his memoir about depression. I guess I was seeking the comfort of a like-mind, the camaraderie of the trenches. Total mistake. Miserable, I went back to escapism. I re-read Roald Dahl, then some Animorphs. I re-read the Harry Potter books. I still wasn’t sleeping, so these silly adventures were company in the darkest hours when my thoughts got dark too.

Lately, I’d been working on a deep-dive story about Bill Watterson, creator of Calvin and Hobbes. It was a passion project that thrilled me when I first started researching it. I’d written about 3,500 words of what was looking likely to reach 6,000 words easy. I couldn’t write it any more. It would take me half a day to drag myself to my desk, wrapped in an old cardigan. I’d shift a paragraph, delete a line, stare for a while, and my heart would start racing, shallow breaths. The ache in my head would be doing its thing, the tic in my neck would be ticking, and the page remained blank.

I’d shut the laptop and tell myself I was sweating because the weather was warming up, tell myself my heart was racing because I drank too much caffeine, didn’t get enough sleep, tell myself I’d be back on form tomorrow and the essay could wait until then, tell myself to go do something useful so I wouldn’t be a complete waste of DNA. I told myself a lot of things to avoid the obvious — that I wasn’t very well. Then the panic attacks started.

I kept turning up to the day job, surprised at how much more I could deal with than I’d have guessed at the start of a shift. Rude customers, difficult transactions, people needing things from me — I handled it all. I actually felt my best when I was helping a customer to their seat in the theatre or making an elderly customer feel less alone. Few things get you through a hard time like helping others get through hard times.

But the work was mentally draining and the emotional strain was too much. I got called in for a meeting with two managers and, to all of our surprise (and a hefty serving of embarrassment), I started to cry. I never cry. I’ve written about how hard I find it to cry. Somehow, in that board room with my employer looking uncomfortable, I went from zero to sobbing mess in a heartbeat. The fortification I’d built around my pain came down like the walls of Jericho, standing, standing, then suddenly collapsed.

Burnout. Depression. The boo-hoos. Plenty of things you can call it. Don’t know what to tell you about where it came from. There’s stuff going on, sure, but it’s like that line in that Bright Eyes song: “The reasons all have run away, but the feeling never did.”

So, skipping to the end: I’m taking some time off of work. And I’ve made the decision — for the first time in nine years since starting this project — to take a break from Volumes. Only for a month. We’ll be back here soon enough. But if I’m going to publish the kind of thing I think is worth reading, the kind of thing you deserve in return for your subscription and your support, I’ll have to take care of my stuff first.

I’m looking forward to reading again. And sleep. Man, I’d love to sleep.

All the best,
Matthew