Acknowledgement:

Once again I acknowledge my own frailty.
That there is a weakness in my body over which I have no control.
I acknowledge that I hate this fact.
I acknowledge that while the pain is with me,  I am physically helpless.
That I cannot even drive myself to a doctor's appointment that would help.
I acknowledge that when I feel so dizzy that it becomes hard to even move...  that at times I am literally paralyzed with the pain and cannot move even to take my medicine to help.
I don't even have the ability right now to call the doctor to reschedule my appointment.
I feel guilty for this.
I acknowledge my utter terror of something happening to J because I cannot help myself during these times that I lose my ability to function,  and instead,  he is the one that helps me through these times,  brings me my medicine with a glass of water,  stays with me so I am not alone,  and makes the phone calls to reschedule when I cannot make an appointment.
I acknowledge that today,  when I cannot contact him because he is flying,  I am in a panic inside,  because today I am unable to function and also unable to contact my lifeline for guidance.
I acknowledge how helpless this makes me feel.
I acknowledge that even as I am typing this it is very difficult to focus on the words and yet I keep tying because it is a form of release for these pent up emotions.
That it would be better for me to lay down for a few hours in the quiet and in the dark,  and yet I find that I cannot do that.  The pain demands that I keep going because I can't bear to stop and focus entirely on how much my own body is betraying me in these moments.
I acknowledge that I want to cry and am forcing myself to think of other things because at this stage,  tears will only increase the amount of pain.
I acknowledge that unless the medicine that I managed to take at the start of this works very quickly,  I will soon be swallowed up with pain.
I acknowledge that no human being should have to suffer like this,  of a disease that is so often misunderstood and trivialized,  and yet we do.
I acknowledge that in these times I cling to simple things to ground me in reality such as the feeling of my dog's soft fur under my fingers.
I acknowledge the hidden secret fear that this will one that will go on for days.
I acknowledge the feeling that no doctor can "make this go away" and that I feel a futility in even continuing to try to find someone or something to make this even marginally better.
I acknowledge that at times like this I am quite simply tired of fighting and it is easier to lose myself online than to face what is going on.
I acknowledge that this illness comes with a sense of inertia at times,  that even though I want this to end,  sometimes I somehow can't pick up the phone to make a simple appointment,  such as going to the chiropractor.  It is discouraging to work so hard,  to go to so many appointments only to have LESS migraines and that there is no cure out there,  that I can only do my best to control these and that MY BEST IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH.
I acknowledge that the previous statement is incredibly enlightening to me on why so often I don't even bother to try things.... because no matter what I try,  it's not enough to make this all go away,  and that deep inside I don't want to fail yet another time.
I acknowledge that with an episode of pain comes panic,  a panic that takes longer to diminish than the pain.
I acknowledge that the pain opens up my fight or flight response,  and that my hatred of my own illness causes that fight or flight response to be unleashed on myself... and that I usually choose flight,  the escape into a computer game or a book.
I acknowledge that I am becoming less and less introspective lately,  because it is easier,  not because it is truly better.  I don't know for sure if it is better or worse.
I acknowledge that I long to be understood,  not by other people that have this disease (although that helps)... I long to be understood by a doctor,  one that truly wants to help me. 
Even more,  one that specializes in this so that he or she CAN help me.
I acknowledge that even while I am buffeted by utter helplessness and the sense of hopelessness that it engenders,  I will NEVER give up fighting this disease and that I will always hold out a hope of a cure... not only for myself,  but for everyone battling migraine.
I acknowledge that I still hope sometimes that there really is that "magic pill" to make all of this go away.
I acknowledge that I don't share this pain with others... ever.  Even to those I am closest to, I minimalize it,  always.  I can't seem to find in me even the ability to share the amount of daily pain I am in with my own doctors,  because I have been laughed at,  mocked,  and told I am crazy one too many times.
I acknowledge that while writing this doesn't change anything,  it does help me to feel better emotionally in some way that I don't understand.
I acknowledge that the sense of inertia is like hitting a brick wall... one that no matter how much I want to,  I simply cannot seem to move past.  I don't know why this is.
I acknowledge that I am often angry with myself,  and yet this is another feeling that I never seem to face because it seems there is no solution to this.  How do you forgive yourself for something you cannot control and would not ever bring on yourself?  And who ARE you mad at,  if not yourself,  because there is quite simply no target for the fear,  the rage,  the utter helplessness and other emotions other than my own body?
I acknowledge that the last statement is confusing even to myself,  it does not seem to be something that I can put to words.
Perhaps that is why I minimalize it all... because there are no words in my vocabulary to describe this,  or if the words are there,  I am unable to string them together in a way that another human being could understand unless they have been there.... and then that person doesn't need words anyway.
I acknowledge that I am angry at J when I am in so much pain and he does something simple and unintentional such as shutting a drawer too loudly... 3 rooms away.  I feel at these times that he SHOULD understand and am angry that his life doesn't stop during the times I am hurting... because for those moments of agony,  mine has.
I acknowledge that writing all this out has brought some things out for me that I was never before conscious of thinking or feeling.
I acknowledge that chronic pain is so very often misunderstood,  and that makes ME feel misunderstood.
I acknowledge that to write these things,  to open myself up this way,  is like a dam bursting inside,  and that it is a form of release that I really really need.
I acknowledge that I feel guilty when I don't do everything that MIGHT help,  as if by neglecting those things,  I am bringing this on myself.
I acknowledge that this is about a sense of control in a situation over which I have little,  and at times,  no control.
I acknowledge that it is very important to me to be in control,  and that because I have things in my life that I can't control,  it causes a lot of bad feelings that I direct back to myself.
I acknowledge that I really truly don't know why.  I acknowledge that if I did know why,  I would do everything in my power to change it.
I acknowledge that I often feel guilty for not making more of a contribution into find out why,  not only for myself,  but for others.  I feel as if I could only find out the reason why,  then it wouldn't be for nothing because I could have helped someone else.
I acknowledge that I feel guilty when there are those sicker than I with this disease.  That I feel guilty for even getting a little bit better when I see other people who are sick.  I don't know why this is either but suspect it has something to do with my sense of self worth and that I don't feel "worth" getting better,  that those people are better,  more important than I,  so they should get better first.
I acknowledge that there is too much out of my hands that I still am trying to control.
I acknowledge that control,  and the lack thereof,  has come up several times in these acknowledgements.  I also don't know what to do about it.
I acknowledge that saying I don't know what to do liberates me to do nothing.
I acknowledge that these acknowledgements are not exactly comfortable for me to make.
I acknowledge that too often there are no words that yet I feel compelled to try to put it into words anyway.
I acknowledge that I hate for others to know my weakness,  and so too often,  I suffer alone and in silence.