The Beast has shamed me once again.

Warning: This is one barftastic post.

The Beast struck again last night. I've talked about The Beast (migraines) a lot here on the Bitz. You can click on The Beast over there in my tags and read more about how the little bitch has ruined my life.

Moving on, I was enjoying a nice little night at work. Relaxing, waiting for the crisis line to ring. Ready to use my crisis skills to rescue someone from an emotional breakdown.

Really what I was doing was catching up on my bloggy reading because no one seemed to be in crisis. It happens sometimes.

Anywhoneedsanintervention, my computer screen starts to go a little fuzzy as I'm reading. Wtf.

Then, things really got hazy. I kept reading the same sentence 12 times and still couldn't comprehend it. Then, I actually answered the phone and realized that I couldn't form a coherent sentence.

I wasn't drunk. No one had whacked me in the head with a baseball bat. Not that I had noticed, anyway. That could only mean one thing...The Beast.

Arghhh.

I slammed a half a Maxalt and decided to try eating some dinner. It was about that time anyway and maybe that would help ease the monster.

Nope.

About an hour and 1 full Maxalt later, The Beast was in full effect. I could barely see. I couldn't speak in complete sentences. I couldn't keep my eyes open and my head felt like it was going to cave in on me.

I tried going into a darkened room to close my eyes and let the meds work. That didn't help. It seems that taking away all the other stimuli only allowed the nausea to take over.

Awesome.

I went to my coworker who is super understanding and/or just really fears being witness to the potential barf-fest. Somehow I was able to communicate that I needed to go home because I found myself in my car heading that way.

Now, I know that it's always a risk to drive myself home mid-Beast. I've been through this before. I know what it's like to barf on the side of the road or in a bucket in the back seat or in a bag or empty slurpee cup or whathaveyou. I know what could happen.

Yet, I do it anyway. While I know how it can turn out, I still just want to be home so badly that I risk it. I want to be able to ride out The Beast and all of it's disgustingness in the privacy of my own bathroom.

So, I somehow make it to my neighborhood without incident. That's when it hits me. One block from my house and The Beast decides to hit me with the barfing. I'll spare you the disgusting details. Just know that I had to try and sneak my barf covered self into the house without MB seeing the extent of the damage (barf is an instant romance killer fyi) and then try to clean the car discreetly as best I could mid-Beast before the next wave hit.

Which it did. After I was able to get a shower and an hour's sleep and be lulled into a false sense of 'hey, this one wasn't so bad'. Another round of toilet hugging followed by very restless sleep where I woke a couple times thinking a bird was in my ear. Maxalt makes me loopy sometimes.

Anyway the second and third barf-fests weren't as bad as the first because at least I was prepared.

No 35 year old woman should have to suffer this kind of disgrace. It's just not right. I know it's a medical condition. Blah, blah, blah.

That doesn't make it any easier.

I'm way too hot to have to deal with this kind of sh*t. That's what I keep telling myself anyway. Every time it happens.

So, I have to suffer the disgrace. Why do I make you suffer too?

Well, I've been suffering the disgrace for 30 years and I've been ashamed for 30 years. I've been embarrassed. I've been humiliated. I've hidden it. I've made excuses. I've held it all inside.

No more. I have to talk about it. I have to be honest about it, disgustingness and all. I have to joke about it. It's the only way I can cope with it. When The Beast has me in it's clutches and I'm crying and praying for it to be over, I have to find a way to make light of it. I have to be able to laugh about it. Otherwise, I think I'd be a sniveling mess in the corner.

So, I apologize if my barftastic posts are too much for some. But, this is my life. This is the ugly truth of what The Beast does to me. This is me. All the bitz, girly or not.

Tune in tomorrow for soemthing a little less barftastic. I promise.