I have had a headache for 153 consecutive days. That’s more than five months with no breaks and absolutely no relief. But who’s counting, right?

“And you have no history of migraines?” My fifth neurologist asks as I sit with my sunglasses on in the unbearably bright room. I guess this description might not be completely fair. For normal people, I’m sure the lights in the room are infinitely less offensive. It is only my malfunctioning nervous system that’s got me convinced that someone tied up the sun and stuffed it into this box of an examining room.

“No.”

“And no previous health conditions?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Strange.” She frowns.

You’re telling me, I think as she examines my now extensive medical record. Up until five months ago, it was spotless. That was before an eighty page write up from my week in the hospital, four MRI reports, one MRA, an MRV, a spinal tap, three sets of notes from stumped neurologists, and countless other largely unhelpful tests got added to the work up.

“Tell me about the pain.”

My eyes flit to the laminated pain scale taped to one wall. I scrutinize the little yellow faces contorted in various stages of torment. I’m glad she didn’t ask me to pick which one of those scrunched up emojis best matches how I feel. As if my misery can be pinned down to something as simple as a number between one and ten.

Still, I have to hold in my groan. This is my least favorite part, probably because it makes me frustrated when the limitations of the human vocabulary prevent me from correctly expressing the agony in my head. I’m not intentionally trying to be dramatic—or sarcastic for that matter. It just kind of happens. Maybe it’s my own strange way of controlling what little I can of the situation. If I can still laugh, still turn it all into a story, perhaps it’s not all that scary.

“Well, since November, it’s been really poundy.”

“Poundy?”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate on this even though I’m well aware ‘poundy’ isn’t a word. This is partially out of fear that she will look at me like I am insane. The closest comparison I can draw to describe the incessant pounding that has dominated the last few months of my life comes from the countless fantasy novels I attempt to drown myself in. It’s like that part near the climax when the castle is under siege by an enemy army. Countless warriors line the walls of the castle attempting to fight off the scourge of attackers as they come at the walls with everything they’ve got. In this instance, my brain is the castle and there’s a battering ram slamming against it over and over again. See those wounded warriors trying and failing to protect their precious sanctuary from the invading forces? Those are the dregs of my willpower begging and screaming for a cease-fire.

Some days, they fall to their knees, a white banner waving high above the melee. On those days that the enemy forces swell over the broken wall and proceed to smash the fortress to bits and pieces, the pain is so extreme I cannot lift my head from the pillow. My thoughts coalesce into an endless scream until there is nothing left. Not a single shred of my being—my soul—exists beyond the pounding. Not my name. Not what day it is. Not who I am, what I believe, what I love, what I hate. The only thing I know is pain.

On most days, however, those once strong warriors can be found swinging swords with all the might they can muster to fight the pain. I have trained them well in these eighteen years of life to always look on the bright side, to smile at their enemies, and never let anyone force them into sorrow. They are naturally optimistic in a pessimistic world. So, they fight on in the only way they know how. They fight by doing absolutely nothing.

The only way to win this war is by pretending that it does not exist. This is the hardest version of fighting I have ever experienced.

Somewhere outside the little square window, a car is blaring the latest pop hits. I don’t look down at the streets below, but I can imagine the people singing along to their favorite artist as they sit in the heavy downtown Miami traffic.

At this point, I start tilting my head this way and that. I’m doing my best not to look at the large computer sitting on the desk in front of me. If only the doctor would take one more step to her left, then I could look at her without feeling like my eyes are being fried like eggs in a pan.

“The pain is also directly correlated to the amount of light and activity I’m exposed to,” I continue, thinking of my hours spent lying in bed in utter darkness. I’ve taken over the largest bedroom of the house and taped blankets over all the windows. My family has started to call this the Kelly Cave because I’ve been hibernating in there like a bear in the winter. I cannot leave, cannot use my body in any capacity other than to sleep. This state of inactivity has taken a higher toll than the pain itself.

I look down at my legs. I’m wearing yoga pants along with an old tie-dye T-shirt. It’s the closest I can get to wearing my pajamas in public. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure the doctor can tell.

I start to pick at the soft black material, purposely refusing to acknowledge my paper white calves. I don’t remember watching as the muscles receded. All I know is that I used to be strong. My biceps used to bulge. The tops of my thighs were corded with a thick layer of muscle. Now they are fleshy. The skin is wrinkled and soft. Not quite shrunken but filled in with a mysterious fat that ate away at all I was. All I had made.

Three years of hard-won muscle has been completely deleted. Hours of sweat and conditioning—mile upon mile of early morning running—entirely eradicated. All it took was three months and every command I ever gave my body, everything I shaped it into, everything I chose for it to be. Gone. Like it was never there to begin with.

“I see,” she says, and I don’t bother to correct her. My illness cannot be seen in the flesh. It’s like a bundle of chaos encased in a mask of control.

My body is a liar. It cheats on every test. Because every medical exam, every vial of blood or spinal fluid sent to the lab, every painstakingly long MRI of my brain refuses to reveal what is wrong. All of my results are clean. On paper, the largest indication that I am sick is my own personal declaration of pain. I find this to be a particularly intolerable irony as it is that same body that persists in attacking me.

Or maybe my body is innocent. Maybe it’s not the enemy after all. Maybe some unknown pathogen is holding it against its will, forcing it to go to war with itself.

“Would you prefer if I turned the lights out?”

“That would be fantastic.”

She flips the switch and I sigh into the darkness. My relief doesn’t last too long. Soon, she is shining her flashlights in my eyes and asking me to read all those little letters on the plastic sign.