Personality and Biology

I have been reading another book about personality types as I am fascinated by what makes us different as individuals and the reasons for that.  In this latest book the author’s thesis is that a large part of a person’s personality is due to biology and therefore inbuilt.  The book, Personality: what makes you the way you are by British author Daniel Nettle is just one of a growing number of books of this type to adorn my shelf.  It is slightly different from the others I have read in that it is much more scientific and contains  biological evidence for the differences in character as well as employing the use of personality test.  This focus on biology makes a refreshing change and reading it doesn’t seem to be so much like reading the horoscope as some of the other books seem to. 

 In the book there are five different aspects of personality to be tested for, which are: extraversion; neuroticism; conscientiousness; agreeableness and openness.  It is a short test and very easy to do, but the problem with this sort of thing is that I question the accuracy of my own self-assessment and wonder how much my judgement is flawed when answering questionnaires like this.  The results I got didn’t really surprise me: I got ‘very low’ for extraversion; ‘high’ (!) for neuroticism; ‘low’ for conscientiousness; ‘low’ (but it was only just low!) for agreeableness and ‘high’ for openness (which means to be open to new experiences, ideas and to easily be able to make connections between disparate things).  So I am a neurotic, disagreeable, unconscientious but open-minded introvert!  (So now I know why I have very little tolerance for most people!).  Once I had got my results, I read on before making the decision to end it all(!); perhaps there was some virtue in having the personality that I had and perhaps it wasn’t all gloom and doom? (yes I confess, being open-minded could perhaps be seen as a positive quality, but as for the rest of them?!).

It was reading the neuroticism chapter that made me feel most depressed and hopeless (well, I am neurotic aren’t I?), but I shall come on to that later.  Being ever on the look out to find the best in introversion, I was pleased to see that the author had found much to be admired in those whom score low on the extraversion test.  ‘The introvert is, in a way, aloof from the rewards of the world, which gives him tremendous strength and independence from them’, he writes after describing the case of Andrew, an introverted computer programmer.  He quotes Andrew as saying:

I don’t really have a lot to look forward to.  I mean, as soon as I find a stable job, I can move out and live wherever, get a girlfriend, buy a ton of stuff I don’t need, maybe get married, create children, buy them stuff… then maybe die or something like that.

Instead of seeing this attitude as an indication of depression, as many people might, Nettle sees Andrew’s comments as possessing a ’stoical depth….(t)hey also tell us a great deal about the motivation of the introvert…..He is not in the grip of negative emotion.  He just clearly understands that the kind of stuff that people sweat to get – material possessions, marriage, careers, and so on – are fine, but don’t have that much of an effect on him.  So, he will take them if they come, and if they don’t, I don’t think he will be too bothered.  He could make a perfectly satisfactory life either way, just as he will see his friends if they are around, but not fuss if they are not.’

Andrew’s attitude is similar to another correspondent, David, who is ‘happy observing, contemplating, learning, and developing his garden.’   David speaks of his experience as thus:

I expect to become unemployed in the near future.  I see this as an opportunity, since it would give me freedom and would relieve me from participating in the rat race of performing uninteresting tasks in exchange for money and status, both of which I am not interested in.

Nettle explains that the lack of enthusiasm for everyday sensations that these two men show derives from a natural lack of satisfaction gained from them compared to extraverts, who get a greater buzz from the same sensations. This difference, he explains, is because of brain wiring.  As Nettle writes, ‘Extraversion is variation in the responsiveness of positive emotions.  In the high scorer, the responsiveness is great, and so the person is prepared to work hard to get the buzz of company, excitement, achievement, adulation, and romance.  The low scorer’s positive emotion systems are less responsive, so the psychological benefits of getting these things are fewer.  Given that the costs of getting them are the same for introvert and extravert alike, the introvert is not so motivated to do so’.

I rather like this description, and would agree with Nettle that one mode of living is not inherently better than the other but they are both just different.  I have certainly gained a lot of satisfaction from living life as an introvert, and although I haven’t been exactly bubbling with enthusiasm throughout my life, my pleasure is derived from more calmer sources.  It probably can’t always be seen from the outside, but it is there.  And it brings me a great deal of contentment to know that although I do enjoy some of the physical pleasures of the world, what brings me the most consistent enjoyment are the peace and tranquility of quiet contemplation and the joys of reading and writing about subjects that are of interest to me.  These activities are done for my own satisfaction and usually in the comfort of my own home.  I do not need to be out there chasing dreams because what I require is usually obtained within my own head.

But enough of that for now; I will get back to this subject another day when I have thought about it some more.

 

 

Story of a migraine

Do you think that migraine is just a bad headache?  It isn’t.  This is the story of a typical very bad migraine.

She wakes from an afternoon nap.  Her head is still heavy with sleep as she watches the dust motes caught in a ray of sunshine swimming above the bed.  It seems to her to be quite beautiful, this miniature universe floating randomly in a serene dance just above her, each mote a planet or star on its own individual course. Oh! How beautiful this time of year is and how lucky she feels to be living her life in a way that allows contemplation to be a constant companion.  And then a sudden stabbing pain just above her jaw allows her to notice the stiffness in her shoulders and neck.  And with this new awareness of pain, the feeling of bliss that had until then saturated her whole body and soul is quickly dissipated, and  more unwelcome feelings crowd in to enter her consciousness: disappointment, sorrow, anger and fear. 

 ”Why does it have to be so?  I have had four this week already, what am I doing wrong?” She asks herself aloud in her mind.  “I have taken four tablets; I can’t take another today”, she reasons. “Maybe I can get away with taking just a pain-killer this time so I can break the pattern”.

And so it is so.  But it does not go to plan.  This is one of those times when things go wrong, when judgement is impaired and the wrong decision is made.  There isn’t much room for mercy.  The thing, hellish though it is, must be lived through.  Time marches on and the pain grows steadily worse.  The decision to take the triptan is made too late, she realises her mistake and curses her stupidity; she knows she has hours of unneccessary and unproductive suffering ahead.  How can it be borne?

And still time moves on.  The numbness in her head increases, her senses disoriented, her fear rising.  The whole left side of her body tingles with pins and needles as an alien presence takes over her body. With each beat of her heart her head pounds, tendrils of pain gripping and gnawing inside her skull.  A pressure that must surely crush and obliterate her very being bears down on her relentlessly.  The demon that has been slumbering within awakens and lives again.  And alongside the pain the nausea grows, churning her stomach and finally forcing her to vomit up painfully all that is within her.  The violence of the act is too much for her exhausted body, and afterwards she sits by the toilet clutching her throbbing head, trying to stem the dizziness that threatens to overcome her.  She sits in a pathetic heap, sobbing uncontrollably and rocking her body in the way that a mother might rock a baby, soothing and comforting, trying to ease the pain away.  She finally crawls back to bed, wraps herself tightly in the duvet, blocks out the light and the noise until nothing can be seen but the faint outline of the curtain against the window and nothing can be heard but the distant murmur of the TV downstairs.  Not a single ray of light must enter her agonised brain; there will be no watching of dust motes in sunlight now.  That very sunlight that brought beauty and joy only brings despair and a strangled curse.

 And so, she tries to lull her tortured body to sleep, to take a brief rest from the horrors of reality and the agony of consciousness.  But it is to no avail: her body will not allow her to take this kindest of breaks from the height of her pain, she is obliged to remain fully conscious throughout her ordeal.  And now he enters the room, asks her how she is, and on seeing her ashen face and on hearing her groans of pain muffled by the bed, he reacts with impatience and intolerance, perhaps because he hates to see her suffer.  Perhaps because he loves her.

 ”For God’s sake take a tablet”, he spits, his fear for her giving force to his words.

But it’s no good and she knows it.  It’s too late; she is doomed.  How could she bring this on herself, on her family?  Doesn’t she know how much it traumatises them seeing her like this?  How can she be a good wife, a good mother when she is afflicted so?  The thoughts weigh heavy in her mind, adding to her burden.  And so it goes on for hours more, day slowly giving way to night, time passing as in a nightmare: unfathomable and surreal.  The mind is only aware of the body’s suffering and nothing else; it knows of no way to transcend it.  Each moment drips with pain in a slow fragmented chain. The body empties itself of all that it can, until not even water is allowed to be retained.  Dehydration fogs the brain and leaves her so drained that she feels that she hasn’t the strength to do this anymore. Words and phrases are repeated endlessly in her mind to allow her to keep a hold on her sanity, a hold on her presence in the world.  And then a change.  What started it?  Who knows, who cares.  The process starts to reverse itself; the swollen blood vessels in the brain regain their normal flow.  The worst of the horror has gone.  She slowly, ever so slowly, starts to recover – the pain recedes and glorious sleep claims her.  

So, what is to show for this unwelcome episode of suffering, what  does it achieve, whom does it benefit?  The answer to that of course is ‘nothing, no-one’.  It has all been pointless, unneccessary, it has made a mockery of life, has proved the pointlessness of human existence.  At least it has in her mind. Because how can she forget the pain and horror her body and mind are capable of?  That knowledge haunts her always, even in her happiest moments, when she is at ease, at rest, pain-free, she knows the hell that is lurking inside her is waiting for the moment when it can become unleashed to commit its evil once more.   And like in Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’:

                      ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself

                       Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’

Her own destructive forces are there underpinning her soul and haunting her dreams, forcing her to be ever diligent, ever ready to spring to the defence.  There is a scar on her spirit so deep that it mars and corrupts any hint of pleasure that she might come across.  And it is because of this that she believes it to be a cruel harsh world and that she hasn’t got the strength necessary to thrive in such a place.  She survives the migraine but the migraine casts a massive shadow on her soul that no amount of serenely dancing dust motes can remove.

I like being an introvert (yes, really!)

I have been wanting to write about introversion and its meaning in my life for a while now, and as I’m having a quiet day at home alone, I find myself reflecting on the subject again.

I have gone through most of my life viewing my extreme introversion as a negative thing; something that holds me back from achieving what I would like out of life and stopping me from participating in life rather than just being a spectator.  But after a great deal of research and thinking (we introverts excel at this) I have changed my mind drastically.  After all, I have come to the conclusion that I like being me.  Yes, there would be a few things I would change if I could (such as the depression) but overall I have discovered that I have many positive attributes that make my life worth living, even making it blissful at times.

The first thing I have learnt about introversion is that introverted people don’t necessarily lack social skills and extroverts don’t necessarily excel at socialising. Many psychologists (beginning with Carl Jung) have viewed introversion and extroversion to be the way a person gains energy and whether he or she most naturally takes an objective or subjective view of life.  Introverts are mostly attuned to their personal experiences and gain energy from being alone with their own thoughts.  To an introvert, socialising can be exhausting and requires them to be alone to recharge afterwards.  In contrast,  extroverts are much more attuned to outer experiences and influences and they gain energy from being with others. Socialising is likely to buoy them up and energise them. 

It is perfectly possible to be a socially skilled introvert, who appears extroverted to others but who needs to retire into his or her own internal world at the end of the day in order to recoup.  This type of person often takes on the persona of an extrovert when dealing with others and discards his or her mask once alone.  It is also possible for an extrovert to have poor social skills and to appear as an introvert.  But in contrast to a true introvert, this type of extrovert needs people – maybe only one or two trusted buddies or even characters on the TV, but nevertheless people - in order to feel truly alive. Of course, it is unlikely that any person is completely introverted or extroverted, as most people are a mixture of the two in some combination.  But nevertheless, it is probable that most people favour either one or the other as their natural preference. 

I know what I am; I have never doubted it. On all of the personality tests I have taken I have either been shown to be 100% introverted or something very close to it.  But it is only recently (within the last five years) that I have come to accept my introversion and enjoy it.  It brings me many benefits, such as an ability to be alone and to enjoy that aloneness for vast periods of time.  I know how to keep myself occupied and amused without turning to others for this; therefore my introversion fosters self-reliance and independence.  I am a keen observer rather than a participant, but this can make me insightful on the behaviour of others, as well as bringing its own particular type of enjoyment.  I am a deep thinker and nothing gives me more pleasure in life than pursuing my own thoughts,  dreaming and imagining the day away in my own personal world. I probably gain as much enjoyment from my world of thought as an extreme extrovert does at a party. I like to think that because of these traits I am not so likely to conform to society’s expectations.  I like to think that I can create my life as I want to create it, being answerable to mostly only myself.  I can decide for myself what is fun for me based on whether I like it, and not for example, on whether my neighbour and her large group of friends think it is a fun thing to do. I also like to think that introversion can sometimes make me less gullible (but maybe more cynical) as I have learnt to base my opinions on what I judge to be correct without being overly influenced by group pressure.

And so, I have come to appreciate my ability to be still and quiet and to go with the flow rather than struggle to be something I’m not.  I have found that I am at my best when I am able to be peaceful and at peace with myself.  Extroverted behaviour is often viewed to be the ideal in a culture that is decidedly extroverted in preference.   This can make it hard for introverts to feel that theirs is a legitimate way of living in the world.  But the emergence of the Internet (or is it Intronet!) has made introverted behaviour much more acceptable and it is here that we can interact with like-minded people without feeling over-whelmed.  It is also a great place to find resources that may help the uncertain introvert to feel at home in his or her skin.  A great one for me (and a great many other introverts) has been Jonathan Rauch’s article on The Atlantic Online website; it is titled ’Caring For Your Introvert’ and can be found at www.theatlantic.com/doc/200303/rauch

I hope to write some more about introversion because it is a subject that has influenced my life a great deal, but until then, if you are an introvert please try to value yourself and the many good qualities that you are likely to have.

Today the depression has clawed its way back into my brain, where it has cast its evil spell.  Last night when it got a foot-hold I felt so much emotional pain that the nerves in my arms and legs hurt also.  I curled up in a ball and hugged myself, as I must have when I was a child; soothing and comforting myself to sleep.  Why, oh why must I cope with adversity in this way?  I read today that a genetic tendency plays a larger part of depression than had originally been thought; so I can console myself that it is partly chemical and I’m not so much to blame.  But that doesn’t make it feel particularly better somehow, because if it is a genetic tendency then I can’t stop it from occuring.  So the tears run strong and steady down my face.

The anger behind the depression

I wake up with fear in my heart and a shadow hanging over my head.  It’s another day where I feel I have lost my soul, and even though I search frantically for it, I am left merely bewildered and subdued.  There’s a deep emptiness inside me and a yearning for something – I know not what.  It has always been this way: the yearning, the sense that something is missing, the lack of real contentment, the knowledge that I am searching, forever searching, for something that is not quite within reach.  And then there’s the anger, which has been brewing latently inside my stomach, making me feel like I am about to explode at any moment, my rage consuming all that’s within its path.  I am trying to understand the anger.  I guess it has always been there, but as is the way of depressive personalities, the anger isn’t recognised for what it is but is focussed back onto the self, where instead of being released in a benign and healthy way, slowly poisons the system with its corrosiveness.  But this year, in contrast to previous ones, I have started to recognise my rage for all it is, and to accept that I am furious, hurt, disappointed and bitter.  Of course, I still have depressive days, like I have had for most of this week, but it is with the knowledge that the mood won’t last forever, that it is trying to tell me something, that the anger needs to be felt and acknowledged.  I am no longer angry at myself but at……..what? I don’t know.  I’m not sure why I’m so angry but perhaps I will gain insight in time and until then I just need to learn to accept it.

And then later it came to me: I cannot just be.  I cannot just be myself, I mean.  And it is making me so very very angry.

 

 

Goodbye, doorstep preachers!

This morning when I arrived home with my shopping, I was greeted at my own door by the bible-preaching men who were doing their rounds again in the neighbourhood.  I have seen these men before and usually, true to my cultural upbringing, I am meticulously polite, take the brochure they give me with a smile, and decline their offer of saving my soul by closing the door on them as soon as is politely possible.  But today for some reason, I was not in the mood for all that.  Today they were going to get the truth.  My Truth not theirs, that is.  “Sorry”, I said (although I don’t know why I had to be), “I’m an atheist” (which I am), “I’m not at all interested” (on seeing one of them produce a bible), “and I just want to be left alone”.  And with a flourish of my shopping bag I swept inside the house.  I really don’t think I’ll be seeing them again in a hurry. 

 Now the reason I write about this today is because firstly it has made me feel very good to be assertive for once; and secondly because I find these people extremely rude, although rude in a polite way (if you know what I mean).  I object to people coming round to my house to tell me that I need to be saved and that they have the answer to my salvation, when all I am doing is going about my daily business and bothering no-one.  As I have said, I am an atheist.  That doesn’t mean that I have a problem with religion or with the people practising those religions, but it does mean that I have a problem with those (very few) religious people who presume to know the answer to life’s problems and then go out of their way to enlighten me.   So I am glad that I was direct and to the point this morning; but of course, because I am hopelessly British, I also felt guilty about being so.

 

The unbearable pain (and pleasure) of life

When I first set up this blog last month I suppose I planned to make it happier than it has turned out to be.  But the truth is, writing is for me a therapeutic process, and I don’t have the same desire to write when I’m completely happy.  It is a way of making sense of  the often overwhelming feelings that swim around in my head, making me fearful and panicky.  To see them written down in front of me is to legitimise them and to begin to make sense of them.  It is also a way to work towards acceptance, both of my feelings and of myself.  Here I can be myself (relatively) anonymously; there is no mask needing to be worn.  Isn’t that the beauty of blogging?

I have been wondering why throughout my life I have had such painful feelings and why life has been such a monumental struggle when it hasn’t needed to be.  I have wondered whether other people struggle with the same issues to the same extent.  Maybe; I think they sometimes do but not many of them are honest enough to own up to the unbearable pain that they feel.  Maybe they can’t even be honest with themselves about it.  I think we lie to each other to such an extent about our fear, rage and disappointment that we live in a world of  (dis) illusions and fantasy.  We all pretend that it’s OK and everything is normal.  We put on our masks to face the world with a painted smile, while underneath our hearts are breaking.   To show your pain to another is to be vulnerable, and vulnerability is unacceptable.  We develop humour as a defence against overwhelming feelings, and apparently laugh away our cares, whilst dying inside.

It is with this thought that I face my own melancholia today.  After many years of experience, I have come to the conclusion that if painful feelings are ignored or disregarded, they are not going to go away but are likely to come back tenfold in the form of anxiety, panic, compulsive behaviour, depression or a psychosomatic disorder of some sort (including migraine, which has been and continues to be my favourite method of expressing unpleasant feelings).  It is far better, I have found, to face up to what the true problems are.  But that is sometimes sooner said than done.

 I wonder why in my life I have  experienced pain, both physical and mental, in such abundance.  I sometimes feel that I was born with my nerves on the outside instead of the inside of my body.  And I wonder, is this a mark of my own inferiority or is it OK to find life painful and to admit to that?  Am I a weak person if I admit to my weaknesses?  Do I have to pretend that I find life something other than what it is for me?  Because even though it is painful, it is often an exquisite pain, full of beauty and meaning; for the heightened sensitivity fortunately goes both ways and I am often filled with an awe beyond belief at the miracle of life.  Today, I marvel at the autumn sunshine and the soft, muted beauty it brings, and hug my knees in tight against my body and groan aloud with the pain of it all.  I suppose it will always be this way for me.

 

 

2006

May 3rd 2006

I sometimes wonder whether I would cease to exist if I didn’t look in the mirror sometimes to check that I’m still there.  After all, what is there to me?  I have been told at times that I look like a child; is that what I am then?  At five-foot-one and under seven stone there’s not much to me.  My body is insignificant and weak; colourless grey eyes peer back at me from a face that is something between a girls and a womans.  Only the increasingly prominent lines under my eyes and around my mouth betray my true age.  Deep smudges of shadow have recently been daubed under my eyes; I am pale and tired.  I have been meandering from room to room feeling lost; the shadow of my existence doesn’t extend far enough to affect other people.  I am lost in the wilderness of my own presence, unable or unwilling to connect with others.  I am sliding down an imaginary wall in my mind; sinking heavily and fast.

At last I can see I was too thin

I watched a programme about skinny celebrities last night and it really brought it home to me just how thin I have been at times.  One of the women on the programme was described as ’seriously underweight: at 5′1″ her weight was 93lbs.  I am 5′1″ and my weight was 93lbs at its lowest.  That really made me think, and so has looking at some photographs from that period.  It is like looking at a little girl who has no womanly curves and has a pale, drawn face.  The sad thing is, at the time I thought I looked fantastic and I loved being at that low weight.  But that’s how eating problems can affect your mind.

I feel sad that I have wasted so much of my life worrying about food and wondering whether I am acceptable or not, and I feel sad that so many other lives and vibrant young minds and bodies are going to waste doing the same thing.  What is this obsession with having a thin body all about?  Women (and men, but women seem to be more affected) are bombarded with images of the ‘perfect’ female form on a daily basis, and it is a strong woman indeed who can withstand the pressure to improve herself in some way.  In her mind most likely, thiness means perfect happiness and success, and not only that it means control too.  I remember the wonderful feeling of power that I had when I was controlling my weight.  My thinness seemed to signify to me that I had control over my body and my life.  I may have been weak and tired, but damn it, I was thin, so that was OK!  I was so terrified of putting on weight that I became obsessional. I would constantly be listing in my head what I had eaten that day to reassure myself that it wasn’t too much.  If I over-indulged in some way I would panic and compensate for it by reducing my food intake at the next meal or on the next day.  By compulsively ruminating on my food intake, I could control my mind as well as my body; it seemed reassuring and safe, a antidote to other more worrying thoughts that threated to break into my consciousness. 

A little demon inside my head fed me constant lies, telling me that if I were to eat without constantly self-monitoring myself, I would become out of control, stuffing myself with food and ballooning enormously.  There seemed to be only two ways for me – control and self-discipline or reckless abandonment – with nothing in between.  I could not trust my body or mind enough to allow both to reach a comfortable equalibrium. The current campaign to reduce obesity actually worries me, because catagorising food or behaviour or a body shape  as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ creates fear and tension in those whose body image is already distorted.  When you are trying to control your weight in such an obsessional way, the fear of becoming obese can be so overwhelming that these campaigns can so easily be absorbed and heeded by a frightened mind that is terrified of losing control.  The result can be more fear and a renewal in determination and control.

A few months ago something clicked in my mind.  I don’t know why but it did (thank God), and what had seemed blurry and distorted before suddenly became crystal clear.  Although I wasn’t at my thinnest at that particular time, I was still rather on the skinny side.  And suddenly I was able to see it: all this control that I had been exerting over myself was foolish.  I needed to put on weight, I needed nourishing and I needed, at long last, to take care of myself properly.  I had been fighting my body in one way or another for the last twenty years or so, and enough was enough.  I needed to find peace within myself and in order to do that I had to give up some control.  I needed to trust my body and myself, to clear the mental clutter fogging my brain, to become a woman instead of a frightened little girl.  And surprisingly, to do so has been far easier than I thought it would be, I think because I was mentally ready to put on weight.  In the process, despite my fears, I haven’t gone to the other extreme and eaten everything in sight, but have rediscovered my apetite, my love of food, my curves, and my pleasure in my own body.  Even though I still have some health problems, I  feel physically and mentally fitter than I have done in years.  I now usually have the energy to get through the day reasonably well, I don’t feel the cold like I did, and I feel much more robust.  I am able to fight illnesses better, including the arthritis, which I’m sure wasn’t helped intially by my low body weight and lack of food intake.  And I like the curves I have gained and the increase in male attention I am getting, because it makes me feel like a woman instead of a child.  I have come to the conclusion, rather late perhaps but I got there eventually, that a woman is better with a bit of meat on her bones.  I have refused to be infected anymore with the sickness that permeates society with its obsession with thin bodies and its pervasive fear of fatness.  I have been blessed with a reasonably healthy body and I hope to cherish it, and myself, from now on.

 

 

 

Thank God for Zomig

Another day, another migraine.  Well, it has gone now but I’m left with the after effects today.  It was a pretty bad one, waking me up at 2.30am with the feeling that I had something sharp embedded deeply in my skull.  Thank God for Zomig or I would not be sitting here writing this this morning.  The pain has gone, but the chemical changes in my brain generated from the migraine have left me groggy and depressed.  I try to make myself feel a little better by telling myself that it isn’t my fault, that there isn’t something inherently wrong with me as a person; I tell myself that the mood change is due to a combination of a chemical imbalance in my brain and the psychological wounding that migraine can bring about.  After all, studies have shown that migraine suffers are three times more likely to suffer a major depression at sometime in their lives compared to non-sufferers, and this may be due in some part to the similar neurobiology of both conditions. Migraine suffers are also more likely to have a lower quality of life in general, which is pretty obvious if you think about it:  migraine is an extremely painful neurological condition that affects the whole of the nervous system, and it is also unpredictable, making the suffer feel that he or she has little control over his or her life.  All in all, migraine sufferers are extremely brave, having to soldier on and come to terms with the disadvantages that nature, in her infinite wisdom, has kindly given them.  If you are a migraine sufferer, please think of this as you put on a brave face to the world, pretending that everything is OK while your head throbs with pain and the dizziness that you feel threatens to overwhelm you completely.  One day perhaps there will be a cure, until then at least we have that wonderful class of drugs called the triptans.