(Jill Johnson/ Glamour) — The sun had barely risen when the ringing of the phone sliced through my head like a circular saw. I struggled to open my heavy lids, instinctively jamming the heel of my hand into my right eye socket, trying to knock out the searing pain. It was my usual desperate attempt to block the assault of light from the window—a plea for migraine relief.
Still clutching my right eye, the epicenter of the pain, I reached for the phone with my other hand. “H-hello,” I uttered, struggling to quell a wave of nausea. It was Maggie, my Munich modeling booker, who had given a 22-year-old (ancient by fashion standards) a shot. I’d landed a booking for Adidas—a big gig—but I had to be there in 40 minutes. I couldn’t screw it up.
“OK,” I said, meekly, not mentioning my migraine. I knew she would see any illness as a flaw, like a receding chin or laugh lines. I also knew how much skepticism people have about headaches, even this agonizing variety. My own brother used to taunt me, “You’re making it up. It’s not that bad.” (…)