I struggle to open my eyes, and the light shining through my window forces them to close again. I shift to my side and feel my bra strap digging into my skin. I’m still in my clothes and have no idea how I got into bed. I slip out of my bra, pulling it through the sleeve of my shirt and throwing it on the floor. Then I unbutton my jeans and look around my room, trying to put the pieces of last night’s puzzle together. The clock says ten a.m. That means I’ve lost about twelve hours.On my bedside table, a large tumbler of water calls for me—as well as the bottle of ibuprofen sitting next to it. I take both of them and make an oath that if my head stops pounding, I’ll never drink again. I lay my head back on the pillow and pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger, putting pressure on the web of flesh. We had an acupuncturist come to the community center one night to talk about the power of pressure points. I try to imagine the pain subsiding, breathing in good feelings and breathing out the bad.
