I wake up feeling like crud. A perpetually incipient headache — an abrasive cloud leaking through my scalp — lies heavy on my neck. How I hate the gray days of late spring! They bring me down not only into a depression but into a strange, achy malaise that returns me to my bed with a foggy head and a vague stomach ache that doesn’t quite reach into nausea. That’s the nature of this maddening and invisible illness: it doesn’t quite develop into anything — not a headache, not vomiting, not a full-blown depression, not a fever. No pills cure it. Sleep isn’t possible. I just have to bear it until the sun comes out in July. Curses on the May Disorder. Curses on June Gloom. Sixty days before it passes. Sixty not quite miserable, annoying days.