I've debated writing myself a book about all the crap I've been through with this whole thing throughout my life. More a cathartic measure than anything. I had come up with this as an intro a while ago. It covers the time before the migraines, when it was just me and the auras, before the auras became terrifying harbingers.

It was when I was seven years old that I realized I was a deliciously, wonderfully, special little child. Not in a euphemistic use of the word special, or even in a greeting card "for a special little girl" sort of way, but in that I was different than the children around me.
At that age, everyone realizes that their thoughts are seperate from others, but for me that realization was stronger, that my experience of life was fundamentally different than others.
We'd play games at recess, complex pretend stories with monsters and paralell universes, but at some point, I realized that when I'd point out the lighted patterns shimmering around the playground that everyone else was reacting to an imaginary object. They couldn't see the moving patterns I did. I was the only one who would watch the movement, like the edges of our universe were pealed back to show something beyond, a fascinating kinetic world of geometric lighted pattern and energy. It never scared me, rather I'd feel elated, happier than the situation warranted, it was wonderful and familiar in a strange sort of way. They'd show up maybe once a month or less, and I desperately wished they'd be around more.
I tried to seek out things that reminded me of the moving patterns. There was a book from the school library of optical illusions that I'd check out almost weekly, fascinated not only by the similarity to what I saw, but also to the way they conveyed a small sense of the motion I saw.
I'd see lights more often at night, seeming to hover in the darkness, constantly moving like the laser show at Epcot, occasionally taking forms. I'd tell my parents (who explained as you do to children) that it's easy to see things in the dark as you fall asleep. Besides, I was often sick and had fevers, which might cause some hallucinations. But I knew better. This was all done in some way for my enjoyment, a show to amuse me and me alone.
The other kids in school also couldn't float, a realization which shocked me at the time. Once I sat at my desk and let the delicious sensation of being pulled up, like the very air had gained boyancy. The other children seemed so solidly heavy in their chairs. But me? If I let myself go, I felt I could almost float up out of my seat and bob around the ceiling like a astronaut in a space shuttle. It was a calming feeling, soothing almost.
Once, both the lights and the floating happened at once one Easter at my grandmother's house, as I stood in the front living room. I had irridescent clear blue wrapping paper and gossamer Easter grass which I tossed and let flow and fall with the movement I felt and the shimmering lights I saw in this elaborate glorious dance only I experienced. I gathered the paper up afterwards and stashed it for years, trying occasionally to vainly recreate that moment of pure joy.
I was curious enough to demand an answer to what was going on, and young enough to look for answers in fairy tales, and sure enough, I quickly found one. It was in a children's encyclopedia of mythological beings and seemed to meet my criteria. So one day, I pulled aside my friend Aleah and explained in strictest confidence that I suspected I was some sort of a pixie. They exchanged their children at birth for mortal children, were redheaded, and were said to see things others couldn't because they were seeing and experiencing the fairy realm. The next day, a bunch of children started to tease me at lunch. Aleah had let slip my confession to her. I tried to defend myself, but explaining the lights only made them tease me more.
Within a week, the kids moved on, but I decided parcelled the experience up and decided that this was all mine, a secret, and not to be shared. I didn't talk to anyone about these experiences for another ten years.