"Its somewhere between 11:00 P.M. and 3:00 A.M., and I wake terrified, hopeful that Im dreaming, and knowing that Im not. I move quickly out of bed while my lovely wife of fifteen years, the only one who truly tries to understand, watches helpless; as there is nothing that she can do, she hurts too. I am careful not to wake the children as I make my way down the stairs. If they were to witness my nightly cluster ritual, they would never see me the same way again. Their father, fearless protector, diligent provider, crawling about in tears, beating his head on the hard wood floor.
The pain is so intense I want to scream, but I never do. I go down three flights of stairs where I can't be heard, and drop to my knees. I place my hands on the back of my neck, and lock my fingers together. I bind my head between my arms and squeeze as hard as I can in an attempt to crush my scull. I begin to roll around, banging my head on the floor, silently groaning. I stand up and begin to pace, pressing my left eye with full force of my palm. I often wonder how it is that my eye isn't damaged. I search for the telephone that has always been my weapon of choice for creating a diversion, and I beat my left temple with the hand piece. I create a rhythm as I strike my scull, cursing the demon with each blow. I reach a point of distraction from the cluster, and then I start the whole process over; roll and squeeze, crawl and bang, find the telephone.
Eventually, the cluster, whatever it is, drains from me. I can feel it passing through my temple, and behind my ear where it seems to run out of my skull like water passing down a pipe. Tonight it took two hours, yesterday was thirty minutes. Tomorrow only God knows."