It is a headache which pulls instead of thumps. It begins in the night at the top of my neck – on the right – and pulls until it reaches the top of my eye.

The doctor has shown me the way it works on a plastic head she pulled from the shelf. She looked back through my notes, and asked me questions until I cried. They were the days of the lingering sad and I think she only asked two. But now, she could ask eight or ten or even twenty five. And the fifteen minutes would be up by then and she would not be recommending another appointment for next week.

The knot in my neck stirs my stomach and the pull on my eye leaves things blurred. It wakes me, sometimes, for three nights in a row. I wander around the house. I check the children, rubbing their foreheads, kissing their cheeks, wondering what they dream. If my head didn’t pull, I could work through the soft and quiet night. But if my head didn’t pull, I would sleep.

The headache will go. I start with yoga, then panadol, before I move to nurofen. But the only cure is time.

Sometimes, when it goes, I am drained and melancholy and if Damien Leith sings Hallelujah, I will cry. Sobs not tears.

But other times, I am light with the elation of release, and I sit on the couch chattering with the dreams which will come true. Tomorrow. When I’m not so tired.