Checking on my Comfort Zone

Recently, a friend introduced me to a site called Superbetter. It's all about making yourself better - more resilient, more optimistic, more motivated. It's filled with games but not like flash games or xbox games. These are quests and you face challenges, gain allies, learn skills, and fight off bad guys. It intrigued me and, since my friend signed up for it, I figured I would sign up, too. I don't play everyday. Honestly, I haven't been to the website in weeks.

While working through my quest I got stuck. It's my own fault, too. I was faced with a challenge and didn't do it. I haven't done it yet. I started to but it was uncomfortable so I set it aside with the intention of returning to it the next day. I did return to it but I didn't do anything about it beyond rereading the description of what I was supposed to do. What did I get stuck on, you ask? It's silly, really. All I needed to do was write a journal entry answering this question:

What is your current relationship with your comfort zone?

Fortressed within it?

Always busting through it?

See what I mean? It's simple. Yet, it's so complex. Formulating a reply has been troublesome and it's been weighing on me.

Source: Get Out of Your Comfort Zone

My comfort zone is always changing. It varies with my mood - how manic or depressed I am or if I'm neither. My level of anxiety plays a big role in defining what I enjoy doing or what I'm willing to try. Likewise it determines what completely freaks me out, it draws that proverbial line in the sand which I cannot cross. What feels impossible for me one week is second nature the next and vice versa.

Source: Clinical Junior.com

My healthy self, if I know my healthy self - which is dubious, is bound to be somewhere in the middle between manic and depressed. That's only logical. She must be more cautious than the manic version of me and must also be more relaxed than the anxious version of me. Surely she is, or at least believes herself to be, more capable than the depressed version of me.

So, today? At this moment? I feel good about myself. I believe I'm good at my job and I enjoy it. I feel good about my relationships with family and friends. Calling my best friend is not a stretch today even though the same activity yesterday was distressing and I couldn't bring myself to do it. I feel like I have something worth sharing on my blog and I'm able to adequately answer the Superbetter question.

Will I feel the same tomorrow? Who knows.

If you're curious, here's a little about Superbetter from TED Talks.

Fearless

My heart beat in slow motion - one Mississippi, two Mississippi – and I swear I saw the molecules of air in front of my little sister's face fly away in chaotic, swirling tornadoes when she screamed my name.

The car in front of us drove it's front left wheel up the guardrail, grinding along the metal boundary between interstate overpass and old county road below and, with the other three wheels still on the surface of the highway, the body of the car gauged a long, terrible arc into the asphalt before stopping.

I pulled onto the shoulder of I-10 only yards from the steep concrete retainer wall which stretched beneath the overpass and my younger sister, a nurse, burst from my little Jetta and scrambled through traffic to the unfolding tragedy where she knelt close to the person who lay motionless on the ground.

The echo off the concrete of the underpass doubled the roar of the cars and the rumble of semi engines yet I still heard my sister yell adamantly at the person beside her, “Stay with me damn you! Look at me! Don't you dare close your eyes!”

I called 911 while she did the miraculous thing that I could not and in those terrible moments she evolved in my mind from little sister to woman and hero.

This weeks prompts are the word "fearless" and this image.

For more information about Five Sentence Fiction check out Lillie McFerrin Writes.

Illusions in the Rain

Visual prompt for this weeks FSF Challenge.

The rain poured thick and loud, obscuring the buildings that lined the street and roaring over our voices no matter how loud we tried to talk or how hard we tried to listen.

Seizing the hand of my long-time friend, who rather like Big Bird's Mr. Snuffleupagus existed only in my imagination, I pulled him eagerly down the middle of the narrow street slowly filling with water.

I laughed, sang, and twirled in his arms to music that existed only in my mind as we approached the arched tunnel through a stone pedestrian bridge which stretched across the road we sloshed along.

When we stepped into cover of the small underpass I pointed to the curtain of water hanging over it's opposite end and announced, “Leaving through that side, in a magical moment, will take me to another point in my life," and then I snarled, "it might even be a time when my mind is not lost and you don't exist.”

I saw bewilderment on his face and a touch of fear in his eyes as I loosed my fingers from around his hand and shoved him back into the downpour we just left and then I rushed through the enchanted veil of rain which promised to free me from my madness.

Don't Judge Me (POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING)

NOTICE: This post may be a trigger for you.

I think I manage the anxiety I experience rather well. Most days I can keep my darker emotions from ganging up on me and I've done a great job of successfully beating them off. There is a certain threshold, though. Somber turns to despair and I feel defeated, crushed beneath the weight of my own sick brain. Grumpy morphs into a full blown rage and the catalyst will be something ridiculous. Discomfort becomes humiliation and shame as my brain brings to the forefront of my conscious mind everything it believes I've ever done wrong. What happens beyond the threshold is not anything I'm proud of.

I scratch and cut myself. It makes sense to me in the moment. I've done it enough throughout my life that I no longer carry sharp things with me when I feel the stable ground beneath me tremble, a sign that a terrible fissure threatens to open under my feet. Leaving the pocket knife at home interferes with my attempts to cut myself. Most of the time, the appeal of cutting fades away before I can gain possession of an object capable of drawing blood. Sometimes cutting is so terribly seductive that, unable to access anything sharper, I resort to using my fingernails. They don't cut per se; they scratch well, though. They become claws that scrape at the skin of my thighs in moments of desperation.

I don't know if it's seeing the stripes or feeling the sting that helps me keep my demons at bay. I guess it's both. I make more cuts and scratches when my distress is more intense. The more my efforts fail to ease my anguish, the more ferocious my actions become. The physical pain is probably the larger part of it although the blushing lines swelling on my skin do create an odd feeling of satisfaction - gratification blended with disgrace.

Don't judge me for this behavior. I know it's messed up. I don't need to be reminded. I don't even want to talk about it most of the time because the people I confide in almost always focus on the action and make me feel even more ashamed which isn't helpful. The problem isn't the cutting or the scratching. They are symptoms, physical manifestations of the dark hurt and anxiety that have escalated beyond my ability to fend off in a manner deemed healthy by the normal people of the world. Let's deal with the emotions I can't handle and the scratching will go away.

Don't judge me for this behavior. Other peoples' actions are mesed up, too. Making an 11:00pm run to the stop-and-rob for a cheap six-pack of beer because you can't slow down your mind enough to go to sleep is damaging to the body, too. It's just not exposed. Is harming your liver somehow more nobel than injuring your skin? I'm not even referring to alcoholism, just the occassional "had a rough day" gin and tonic. What about smoking when stressed? Over-eating? Going on spending sprees? All of these have consequences.

Don't judge me for this behavior. We all have our coping methods and mine usually heal within a few days.

A Little Gratitude Please

What are you grateful for?

The usual answers include:

• My family
• My friends
• My health

Other common answers are:

• A good home
• Healthy food
• My pets

The answers are all legitimate and I'm sure most people are being truthful in giving them. They aren't unique, though. They are so common as to be cliche and, like any old adage, the words fall out of our mouths without a moment of consideration. The thoughtlessness of it all only registers when the words land with a heavy thunk across the top of one's left foot. Saying "I'm grateful for my family" has become an antiphone that doesn't require the least bit of contemplation. "I'm grateful for my friends" is an automatic reply, a reflex similar to the startle response we have when someone sneaks up behind us. It just happens.

"For my dog" or "for my health" are comfortable replies when playing the I'm Thankful For game round-robin style with people we might call friends but we're not particularly close to. They are safe, true statements and, most importantly, they don't even hint at the intimate matters living closer to our hearts. I get it. Don't get me wrong. I use those standard answers, too. I think I've even gotten pretty good at the Sincere Smile which dresses up the shallowness of my randomly chosen, standard answer with the guise of heartfelt earnestness.

All of this begs the question, what are you grateful for? Peak into all the little crevices in your brain to find something particular to you and your life. When you're being candid with your real self, who and what rise to the top of your Grateful List.

Me?

I'm grateful that a certain someone picked me up after work one day, like always, and took me directly to my doctor. We did not pass go or collect $200. This person told me s/he was scared for me, told me I was sick and I needed to get help. This person got me the help I was incapable of getting for myself and promised to stand strong for me until I was able to stand for myself again. That event took one hour out of one day and changed the course of my life.

Silence

A few years ago I attended a women's retreat. I shared a little of that experience with you not too long ago. One of the "rules" (really more of a recommendation) was to spend a certain amount of time each day in silence. Attaining that goal meant more than not talking. That was the easy part. It required being alone and away from a million little things. Phone, TV, music, the obvious stuff. Once I eliminated those things I realized that my surroundings were far from silent. The ceiling fan and fridge whirred and, without other noises to conceal it, they seemed loud. I left my room expecting to find a quieter space outside, perhaps on one of the gentle trails or on a bench beneath the sprawling branches of an old tree. I had to share the trail with other people and, although they were quiet in the normal sense of the word, they still made noise that filled my ears. Even when I was alone on the trail, the gravel beneath my feet crunched with every single step I took. Silence, true silence, was eluding me. Eventually, I returned to my room and decided it was quiet enough. I was able to exist with my thoughts, my journal, and my pen.

Several years before that, I went on a spiritual journey of sorts. This was long before I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and I was desperately grasping for something, anything, that would give me some peace. Upon arriving at the spiritual retreat center the first evening, I was instructed to be silent until a specified time the following morning. No talking and no turning anything on to listen to. Being alone with myself like that was unnerving. I didn't much like myself at the time and I definitely did not respect myself. I was trapped in an illness I did not know I had and the silence outside my body made the noise inside by body seem that much louder. My thoughts jumped from one traumatic experience to another while my inner critic picked apart every little decision I had made, proving to me how bad my choices were and how terrible a person I was. My skin crawled with tension and my stomach hurt. I did the only thing I could think to do. I wrote. I had no watch or clock so I have no idea how long I scribbled in my journal. I continued until all the jumbled mess in my head was transferred to paper and until I had described all my emotions and body sensations as well as I could. Finally satisfied, I carefully closed my journal. I felt lighter. I still needed to deal with the awful things I had written but, for the night at least, they lived in the journal and not in me.

1000 Paper Cranes

Legend says if you make 1000 paper cranes then you can make a wish and it will come true.

A much more recent story, one about a little girl growing up in the toxic world created by the Hiroshima bombing, is attached to the paper crane legend. The little girl's name was Sadako Sasaki and she developed Lukemia when she was a child. She started folding origami cranes with the goal of being able to make a wish. Some stories say her wish was to be well again while others say it was for world peace. Some versions say she finished 1000 cranes before she passed away at 12 years old. Other versions say she didn't and that her friends and family finished them for her. You can read one version of Sadako's story at 1000cranes.com.

I suspect the little girl was originally wishing to be well and that the wish morphed into one of world peace as she succumbed to the illness. I'm a grown woman and I would wish to be healthy again. Forget world peace; I want to live. Maybe I'm just selfish. Of course, maybe she really was a child of the light, mature beyond her years, and destined to help usher in a change in this world.

Would I wish to be free of my illness?

Bipolar Disorder comes with a lot of ugly characteristics. If I were to make a chart listing the pros and cons of living a life with Bipolar Disorder, I suspect the cons would far out number the pros. The pros, however, include some amazingly positive things.

• increased confidence
• increased creativity
• more outgoing
• higher goals
• increased intelligence
• better performance

If you live with Bipolar Disorder, though, then you know those things are not permanent. It's a terrible truth and it often feels like a curse. I can taste success and then the mania wisks me away in an updraft, a tell-tale sign of an impending storm. How high I go reveals the strength of the storm and the level of destruction it will do.

What if the legend is true? Just pretend for a moment and believe with 100% certainty that making 1000 origami cranes would allow for the granting of one wish.

Here is paper crane #1.

Reflecting on a Post about "The Monster"

I read a blog post the other day criticizing a couple of musicians and the lyrics of a song they perform together. It struck a chord in me. Maybe it was a nerve that got hit. Either way, her post has been rolling around in my head for a few days. It's called "Don't Sing About Mental Illness" and it was written by a blogger named Maddy. The entire blog post can be found at http://chattymaddyhealth.blogspot.com/2014/06/dont-sing-about-mental-illness.html. She focuses specifically on "The Monster" rapped/sung by Eminem and Rihanna.

If you've never heard it, here's a link to the video. Warning: he uses some foul language.

This next video shows the lyrics as the song is being performed. It only shows lyrics and the explicit language is still there.

One part of Maddy's post discusses the chorus.

I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed

Get along with the voices inside of my head

You're trying to save me, stop holding your breath

And you think I'm crazy, yeah, you think I'm crazy
That's nothing

She writes,

First of all, "voices inside of your head" is a sign of psychosis, which is associated with schizophrenia and bipolar I disorder. As someone who has experienced voices in her head and knows how terrifying it is, I can assure you, you don't want to be "friends" with them. It's an experience that will leave you shaken and confused. 

I appreciate what Maddy is saying here and Maddy, if you're reading this, thank you for being so honest and sharing this part of your experience. She's right. Auditory and visual hallucinations are not necessarily the greatest experiences in the world and they are certainly symptoms of a number of serious mental disorders that need to be addressed. I've flown from my own dark bedroom to a fully lit kitchen or living room more than once because of such experiences. They are just part of my condition, my illness, and I've had no choice but to accept them into my life. They are a few of the many monsters, demons, issues, problems, beasts, symptoms, creatures, whatever you want to call them that hide in my surroundings. None of them are friends in the sense of "Hey, wanna go to a movie? We can share a popcorn." They are, however, friends in the sarcastic sense of being an undesired familiar thing like the heartache that comes to visit after a relationship ends. Saying two people are friends also means they accept each other and they've established a relationship that allows them to move on with some grace and dignity - most of the time at least. The beasts that wander through my life fall into that category. We are companions but not buddies. I'm not always thrilled that they travel with me but I've had to make friends with them in so far as being able to play nicely together.

She goes on to say,

Some people say the line isn't literal, but instead referring to self talk. I still have a problem with this because those aren't voices in your head. That's YOU speaking to YOURSELF. You shouldn't try to refer to a mental illness to describe something that is in fact NOT a mental illness.

That's an important distinction to make and most people don't (in my experience anyway). Lumping auditory hallucinations and self talk together undermines the significance of having hallucinations. I can't help but wonder how many people, trying to deny that they are sick, have avoided getting help by calling the voices self talk.

Regarding the line "And you think I'm crazy, yeah you think I'm crazy, that's nothing" she writes,

People are desperately trying to remove the stigma that surrounds mental illness. One of the most painful words you can say to someone who is struggling with one of these disorders is that they are "crazy". It's hurtful. Period. And again, since Eminem and Rihanna are both people who have experienced this, they should understand more than most of the population that this word can cut deep. So why are they referring to themselves as this?

I've already expressed my feelings on the use of the word "crazy" in a previous post: Go Ahead. Call Me Crazy.

When it comes to the last two words in the chorus, "is nothing," the blogger says,

They are implying that "crazy" doesn't even begin to cover what kind of emotional state they are in. Again, why? They are further stigmatizing mental disorders and painting us in a horrible light.

I don't understand this critique. I don't see how this final piece of the chorus is stigmatizing. Why would it be wrong for me to tell someone they have no clue how I feel? I don't see that as stigmatizing but rather revealing, almost educating. Conveying intensity of feelings opens people's eyes to the broad spectrum of human emotion and human beings are capable of higher highs and lower lows than most people will ever experience first hand. That's important to understand. That's why "pick yourself up by your bootstraps" is sufficient advice for some and impossible for others. I need to be able to tell someone that how they are describing my emotional state is correct but woefully inadequate. It's the difference between bumping your head against the back of the sofa when you plop down too hard and getting a concussion after falling down the stairs.

One final quote from Maddy,

Music is powerful. It should be a tool that is used to help those who suffer from mental illness. ...[W]e need to spread awareness that Eminem and Rihanna's song "The Monster" is NOT okay.

I agree 100% that music is powerful and it can be used to help people deal with their mental illness. It's a valuable strategy to consider including in our individual mental illness toolboxes. Should all music help people who have mental illnesses? Absolutely not. Creating music isn't about helping others, it's about expressing ourselves. It's a form of sharing and it helps us when it resonates with our own lived experiences. "The Monster" resonated with me. It's not a pretty picture but I connected with it. 

A couple final notes.

While reflecting on Maddy's post and the song, I came across a website that I found to be interesting and informative. You might like it. When you click a line in the song, a short commentary about that line shows up in the panel to the right.

and

I've never been a fan of rap music. It's not my thing. Grappling with this song, though, I must admit that it is poetry - something I never thought I would say.

Go Ahead. Call Me Crazy.

I am a middle class woman with a middle class job holding onto a middle class life. My money and my time are limited. I need to thoughtfully decide how to use those resources and be intentional about when and where I engage the larger community in a conversation about mental illness and stigma.

Stigma is definitely a problem, one that is well known among people with mental illnesses. We, meaning me, worry about the consequences of the wrong people finding out about our, meaning my, diagnosis. Whether it's fair or not is irrelevant when the job, custody, or respect of peers has been lost. The damage is done and it can't be undone.

Patsy Cline singing "Crazy" written by Willie Nelson

Stigma must be addressed. People must be educated. I get that and I agree whole-heartedly. How to address it, though, that's the million dollar question.

Recently, I've come across a number of blogs and facebook posts that focus on the use of the word "crazy" and, invariably, the writers are upset about it and are insisting that it should be removed entirely from our language. They are vehement about it, almost as if they were fighting against using words like "nigger" or "retard." I mean no disrespect by writing those words here. I would never use either of them to describe anyone. I'm only making the point that those two words are exponentially more offensive and hurtful than the word "crazy." "Crazy" isn't even in the same league.

Unlike the other two words, "crazy" has a lot of nuances, meanings, and connotations. The derogatory interpretation is just one of many. The word isn't the problem so much as the context. Who is saying it? And why? I don't care if my sister is calling me crazy as a synonym for being goofy or if my best friend says I'm crazy because I did something that she can't imagine doing herself. I see no harm in saying things like "I'm crazy in love" or "crazy about going to the concert." Patsy Cline does not offend me with her song titled "Crazy." It's actually one of my favorite songs of all time.

Just to be clear, certain uses of the word "crazy" cut to the bone. Those five little letters have been thrown at me a time or two (or more) by loved ones who were angry with me. It makes a great little jab when disagreements turn ugly. Saying I'm bleeping crazy as a synonym for demented, psychotic, or delusional can bring me to tears, especially if it comes from someone who knows about my mental health battle. Most of the time, though, it's just not a big deal. I'm actually more offended by being called "sweetie" or "hun" (short for "honey" in the south).

I'm sure it feels like I've gone off on a tangent in this post but I haven't. Returning to the fact that I'm middle class with limited resources, I must ask myself if I really want to spend my time fighting against the word "crazy."

You Understand? Really?

My friend expressed some concern about me not long ago. She is a newish friend and does not yet know much about having a bipolar brain. She knows even less about my particular brain and the life experiences it initiated and stored in its memory.

"You're not quite yourself today. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just in a funky place right now."

It's a good answer. Most people accept it easily and we move on. More importantly, I avoid thinking at a level which would prompt tears or temper. My friend, however, didn't like it. She pressed the issue. I don't remember the exact string of questions or my answers but I kept trying to politely and nonchalantly redirect the conversation. The only way to make her interrogation stop was to be direct and probably rude.

"Look, there's nothing wrong in the world around me. My bipolar head is just screwing with me. It's illogical, it happens, and I'll be fine."

What else could I possibly say? The 15 minutes we had together before going to work was not enough time to explain the meaningless anxiety churning in my gut or the darkness I was walking into. I didn't really want to explain anyway. I wasn't ready to share the very personal, raw details she was trying to elicit and her aggressive, albeit well-intended, poking for information has made me less inclined to share in the future.

Then she said, "I understand." The conversation could have, should have, ended there but I laughed and shook my head. It was a knee-jerk reaction and it was stupid.

We pulled into the parking lot at work. "Really. I understand."

Northern Goshawk

My mind commenced to spinning as a result of her audacity. Thoughts. Feelings. Images of "understanding" eyes full of pity. Memories of "understanding" voices telling me to suck it up. It all moved through me so fast that the only knee-jerk reaction I had was stunned silence and the inability to move. Long moments passed.

I scoffed and stepped out of the car. As we walked into the building we work in she continued looking at me. Her eyes oozed just how pathetic I was to her. She looked at me like I was a sad, little, wounded sparrow even though I felt much more like a Goshawk whose territory had just been invaded.

Those not initiated into the pain, euphoria, confusion, and chaos that bipolar disorder gifts to the fortunate sick and the people who love them do not understand.

A Weekend with Friends

Manic. Margie pegged me. She saw it before anyone else -- including myself. Here I thought I was acting normal and she says, "How many drinks did you have?" She wore a big, goofy grin.

"What?" I asked incredulously. "None. I had a glass of apple juice." I made the decision before going on that trip that I would not drink any alcohol. It's bad for bipolar disorder, a condition which had only recently been diagnosed in me.

"Girl..." She let the r hang in the air for a moment and shook her head, "You're as tipsy as I am and I had three glasses of wine!"

I was a little stunned to hear that. "You're buzzed."  I teased.

"So are you!"

"I'm not." I retorted. "I'm fine. Just enjoying myself and the show."

"No." She drew out the word again, shaking her head again. "You're acting high. Buzzed. Lit."

I considered her statement, took stock of my behaviors over the last couple hours, and realized she was right. The mellower me was being usurped by an overly spirited, bubbly me. I hadn't noticed it in my own self. Someone else had to point it out to me.

Later that night Margie, Kristine, and I took off for a walk around the retreat property. I thought it would burn off some of the energy in me and bring my slightly manic mind and body back down to earth before they had enough fuel to spiral out of control. It was quiet time so I had to whisper. That helped. It was dark, so I had to pay attention right around me. It helped me focus and bring my mind back to me. The quiet and the dark kept my senses from being stimulated as much as they had been during the show. The energy in that room had apparently been electrifying. I thought I was reacting at a level comparable to the other audience members. And maybe I was. Maybe they were simply able to come down to a normal level of happy and satisfied when the show was over whereas I was not.

We wandered along wide pea gravel paths for almost two hours before going to Kristine's room. She shared her room with Gayle, the friend who had taken the lead in making this little weekend happen.

"I have pictures taken of me when I was manic," Gayle remarked before I had time to close the door. "My eyes were so big ..." she held her hands up to her eyes, curving her fingers to pantomime binoculars. "My eyes were so big that you could see the whites of my eyes, all the way around the colored part." She pointed at her eye, tracing a circle in the air around its iris. "I see that in you." Gayle giggled.

She can read me like a book. I don't mind though. She has Bipolar Disorder, too, and has been managing it longer than I have. She's honest with me so I know I'll get genuine feedback and support. I guess she's almost like a mirror. She reflects me back to me and then I see the symptoms.

We sat on the little balcony attached to their room and visited for a while. When the time came, we said our good nights and gave hugs all around. "Sleep tight," I said as I opened the door to go.

"I will," Gayle chuckled. "But you'll still be awake."

Rule #1: Eat

Everyone knows breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Who decided that? I'm guessing it was a breakfast cereal company. The point is, breakfast is not necessarily the most important. Maybe lunch, when I need to get over the midday slump, is most important. Why not dinner? That's when I need to refuel after working all day. Where do snacks fall in the spectrum of significance? 

At the moment it doesn't really matter. In the last six to eight months I've dropped 6 sizes and over 40 pounds. If anyone tells me how they wish they could do that I think I will scream. Maybe /you/ struggle to loose weight but /I/ struggle to gain it. At the heart of the matter the problem is the same. It's about being a healthy weight.

My appetite drops off the face of the earth when I get stressed. Of course I loose weight during those times in my life. During one particularly terrible phase I was less that 95 pounds. While doing a job, a career, that was bad for in many ways, I barely managed to stay up to 110. Stress was the culprit. It had to be.

What's the problem now? I'm in a job I enjoy, surrounded by people I like working with. I'm good at my job and when I'm done for the day the work I do stays at work. Those characteristics were sorely lacking in my last job, the one had chosen as my career. Life has stress. That's the nature of life. The level I experience now is nowhere near what it was. Why, then, am I loosing so much weight? Clearly extreme stress is not the catalyst.

 

She Speaks - Washed and Whipped

Hot water slid down my back. I leaned my head against the shower wall using my crossed arms as a pillow. The fissure inside me grew wider. All joy and contentment spurted from an emotional wound, like blood from an artery. Misery and pain slowly clotted the hole. Memories of everything I ever did wrong, real and imagined, played on a giant screen in my mind’s eye and I was powerless to turn it off.

Water washed down my spine splitting at my hips into tributaries that rolled down my thighs and calves. Focus on the water. The heat. I wanted it to help but it did little to carry my distressing thoughts into the drain. Make it stop. I pleaded with the universe which yielded nothing in return.

My mind slipped from the moment and into a space I knew to be imagined and real at the same time. I held a bullwhip in my hand, poised in desperate readiness to use it against my enemies. Who were those foes? I didn’t know. I only knew that I temporarily forestalled their attacks.

The bullwhip disappeared. Rope restrained my wrists and pulled my arms over my head. A whip struck me from the darkness. Confused by the pain and lack of control, I stared into the gloom searching for my attacker. A strap of leather lashed out again, beating me like Jesus or a slave. I cringed.

“I’m not a savior! Or a slave! So why are you doing this?” I cried.

Another crack sounded and the whip landed surely on my back.

“Am I so terrible that I deserve such punishment?”

A woman’s voice in the darkness said, “If you are going to use a whip, you should know what it feels like to be on the receiving end.” She was calm, not the slightest hint of anger in her tone.

Even though an infinite shade limited my sight, I knew the woman’s voice had a body and companions.

A length of leather braid smacked my back and she said, “You never know when they’ll hit.”

Another lash, harder than the last, burned my shoulder blades. “You never know how hard they’ll strike.”

I heard a loud snap in the air to the left above me and felt a strike from the right. “You never know when they’ll miss or where they’ll come from.”

The beating continued from all around and, just as she told me, I could not predict if, when, or where I would be hit next. I could not tell how much pain would be inflicted or who was controlling the whip. My mind, intoxicated by so much pain, held up who as the most important information to have.

The woman provided the answer before my pain-soaked brain fully formed the question. “Sometimes it’s others, people you’ve wronged. Most of the time it’s not.”

A dark haired woman in a long crimson dress stepped into view. The whip reappeared in my hand and I stood outside my own exhausted body. I used it on the tied woman, myself. I couldn’t stop torturing the part of me that a rope still held in place. She rolled her head weakly and looked at me. I helplessly turned my attention to the woman from the shadow.

I pointed to the bleeding woman. “Why are you doing this to me?” Tormented tears dropped from my burning eyes.

“I’m not. You are.” She looked at me through steady green eyes reminiscent of the undisturbed surface of a pond. The woman’s companions gradually emerged from the darkness.

“But I’m not, I couldn’t,” I stuttered. “I wouldn't do this to myself. Something or someone is making me.”

She shook her head, “You are beating yourself, punishing yourself for things you believe you should be punished for since no one else will do it.”

I handed the whip to one of the woman's companions, the featureless person nearest me. It was a shadowy thing, a stark contrast against the brightly lit and blood-striped body in front of me. I watched as the unidentifiable person whipped her, me, further. Others joined it and they took turns beating and abusing me, spitting at me and occasionally kicking me. I looked at the crimson woman again. “Why are you letting them do this to me?”

“I didn’t give them permission. You handed them the whip. You’ve stood here idly watching them assault you.”

Standing beside the woman at the edge of the shadow, I cried from the guilt of persecuting that person hanging limply from the rope. Returned to the delirious body I started in, I cried from the physical pain inflicted on me but stayed without a struggle because of the disgrace I felt. A chill moved down my spine.

My everyday self leaned face first against the shower wall using my crossed arms as a pillow. Cool water washed down my back, burning as it rolled over my spiritual wounds. I slid slowly to the shower floor, my face turned to the wall, and wept.