I have made my own prison by the way I have internalized events in my life. I have burdened myself with guilt and shame and it has been like bricks tied to my ankles in an angry ocean. The lens in which I viewed myself has been distorted, the way a pair of bad windshield wipers scrape across your window at night, leaving behind a blurry path of smeared water, making the road ahead look like an abstract painting. Like someone with Stockholm syndrome, I began to feel comfort in my prison cell, I knew all the habits of my prison guard, and after years of quiet intimate moments, we became friendly, and so when the day finally came to be free, I wrestled with the idea of staying. Depression plays crazy tricks on the mind, fortunately light slowly melted my shackles and circulation returned to my limbs, and in time, I crawled out.