tripete
Very helpful member
- Joined
- Dec 5, 2014
- Messages
- 1,002
- Reason
- PALS
- Diagnosis
- 12/2014
- Country
- US
- State
- PA
- City
- Lancaster
The Cage
I am not anyone special. I am not an actor, a sports hero, a politician, or anyone you may have read about in a paper or seen on a news station. I am not famous or infamous, I am by all accounts anonymous. And still I have been captured and forced to live in a cage.
When I say a cage, it may evoke for you the image of bars and a door. Maybe you even picture a poorly lit basement that smells of sweating rocks, with dirty straw strewn in the corner, and people of all ages thrown communally together while they await their beheading. Or maybe you see in your mind a more solitary cell where a prisoner is thrown through a doorway and into a dark room by themselves. Here they pass their days away doing push ups, sit ups and pull ups while promising revenge on those who so unjustly put them there. I can assure you that my cage is quite different.
To start with my cage has no doors, no bars, and no windows. There is no way that once you are captured that you will ever leave. The walls and floor of my cage are made of a seamless copper. On those walls images of those who have been my friends and family are constantly projected. I can see them through a copper, mirror-like haze and tell who they are but have no way to communicate with them.
The ceiling in my cage moves. When my tormentor first flung me here, I could stand, walk to one end of the roughly six foot by three foot room, turn walk back and repeat. Over time the roof has pressed in on me and now I lie flat on my back staring at the ceiling a mere six inches above me.
There is a long eight inch tube in the ceiling of my cage that extends upward for a long time and out to what is light and fresh air. Through the tube I can here the voices of my friends and family. Mostly, they bring me pain with their words and images. They are not trying to do so, but they do not understand the depth of my captivity, and the helplessness that it has created. They hold hope that I might be released and speak such words, but my tormentor has made it clear that there is no escape for me.
As my ceiling has pressed in around me the air that I breath has become more and more toxic. The human breathing machine when working properly is an amazing apparatus. We take in the air that is around us, absorb the oxygen out of it and pass the good stuff into our bloodstream. This then feeds the rest of our body. The rest of the unusable air and by products of this operation we exhale out of our bodies. In my confined space I breath in more and more of this air exchange waste and slowly contaminate myself with each breath. There is simply no way to get rid of the poison air that surrounds me.
It would seem however that my captor is not happy with bringing just these difficulties to me. Always the creative one, each day, a new fresh torment is brought upon me. The copper walls and floor of my cage make for an excellent conductor of electricity. So on irregular intervals varying degrees of voltage will be run through it.
Before the ceiling on my cage had pressed so closely down on me I would move from end to end to try and escape the electrical shocks. Or I would make it so just my feet where touching the floor to try and eliminate the amount of surface area I was in contact with. Later as the ceiling got lower, I stayed on my hands and knees to try and relieve some of the pain. Now I lay on my back and let it course through me – there is no where to go.
As the shocks very in their frequency, they also very in their severity, and so does my body in its reactions. On the lighter ones different parts of my body will twitch. In the beginning it was only my left hand and foot. As the voltage is dialed up larger muscle groups join in on the fun and will cramp and lock in place. The forearm, calf, thigh, hamstring , and jaw to name just a few. As the months and years of this torture have continued, most of my muscles have thrown up the white flag and surrendered. They decided that death was better than the constant torture and ceased functioning.
A few of the muscle groups still react to the torment. I believe I am kept alive so that my captor can continue having fun causing me pain. I suspect that when they stop reacting, that the ceiling will make its final push down on me.
While the pain from the reaction of my muscles to the electrical shock, and the lack of oxygen, cause large amounts of discomfort and pain, the largest source of torment from my captivity is in my own mind.
I lay still everyday, unable to meaningfully communicate or move. I miss my freedom. Just being able to hold my wife, run on a trail, play basketball with my kids, do chores around the house, or even to just walk into the bathroom to do my business. I wonder how I will survive when more and more is taken away.
Maybe not knowing when the ceiling will fall is the ultimate torture that my tormentor can bring. So I wait, knowing that there is no escape. I just wait to see what fresh new torture is on the books for tomorrow. The pain, the grief are all building up. There is no release no way to end the torment, just the ticking of time.
In my mind I often beg for the ceiling to drop and put and end to my captivity, but my jailer is to cruel for that.
I am not anyone special. I am not an actor, a sports hero, a politician, or anyone you may have read about in a paper or seen on a news station. I am not famous or infamous, I am by all accounts anonymous. And still I have been captured and forced to live in a cage.
When I say a cage, it may evoke for you the image of bars and a door. Maybe you even picture a poorly lit basement that smells of sweating rocks, with dirty straw strewn in the corner, and people of all ages thrown communally together while they await their beheading. Or maybe you see in your mind a more solitary cell where a prisoner is thrown through a doorway and into a dark room by themselves. Here they pass their days away doing push ups, sit ups and pull ups while promising revenge on those who so unjustly put them there. I can assure you that my cage is quite different.
To start with my cage has no doors, no bars, and no windows. There is no way that once you are captured that you will ever leave. The walls and floor of my cage are made of a seamless copper. On those walls images of those who have been my friends and family are constantly projected. I can see them through a copper, mirror-like haze and tell who they are but have no way to communicate with them.
The ceiling in my cage moves. When my tormentor first flung me here, I could stand, walk to one end of the roughly six foot by three foot room, turn walk back and repeat. Over time the roof has pressed in on me and now I lie flat on my back staring at the ceiling a mere six inches above me.
There is a long eight inch tube in the ceiling of my cage that extends upward for a long time and out to what is light and fresh air. Through the tube I can here the voices of my friends and family. Mostly, they bring me pain with their words and images. They are not trying to do so, but they do not understand the depth of my captivity, and the helplessness that it has created. They hold hope that I might be released and speak such words, but my tormentor has made it clear that there is no escape for me.
As my ceiling has pressed in around me the air that I breath has become more and more toxic. The human breathing machine when working properly is an amazing apparatus. We take in the air that is around us, absorb the oxygen out of it and pass the good stuff into our bloodstream. This then feeds the rest of our body. The rest of the unusable air and by products of this operation we exhale out of our bodies. In my confined space I breath in more and more of this air exchange waste and slowly contaminate myself with each breath. There is simply no way to get rid of the poison air that surrounds me.
It would seem however that my captor is not happy with bringing just these difficulties to me. Always the creative one, each day, a new fresh torment is brought upon me. The copper walls and floor of my cage make for an excellent conductor of electricity. So on irregular intervals varying degrees of voltage will be run through it.
Before the ceiling on my cage had pressed so closely down on me I would move from end to end to try and escape the electrical shocks. Or I would make it so just my feet where touching the floor to try and eliminate the amount of surface area I was in contact with. Later as the ceiling got lower, I stayed on my hands and knees to try and relieve some of the pain. Now I lay on my back and let it course through me – there is no where to go.
As the shocks very in their frequency, they also very in their severity, and so does my body in its reactions. On the lighter ones different parts of my body will twitch. In the beginning it was only my left hand and foot. As the voltage is dialed up larger muscle groups join in on the fun and will cramp and lock in place. The forearm, calf, thigh, hamstring , and jaw to name just a few. As the months and years of this torture have continued, most of my muscles have thrown up the white flag and surrendered. They decided that death was better than the constant torture and ceased functioning.
A few of the muscle groups still react to the torment. I believe I am kept alive so that my captor can continue having fun causing me pain. I suspect that when they stop reacting, that the ceiling will make its final push down on me.
While the pain from the reaction of my muscles to the electrical shock, and the lack of oxygen, cause large amounts of discomfort and pain, the largest source of torment from my captivity is in my own mind.
I lay still everyday, unable to meaningfully communicate or move. I miss my freedom. Just being able to hold my wife, run on a trail, play basketball with my kids, do chores around the house, or even to just walk into the bathroom to do my business. I wonder how I will survive when more and more is taken away.
Maybe not knowing when the ceiling will fall is the ultimate torture that my tormentor can bring. So I wait, knowing that there is no escape. I just wait to see what fresh new torture is on the books for tomorrow. The pain, the grief are all building up. There is no release no way to end the torment, just the ticking of time.
In my mind I often beg for the ceiling to drop and put and end to my captivity, but my jailer is to cruel for that.
