Catadromy

Pain is a bear. A bear with yellow, fear-stained teeth and slashing, bloody claws that rip you open when you least expect. The bear could be a brown bear or black or even a grizzly bear. But the bear sneaks up on you and grabs you completely unaware. You’re in the bear’s clutches, trying to get free; yet, the more you struggle, the harder the grip.

The bear fights to pull you under and you try to fight back, strongly at first. Then, the bear tightens its grip and your resistance falters, weakens. You fight your way to the surface, grab a lungful of air and whirl around to do battle with the bear again. The bear never weakens, never loses focus. The bear knows what it wants. It wants—YOU. It wants to own you. It wants to possess you. It wants to subsume you—all of you.

But you gather yourself up and face the bear. You will win this fight, even if it takes every last bit of your remaining strength. You whirl around, pull yourself up to your full height and tell the bear, “Not today. Not now. You are not going to win this one.”

The bear, vanquished, turns away. But when he’s facing away from you, the corners of his mouth turn up in a knowing grin. He’ll be back, just when you least expect. And just when you’re not prepared. But he’ll be back, just the same.