She was a victim of love. She was held under its power, cuffed to another who would not release her. Helpless and afraid, she struggled with the cords that seared her wrists and bound her heart. She begged for a savior, but none appeared.
"Life is pain," she thought. And this was her truth. She died a little each day, becoming numb. As the years passed, her heart no longer ached. She grew fearless. Her only thought was escape. She must save herself.
"I can do without that hand," she thought. "It, like my heart, is numb." With the skill of a butcher, she severed it and walked away. A piece of herself was forever gone. The hand that held her hostage had provided her excuse for a slow and torturous death. It affirmed her belief that life was suffering.
She crawled through a dark and lonely tunnel toward freedom and light. Her progress was slow, inches each day. Exhausted, she grieved the loss of her hand. She slept, and dreamed of finding the sunshine. She awoke, her body aching. She was no longer numb. As her emotions surfaced, her tears flooded the tunnel, rushing in violent swells, they swept her to freedom.
She gulped the air, breathed in life. "I am not dead, or numb, or victim. In choosing to cut off that which held me captive, I am whole."
"Life is bliss," she thought, raising both her hands to the sky. And this was her truth.