He drew himself a line in the sand and dared himself to cross it.  “Do it, this time, you fucking loser,” he snarled as his toe dug the line.  He couldn’t cross the line he dared himself to cross.  He stared at it, finally drew himself back and cried.  “The same old story,” he said to himself, “the eternal fucking loser…” and he struck himself about the face and head, and cried some more.

That voice was not his voice, not the voice he hears paddling his kayak or gliding on the back of Lew’s glider at 5,000 feet, or even rolling on his bike, the autumn night damp against his face.  The voice he hears when he is soaring is not that punishing, unremitting voice.  That sour voice belongs to the internalized victimizer.  Spit that shit out, man, it’s no good for you.  

Heed the words of your favorite preacher, for God’s sake.