I’m not trying to say they aren’t doing their job. They are working hard, really hard, to make this as painful and difficult for me as they can. They flay my skin off every day. Then they sew it back on with dull, rusty needles, and dunk me in rubbing alcohol. I scream, oh god do I scream.

They bring out person after person from my past to berate me. My wife, my kids, my parents, my teachers, co workers, bosses, friends, all of them telling me how I’ve let them down and disappointed them. How much potential I had, and how I squandered it for nothing, because I couldn’t follow through, I couldn’t keep up like I was supposed to.

They leave me in a room with my hands and feet tied, smeared in peanut butter, and then they send in the starving rats. My eyes are taped open.

I’m made to watch, again and again, my greatest failures, my worst fears come to life. They laugh at me and degrade and humiliate me.

I am loving it.

They put in so much time and effort with this, I have to hand it to them. I mean, the research, going back through every minute of my life and mining it for the most wretched moments, and then staging it for me.

Collecting those animals is no mean feat. Tearing my body apart and then putting it back together has to be exhausting. Every morning I’m made whole again do that I can be destroyed. They’ve thought of everything.

Frankly, seeing everyone from my past has been cathartic. I can let go of the old hangups, the what ifs and the whys, and say goodbye to them. After all, I am dead, and I can’t change anything that’s happened.

So if you’re telling me it was a mistake to send me to hell and now you’re taking me to heaven, can you at least give these guys some kind of certificate of merit or commendation? Because I’m willing to bet no one says thank you to them. They have earned it.