The doctor walks in with an air of solemn determination.

"It's time for your surgery."

You can't help but think about all the surgeries you've endured, the countless hours spent in this sterile, unforgiving environment, and the gradual disfigurement. Each operation was a piece of you, chipped away in the name of treatment, leaving you a fractured mosaic of your former self.

"How many surgeries does this make, Doctor? I can't remember anymore. I hope…"

you whisper, before losing consciousness. The doctor remained silent, yet there was resolve in his dark, foreboding eyes under the blinding lights of the surgical lamp.

"Where am I? What happened? I'm losing myself. I can't remember anything anymore."

The wheel has come full circle. The doctor checks your vital signs after another mangled surgery in an unending chain like an unrelenting nightmare.

"Our treatment plan requires one final procedure. It holds the key to restoring your brain."

Depression's icy grip clamps your chest and steals your breath. You lie there, vulnerable, as the uncertainty of the doctor's proposition presses down on you. You cling to hope. Maybe this procedure will be the one that finally sets you free from fear. You close your eyes, trying to brace yourself for whatever comes next. The doctor approaches, and you can feel the cool gel being applied to your scalp.

"We are going to stimulate your brain."

I got into my first fight in fourth grade. The class bully cornered me on the school playground during recess after I stuck up for another kid he was picking on. I could have run, but I was right, and he was wrong, so I decided to fight. He took the first swing, but being in peak physical form, I could react quickly and clearly block the punch with my nose. I then sprang to the ground, knocking him over and pinning him down on top of me. I stuffed my ear between his teeth and jabbed his fingers with my eye. There would be no mercy. I lost my mind. Letting out a screeching wail, I pounded him in the knee with my stomach and hit him in the fist with my jaw. He had enough. He glanced around and ran scared as I rested on the ground. It was that day I came to know the awesome power of my deadly hands. I decided it was best never to fight again.

The fight-or-flight response is the innate survival instinct our cave-dwelling ancestors used to survive attacks by saber-toothed tigers and wooly mammoths. Once the danger passed, they calmed down and continued with their lives, painting stick figures on walls.

Today, there are no wooly mammals. Instead, the most serious threat to your survival is poor oral posture and cranial dystrophy. It's as if an invisible hand is covering your face and gently suffocating you day and night. The constant state of stress elicits distress. Here lies the problem. The body is not designed to live in a state of fear; it wears you down, taking a toll on your well-being.

Every moment, you are making a primal decision. You may fight, but it is better to take flight by running, jumping, pedaling, swimming, skating, climbing, and climbing. Knowing that the energy is there, knowing that it must be dealt with, choose exercise.

Don't strike; take flight. Run, run, run away, and maybe, just maybe, you will make it to Heaven one day.

Chapter Twelve Conclusion