I fell in a hole. A deep hole. And it hurt. But when people came to help, instead of getting me out of the hole, they stood around the top and asked me how I got in the hole. What I had done to make myself fall in the hole. How deep was the hole. How long had I been in the hole. When  I asked them to just get me out of the hole, they said that they couldn’t because I would just fall back in the hole. They had to know why I was in the hole before they would or could get me out of it. Maybe I secretly liked being in the hole. Maybe I’d put myself in the hole for attention. Sometimes they measure the hole and take pictures of it (the walls, the ground, the sky) only to tell me there is no hole that I’m in. They show me the pictures of myself, the ground in the hole, the walls, the sky, and say, See, there is no hole. You are the hole that you’ve made. We can’t do anything to help you out.