Achilles' Heel
Which is the true measure of my strength: that I cry when I choke (and did I choke on Sunday !), or that I get back on the strip even after humiliating myself in front of all of my friends and try again? Growing up, it was regularly borne upon me that crying was the worst of failings, the greatest of sins, the true marker of my character. "Why do you get so upset? It's only [fill in the blank]." "Don't upset Rachel, she can't take it." My siblings knew that I could always be counted upon to burst into tears of rage and frustration if they pushed me hard enough, at which the adults would sit round shaking their heads and saying, "Why can't she learn to control her temper?" and trying desperately to distance themselves from the storm. It was humiliating. Every time it happened, after the storm passed, I simply wanted to die, run away, get as far away from the things that had made me so panicky. In my humiliation, all I could see was ...