I pull my collar up as I walk down the sidewalk, attempting to protect my exposed ears from the sharp wind. It’s no use. November in Long Beach is chilly and raw. The streets feel desolate-the closed, dark shop windows making everything feel infinitely creepier. I don’t regret walking Nicole to her car, but I’m a bit annoyed that I was too proud to take her up on the offer to drive me to my car.
I’m so close, I said, you just get on home.
I could tell she wasn’t fond of this suggestion, as she glanced around at the characteristic riffraff that becomes entirely more evident once the summer crowd has retreated for the gloomy season. The strange assimilates when surrounded by hordes of glamorous but gluttonous out-of-towners, wild youth, sun-crisped elders, and casual boardwalk strollers. When the broken sidewalks are mostly empty, the oddities stand out. Hair just a bit too long and seemingly unkempt, a ratty leopard, full length fur coat, a half empty beer bottle clutched in a hand with nails too filthy and too long.
I don’t feel unsafe, per se. Uneasy, maybe. Maybe I’m just a little uncomfortable. With that thought, I quicken my pace, feeling the exhaustion of my body reverberating through my sore heels and tender lower back.
The weeks are so long lately, as are the days. It is Friday and all my Fridays feel like a burden and also, a gift. Driving to dinner tonight, from work, I thought about the story of Achilles. A bizarre thing to contemplate, and yet, front of mind.
When I was a child, I was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology. I loved the idea that there are these magical stories that attempt to make sense of the world around us. Concepts, phrases, behavior, and habits. Why do we do the things we do? What is the origin of certain ideas? Stories. So many stories. Stories with gods and goddesses and of course, flawed humans.
Legend has it that Achilles, in Greek mythology to my recollection, was the son of a mortal man, a king, and a sea nymph. He was brave and handsome and a phenomenal warrior, to boot. Obviously. If you are going to write a kick-ass story, best to make your lead a triple threat. Anyway, poor ol’ Achilles was fabulous, but not perfect, on account of him being dip-dipped in the River Styx as a lil one (invulnerability and all), with the EXCEPTION of his heel. Easy to judge, but if you’ve ever painted anything that’s three dimensional, you know the potential for this error, well.
Recently, I took a pottery class with mom and proudly painted the whole of my piece, only realizing as I went to set it down, that there were pointer finger and thumb shaped unpainted spaces in the corner of my beautiful creation. Whoopsie.
Same goes for Achilles. Perfect, save his imperfect heel. His weak spot. The ACHILLES heel. You likely know the rest of this story, or you can guess it. Big, muscular, gorgeous Achilles fights like a true hero in the Trojan War and bam, a little arrow to his heel and he’s done for. Tis why we call vulnerabilities someone’s Achilles heel.
Sitting across from Nicole tonight, I explained that my Achilles heel is my unending faith in humans. Even when people have hurt me and disappointed me or treated me like trash, I still have this niggling feeling in my gut that there is some upside potential I’m not seeing in that moment. There is a sliver of goodness that can’t always be seen, but if one is patient enough, can always be felt.
I’ve always been that way, or at least I was always that way.
And now, something has shifted, because I realized that my weakness can be alchemized into a strength, but only if I’m mindful of its application.
I don’t want to believe that everyone is terrible, or even most people are terrible. When a friend is going through a hard time and suddenly has a keener interest in being connected, I don’t want to assume that I’m being used. When a friend never asks how I am, I don’t want to assume it’s because they don’t care. When a friend is less responsive, I don’t want to assume it’s because they are mad at or disappointed in me. And yet, sometimes these things are true, and the only way to decipher what’s what, is to examine each situation as it arises, based on the facts and my feelings.
I told Nicole that I’ve started to let go more recently, of people, of things, of ideas. I’ve started to perform a case-by-case reconciliation so I can understand what has purpose and what no longer serves me. Mostly, I suppose I’m letting go of the person I used to be. Mainly, I’m letting go of the idea that my desire to see the best in people is the chink in my armor.
When I think about mythology as a forty-five year old woman, I think the reason I loved it so much, the reason I still do, is because it took these larger than life humans, these gods, and revealed their softest bits. The parts that felled them, that grew them, that strengthened them, that destroyed them, that enriched them, and that ended them.
Imagine looking deep inside ourselves and seeing that thing that we consider to be our greatest, most profound weakness, and recognizing it also as a place of great fortitude.
When we teach people how to interview for a job, we always tell them that the best thing they can do when asked about their weaknesses, is provide the information, but supplement with a way in which that weakness can actually be a strength. We use this notion to sell ourselves to strangers, and yet, we cannot seem to use it to fortify ourselves, to create a more knowing, understanding, thoughtful, cautious, resilient version of ourselves.
Perhaps my discomfort has less to do with these abandoned streets and this late hour, and perhaps it has everything to do with the effort it takes to find my way in the face of the comfort of being who I’ve always been.
I don’t think Achilles was ended because he was targeted for his weakness. I think it was because he couldn’t figure out how to NOT make it the thing that killed him.
You feel me?
x.
L.
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