Achilles Heel

It’s an ancient story: warrior Achilles was impervious to attack because Mom dipped toddler Achilles in the River Styx. Problem was—she held him by the heel, leaving that one spot vulnerable. You can guess where a poisoned arrow speared poor Achilles. I have an Achilles Heel, too. For me it’s shame. Apply a dose of “I’m so disappointed in you!” or even a raised eyebrow and a shake of head and I’m convinced I am the lowest, slimiest form of life this side of the primordial ooze. I’ve tried to get rid of my heel, but so far haven’t managed a return trip to the River Styx.

Achilles got himself killed either because he didn’t know about his fragile foot or because he thought: “The rest of me is awesome. How important can a heel be anyway?” So recognizing my vulnerability prompts me to seek out some Kevlar boots. Sometimes I find heel support from another person: for instance, Ayn Rand posited that we feel shame when we accept the values of the person trying to shame us. So I can think, “Oh! You want me to be ashamed I did that. But I don’t accept the premise of your shaming. Keep your values and I’ll live by my own, thank you very much.” Other times I protect my heel by not placing myself at the front of a soul-threatening situation. And, if I am assaulted, I permit myself some needed R&R.

What’s your Achilles Heel? Where is your supply of Kevlar boots?