Lessons in suffering

I spent the last two evenings studying Latin.  It’s a review of French and Russian. 
I’ve spent the last few days in pain.  A review of old lessons in suffering. 

The child’s thought, "I can’t handle this!"
The old look of bemusement.  "Oh, I’m afraid you will find you can handle a great deal more than this.  A great deal more."  And yes, the memory of how a great deal more feels.  Memories of depression so deep I hear screaming in my mind, while trying to pay attention in an English class, age sixteen.  Memories of writhing on the floor in pain, evaluating the chances of a quick death by dashing my brains out against the grey tile floor, age twenty-four. 

Dragging my feet through the shopping centre, wondering if people are staring.  "I can’t do this.  Do I really have to do this?"
"Well that depends.  Do you want to eat this week?"

And thinking of my grandmother, saying that everyone should work, even if they’re sick.  Telling me I used to lie about being sick as a child.  I didn’t.  Implying I’m lying now.  Implying I’m lazy, weak, a liar.  Pronouncing judgement from on high.  My mother takes cat-naps because she is lazy.  My grandmother takes cat-naps because she is fatigued.  And I, I will never be tough enough for her.  I will never earn her approval even if I’m ten times as tough as she is.  In that, she cannot be generous.  I thought it was because she was greedy.  Perhaps it is because she is impoverished.  She is so desperately compelled to prove herself better than others. 

I don’t lie.  I do not lie.  And I always do what I say I’ll do.  What does it cost her to question my honour?