The Unit

by Ninni Holmqvist

I was very angry, so angry that tears came to my eyes. But I didn’t cry, even if there was something in my throat that had tied itself in a knot and was stuck there throbbing and burning. I was what I used to call “politically angry,” and above all I was feeling boundlessly sorry for myself.

People had often told me I was strong, and I regarded it as something dismissive rather than a compliment—or whatever it was meant to be. Because I knew, and I know, that there are no strong people. All people are weak. Some are certainly more independent than others, but that doesn’t mean they’re strong.

She was just tired, bone weary somehow—the sort of tiredness, I assume, that sleep doesn’t really touch; you just have to work your way through it, and either it disappears of its own accord, or it stays put and becomes a part of you.

“A person who’s physically healthy but in despair can be just as difficult to deal with, surely. Looking after someone who’s ill is quite simple, really; at least you know what you have to do, in purely practical terms. But what do you do with someone you can’t do anything for?”