On Bedbugs, Incest, and the Apocalypse

{July 24, 2012}   Mastering Distrust Unsatisfactorily

I don’t trust you to tell details about my bedbugs. That’s way too much exposure when we don’t know each other, and I really don’t want you to have such intimate knowledge of what happens inside my house. Forgive me if I rebuff your questions of curiosity, which frankly, are none of your business. I’ll tell you what I want to let you know. However, because I do care and do not want bad things to remain, if hidden, here is a link to recognize and respond to bedbugs: http://www.epa.gov/bedbugs/. (You will notice that I am not a paranoid conspiracist, as I have used a government website.)

That said, I wonder who I do trust. Until recently, maybe the last 8 years, I trusted damn near anyone who told me something, more often asking follow-up questions of detail and meaning, rarely those of believability and intent.

Them: “We value your work and are glad you are here.”

Me: “Great, so it sounds like we can move forward with . . . (project or conversation)”

Them: “Um, right. We’ll talk about it later when we have more time.”

Later: job change

—– or —–

 Them: “Are you okay? You seem to be hurting and if you want to talk I’m here for you.”

Me: “I appreciate that. Yeah, some things are falling apart and I’d like it if you help me sort it out.”

Later, after the person listens, offers some good support, and then asks several very personal questions  which I answer with detail . . .

Me: “Can we meet again for coffee?”

Them: “Um, I have a lot on my plate for the next few weeks. Call me back next month and let’s see if we can find a time.”

Later:  coffee time happens where I receive little eye contact while their coffee is stirred again and again,with the spoon tapped repeatedly on the cup or the napkin until an awkward exit is managed.

Once I learned that people outside of me cannot be trusted deeply in “matters of me” I knew I could still trust myself. Except even there I got surprised. When the wise nun offering spiritual direction looked me in the eyes and asked, “Do you realize that you have blocks of time that you aren’t remembering?” I immediately ran to the toilet. My gut knew the truth of my life that my conscious brain never dreamed.

Quickly I learned the fine art of distrust, moving from novice to master in a heart-stop. Then why would I listen to my therapist when she recently asked if I could begin to trust myself again, just a little bit? “Do I have to trust anyone else?” I asked. “No, not yet.”

My answer is becoming straight-forward as I live into the question: I don’t want to be isolated. My life matters to other people and their lives matter to me. With more caution and less dissociation, I want to be in relationships, deep and committed, frivolous and fun, casual or collegial, even some in cyber energy.

Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll detail the personal nightmare called bedbugs, tell why I sometimes wish for the apocalypse in spite of my thealogy, and celebrate how profoundly a child can be trusted when they speak their story, even decades after the event.


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