...tell me - what does it take to trust ?
The first time out.
or
when you've already been around the bend.
Why is it I find it so hard - to believe, to incline myself to the way of thinking that says "No - you don't want to fuck me over - you don't wish to hurt me first"
Obviously and tirelessly I am reflective of late. I'm sorry - it must seem droll to listen to me excavating my past, memories supressed and some slung over my shoulder like a huge bag of cement mix. But - then again this blog is for me.
So today we dig.
When did I stop trusting others - or did I ever ?
A story comes to mind.
A 10 year old boy lays awake in his room. It's late. His eyes should be closed and his dreams fanciful - an X-Men adventure in which he is the star, a Hardy Boys mystery that he would solve or a Richie Rich cartoon where wealth is without question - instead he listens to his breath his little chest heaves slowly - up then down - then up again. It's a hot night for Arizona and his first year living in the state. The modest, ranch home, a generic shoebox in suburbia, is anything but quiet.
They are screaming again - things break, but his brother and sister lay quiet in their beds as well - are there eyes open - are they scared too, he thinks? Beyond the four walls and the closed bedroom door - plastered with his crayon drawings of super heros and imaginary friends - their is shoving, a scuffle.
It's bad this time.
Normally the father doesn't cry.
She's leaving again.
Too much booze all day long - the boy came home to find her drunk again - she yelled at him, confused and eractic, accused him of being a liar, a thief - a horrible little boy. She would shake him - slap him for being bad - for not telling the truth. When his father would get home - he would make the son apologize - for upsetting his Mother - for making her cry. She didn't mean the things she said - he couldn't take those things seriously. He hated coming home first - to find her crying, to find her sleeping, to find her yelling. How many steps was it from the school yard to his front door and how slowly could he make them last?
When she got like this - this other person she was - so unlike the beautiful and kind woman he cherished and who called him tiger and played with his hair while they watched 'Happy Days' - she always said she was leaving. Some nights she would pull he and his brother and sister into the kitchen. There they would sit on a school night - the clock hitting 2am - little solemn statues sitting erect in the glaring flourescent light. Holding herself up by the orange kitchen counters - she would say "I'm a horrible Mother - a failure - and you children hate me - your father doesn't love me anymore" - she would point to her haphazardly packed bags:
"I'm leaving".
She had done this before, but every time - everytime - it hurt. They would sit tears streaming over their reddened cheeks - their father would scold them not to cry - not to encourage her nonsense. She would tell them she tried to love them, tried to be a good mother, but she couldn't do it.
But this night the bedroom door wasn't flung open.
This night his father was sick of stopping her.
And the boy prayed to a god he didn't believe in - to give him her pain, to give him every ounce of her hurt, every wrong doing, every horrible thing - to fill every inch of his slight 70lb frame - with blackness. He clenched his fists and he gritted his teeth - he wouldn't cry - he wouldn't think - he wouldn't dream - he wouldn't hope - he needed room for her pain - he HAD to take it all - if he did this - this one thing - she wouldn't leave him.
He woke the next morning.
A fever was raging through his body, he coughed and coughed and coughed, his throat swelled and he found it hard to swallow.
Chills traveled his small spine and tripped over his pajama bottoms to reach his toes.
He had valley fever and spent most of the summer in bed.
...and she stayed.
