Trust Your Kids

They say that trust is a fundamental element of all relationships; that it is the foundation of all healthy relationships. This is not true. Trust can be replaced by acceptance that people could betray you and that there will be consequences because of it. This acceptance sits in the heart of those that cannot trust or struggle to, allowing them to still form relationships without that trust. I struggle to trust. I struggle to trust because sometimes there are betrayals that are too deep to fully forgive.

All that being said, parents should trust their children or, if nothing else, make them feel like they are trusted. Because it makes it harder for them to trust you, if you do not trust them.

I do not remember exactly how old I was when I learned my mother did not trust me. But I couldn’t have been more than twelve. I thought she was of the ‘trust but verify’ mindset. Then one day, when I was around twelve I was making dinner. I do not remember what I was making. At twelve, my repertoire of culinary dishes was limited. I suspect, I was making fried rice. I remember that I had gotten the mail. Three DVDs had arrived from Netflix, back before their internet database when they rented movies through the mail. I set them on the desk in the living room. The apartment we lived in was small. The front door led into the living room and from the entry way you could see the kitchen straight through to the back door and if you looked to the right, you would see the two-bedroom doors and the corner where if you turned you could find the bathroom. And that was the full apartment. The desk sat at the border between the living room and the kitchen. It was about the width of an end table but the height of a normal desk. I was working in the kitchen on dinner when he arrived. My mother’s friend, for the sake of this, we will call him Dick. Dick arrived with his son. They both came for dinner a lot. Dick was my mother’s best and most trusted friend. He was a friend of the family. He was trusted.

When he arrived, he picked the DVDs up off the desk and looked through them. He asked what they were, I looked up to see him holding them and looking through them. I told him I didn’t know and went back to cooking. A very brief exchange before he sat down on the couch to watch TV and I want back to cooking. My mother got home about half an hour later. I was just finishing up cooking.

“Where are the DVDs?” She asked.

“On the desk” I said. But they weren’t there.

“Where did you put them?” She asked.

“I put them on the desk.”

“They aren’t there.” And then they were found, on the floor under the desk chair.

“I put them on the desk.” I said.

“Well, clearly you didn’t.”

“I did.” I replied.

“I saw them on the floor when I came in,” Dick chimed in like his namesake.

I didn’t understand this. In the moment, I didn’t understand. He picked them up off the desk. He held them in his hands. He had them last so if they were on the floor, it would be him who put them there or maybe he put them on the desk and they fell. But, I did not understand the lie.

Especially because it wasn’t really any better. If he saw them on the floor, then why didn’t he say something when my mother was looking for them? Why did he wait so long to say something? Why did he not pick them up himself? Even if they were on the floor now, that doesn’t mean I put them there. Maybe they fell. I was cooking dinner. We had cats that jump on furniture. Why would he say they were on the floor? Why even get involved? So many questions, I had so many questions. And that is when she said it.

“Yeah, well I trust my friend more than you.” It was like a sucker punch to the gut. I did not understand. I could not remember something, anything, I did to betray her trust so much that she would not believe me over a DVD. The DVDs were also just fine. It isn’t even like they had gotten scratched or damaged.

I never found out what the DVDs were. I never ate dinner the dinner that I made. I went to my room and cried. And while there are details that have slipped about that night. I know exactly how many scars I was left with. It was the first time I ever hurt myself intentionally. It was, sadly, not the last.

Before going on I would like to make it exceedingly clear that I no longer do this. I have not cut myself, burned myself, or in any way caused myself intentional physical harm in many years. But this night opened the door to trouble.

Not long after, probably no more than a few months because we lived in the same apartment. Dick was in charge of babysitting me. As if I needed a babysitter. She was going to be late, it isn’t like she wasn’t coming home at all. Still, Dick had offered to stay until my mother got home.

We had one couch at the time. He lied down across the couch and invited me to sit on it with him. It seemed weird for some reason, but I really didn’t think much of it and sat down. I was sitting for only a moment when he pulled me down. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him so tightly, I could hardly move. At one point, I tried to get up but he pulled me back down. I said I was cold and wanted a blanket, but he just pulled me closer and caressed my arm. Rubbed my arm. He would not let me up.

There was a movie on, but I do not remember it. I was lost in my thoughts. I was lost in questions and confusion. Nothing was happening but I still felt like something was wrong. That some trust had been violated. That I was in a bad situation, but I did not understand why. He was a friend, a friend of the family. He was trusted, so would he do something that wasn’t okay?

I forget a lot of things and I’ve lost a lot of memories from that year, but I remember the weight of his leg between mine, on mine. I remember the pressure of his fingertips pushing into my arms. The heat from his chest on my back and his breath on my neck. The pit in my stomach that stayed for hours, even after when he hastily pulled away and back when he heard the sound of the key in the lock of the front door. It is weird thinking back because I remember feeling like the whole thing happened in a blur, but at the same time it felt like time crawled like molasses. It was surreal. And I didn’t understand any of it.

Hands seemed to be in places they shouldn’t have gone. His instance and maneuvering of my body so his leg could be between my thighs, felt wrong. But…but he didn’t really do anything did he? We were both fully dressed, he never went further, never pushed for more, never said anything at all really. So, was it really that bad?

In the moment, I remember feelings of confusion, guilt, helplessness, discomfort, and anxiety warring through me. I didn’t know what to do. Was anything even happening? Should I have tried to get away again? Come up with a better excuse for it? What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Was it all in my head? Was it normal? Was it my fault? Could I have tried harder to get way? I didn’t scream. I said I wanted to get up. I tried to get up once. But I didn’t actually say “no” or “stop”. I was like twenty years younger and over a foot shorter, but I could have probably fought back more than I did. But what if it was nothing?

My family isn’t physically affectionate, so what if this is a normal level of physical affection? It seems like it passed the point of “just cuddling” and it seems like it is wrong to be cuddling with a child, especially one that isn’t your own. But, I didn’t know. I didn’t know who to ask or how.

I felt like something had happened, something bad. Even if I didn’t fully understand what it was. But it didn’t feel bad enough to tell anyone. Didn’t feel big enough for someone to believe me. And what if I was overreacting? What if it was my fault?

And if it was that bad, how could my mom not believe me? How could she trust someone who would do that to me? Surely, if she could trust Dick, then she couldn’t be trusted either. But she was my mother, maybe she knows best. Maybe I was overreacting. If she trusted Dick, maybe I should. In which case, I couldn’t trust my own reactions to what happened. The instincts that told me it wasn’t okay.

I knew I couldn’t tell my mother, couldn’t talk to her about what happened. She wouldn’t have believed me. I knew she wouldn’t, I was sure of it. She believed her friend more than me. She sided with him over DVDs. She wouldn’t have believed me.

Besides, it could have been worse.

I spent a lot of time with Dick after this, but I didn’t want to. There was a pit of uncertainty and discomfort in my stomach after that night and it only grew as we spent more time together. He was still my mother’s best friend. He still went camping with us. He still wanted a hug every time we met.

When my mother went out of town for a week, I stayed with him. I had to, but at least his son was there. I told him before the first night that his dad made me feel uneasy. I didn’t really talk about it much more than that. But still, his son was the first person I talked about it with, and for several years was the only person who knew anything about it. He was a year younger, but I knew him as a friend and I knew he did not like his dad. So, I asked him if he stick around when it was just his dad and I. Just in case. Just in case whatever it was that happened, that still made me jumpy and still made me feel like my skin was crawling when someone went to hug me, was more than just in my head. Because if it was and it happened again or worse, I knew my mom still would pick him over me.

One day it was too much. We were watching TV at Dick’s house. He was on the couch with my mother and they were cuddling. His leg went between hers, his arm slid around her chest and look at me and I just remembered that night. And I felt sick. I told my mother I didn’t want to stay. I told her I didn’t feel well and it was a school night and I wanted to go home. I started to cry. But she wanted to stay. I told her I was sick. She called me a liar. I cried harder. She scolded me. She said she wanted to stay and that I was being a selfish brat.

I just wanted to be anywhere else. Anywhere away from Dick, and my mother too.

I never planned to tell my mother about that night. Even when she and Dick had a falling out and she hated Dick, I still didn’t tell her. Even when I thought that it was the only time she would have believed me. Now I think it was for the best I didn’t. She still wouldn’t have believed me. Not because she would pick him over me anymore, but because she wouldn’t want to admit that she brought someone into my life that hurt me.

And that’s not just some wild assumption. For a long time, I was not super comfortable being touched, because I didn’t trust it. I didn’t know what was too far and what was normal. My first boyfriend probably didn’t help it either. He was nineteen and I had just turned fifteen. And I very distinctly remember him putting his tongue in my mouth fifteen minutes into our first date and when I seemed uncomfortable, he was quick to assure me that it was normal. That he had more experience and was happy to guide me.

What happened with them isn’t easy to talk about, but its easier than peeling through the complicated layers of my relationship with my mother. So, when in a fight it came up that I didn’t necessarily feel like I deserved nice things. It was easier to point to something that happened a long time ago, then try to address that it was her that often made me feel like I was dumb, ugly, fat, or just “less”. I didn’t go into details, didn’t give names. I just said something happened and I didn’t know how to handle it.

I told her I didn’t want to talk about it any further. I wasn’t ready yet. At least, not with her. Not that I added that last part out loud. She said, fine. She said she wouldn’t bring it up again.

The very next morning, the VERY NEXT MORNING. We were on the car and she pushed for me to tell her who it was, not out of concern. No, she made it very clear that what was bothering wasn’t so much that it happened, but that she might have brought the person into my life. She basically used those very words. Something like, “I’d never forgive myself if it was someone I brought into our life”. I’m certainly never telling her now.

And if she did choose to believe me, I would bet money that it wasn’t because she trusted me but for the attention. She would make it all about her. Like she made my breast reduction surgery about her. I didn’t tell anyone I was having it except two close friends. I told work I needed some medical time off and that was it. Even within my family, my parents and my grandparents on my mom’s side were the only ones who knew. At least, that’s what I thought.

I went to school where she worked. I temp at where she works in the past. She told all of her coworkers not only that I was having surgery, but what surgery I was having. I went to her office to bring her coffee and had two of her coworkers tell me how brave they think I was for having the surgery. One went on to talk about how she had wanted to have one herself. I knew them well enough to be acquaintances, but this felt too personal for them to all know. And it didn’t help that she hadn’t even asked if it was okay to share it.

And even to this day I still go around in circles about what happened and if maybe I am just making it worse in my head than it was. And other times, I think maybe I am just trying to forget and glossing over things. So, I’m still untangling the story. I’m not ready for other people to start telling it. And she would. It would probably start with my stepfather, then my grandmother. Then she’d tell a few friends. But it isn’t her story to tell.

So, no. I don’t plan on telling her any more than I did.

I think that this lack of trust has had a definite effect on our relationship. It has damaged it in seemingly irreparable ways.

Because of it, I still don’t really trust her other male friends. So, when they are over or she is with them. I am often standoffish with them. I distance myself from them whenever possible. When she would have a friend stay the night, I blocked the door even though I knew it will probably lead to her lecturing me. Or when I tore a tendon in my ankle and choose to walk home on it rather than call her friend for a ride, and she said it couldn’t have been that bad if I could walk home. But, I probably would have rather crawled than call Dick for help. I would have rather crawled then felt dependent on someone or felt helpless. A pattern that reoccurred when I got second degree burns on my knee and planned to take the bus to the hospital rather than ask my stepdad to drive me.

There are a lot of things that have all come together to leave use where we are, but one moment I can point as damaging to our relationship is that one sentence. That one proclamation that she trusted her friend more than me. I think she put her trust in the wrong person, but she also blocked me from feeling like I could go to her when I needed her.

Parents should be careful with what they say to their kids. They hear more than you think and understand more than you know. And that day regardless of what she meant, she was telling me that she was not someone I could turn to for help. Don’t put those kinds of barriers between yourself and your kid, you may not know how long those barriers will be up or how they will lead to your kid being hurt. Trust your kids, or at the very least don’t tell them you don’t trust them.