Implicit Trust
The bigger feeling I pulled from LI this week is maybe this: I sometimes don’t believe that I know what I am feeling. I don’t believe myself when I’m hurt or in pain. I don’t trust my own motivations when I interact with others. I do not believe the judgements I make about my own actions. I am convinced that somehow I hurt people by aiming my attention at them. My inhuman brain can’t see how they are hurt but I know it’s happening. I’ve been told so many times that I should not notice things, or having feels about them, at least not if I want to pass. Not if I want to earn my place in humanity.
It doesn’t help that for a long time in my life me liking things was bad. I was always asked to display less need and certainly never to want anything or care about anything. But it’s not merely that I was denied, I was punished for having a preference in the first place – liking a food meant I couldn’t have it at all, or that I had to have it exclusively even if it weren’t available. If I liked peanut butter it meant I wasn’t allowed meat sandwiches anymore. If we’re at a burger stand and they don’t have peanut butter, I can’t have anything. Because if peanut butter wasn’t important to me I never would have expressed a preference, and so it must be more important to me than the concept of eating.
But the real kicker is that me liking things wasn’t just bad for me, it was bad the for things I liked. I couldn’t have a dog not because it was impossible for me to hide one near my house, or to provide it food or the like, but because it would have been hurt because I liked it. Being near me would be hard enough for a dog (or a person) because my life was dangerous in a number of ways. There’s a good chance that no matter how careful I was I would eventually have to choose between surviving myself and caring for it. And if Mother ever found out I liked it she’d be looking for ways to make that happen. Looking for ways to reclaim the good feelings (my good feelings) that she thinks the dog is stealing from her. That she knows I am misallocating. And it happened with people too. Being near me is dangerous enough, let alone being targeted for retaliation. It’s much safe if I don’t get too attached.
So it’s not irrational for me to be afraid that knowing me hurts people. That was my life for a long time. I hope that is no longer true, but I don’t trust my own judgement. And I don’t really trust yours most of the time, because you don’t understand how I hurt people. You assume it’s not true because you can’t imagine a life where it is, but I’ve had that life. And I worry I still do.
Not trusting myself has lots of aspects. It’s why I assume I’m a creeper, that I’m bothering you, that my attention hurts you, that my existence is a burden. It’s why I can’t respond when I’m injured or sick. It’s why I feel like there are some things I can’t learn, why I don’t believe I am actually good at anything, why I can’t believe my needs are urgent or even relevant. It’s why no amount of care every makes me feel careful enough, and why I know that ultimately the only good thing for you is to have less of me.
It’s why I always believe you when you tell me that things would be better for both of us if I would just stop paying attention to you. Or when you tell me that my trouble are too much for you to think about right now, or ever. I might feel terrible but I believe you when you tell me that thinking about how I feel is too much for me to expect from anyone, because my feelings aren’t human, aren’t real, and will only cause you pain if I ask you to engage.
Lots of other feels. Travel and running away, as travel looms near. Potatoes and the tyranny of pregnancy ambivalence. All the M bits; you seem to be doing real good keeping things together, and you’ve let me give you lots of support. But it’s still a lot, and it’s mixed full of all different parts. Plus teams, Fleabag, @MMF, and the usual daily life bits.
I’m still looking for the version that makes it eaiser to split a story. Saving one for later seems easy enough, but finding a place I can stop and click send feels like work. And even though I’m a little less busy than I was last month it still feels like work to start these. I’m missing something but I don’t know what. I didn’t help that discussion was so far behind; being caught up should help. And I guess it feels harder when my attention during the day is tightly focused; I worry that I won’t be able to keep the right perspective to make these go. I worry that I’ll say something you didn’t want other people to know, because I don’t trust myself to keep you safe. Because I don’t want to make my attention to obvious to others.
ZiB
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Sent from a phone.
