“And that’s saying something,” I added, “Because those things can hurt. Plus, I can count the people I trust on one hand.”

Dang it, I overshared. It wasn’t the first time – but it’s something I rarely do with my daughter.

Tween parenting is so different. By the time I figure it out my daughter will be in another stage. She’s nowhere close to being an adult. But she’s not the same bundle of need she was as a baby, toddler or kid either. For years, she needed me to be secure base, taxi driver, entertainment and all all-around anchor and attachment figure. Sometimes it felt we were sharing the same bone marrow. She still needs me but not with the same ferocious intensity.

Sometimes it’s me asking if she wants to play a game or go shopping.

“You trust Heidi to curl your hair,” she said.

“I do,” I said, “Heidi is so fashionable. There are different types of trust for different people. Some you trust to ask money advice, some you can share your feelings with and some even get a key to your house or car.”

She looked puzzled.

“Do you know what I mean?” I asked. “Do you have people you trust with some things and not with others?”

More blank confusion.

I waited a minute.

“Mom,” she said, “Why would I have anyone in my life I don’t trust?”

Now it was me who was quiet.

And puzzled.

Not sure what to say.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom, or as I call it, my office.

I was happy and I wanted to cry.

“Why would I have anyone in my life I don’t trust?” were the words. They ran through my head like a mantra.

Why?

I didn’t know how to answer or respond.

Sitting on the closed toilet I celebrated the moment. As a mother – proud of my daughter’s agency and trust in herself and other people.

But I grieved too. For myself.

There were countless people in my life I didn’t trust. Some of them I was related to by birth or marriage and who were invited in while I was a child.

And some I had let right in to my heart, purse or home and even sent an invitation and got them coffee or a snack when they arrived.

Gulp. 

I hadn’t insisted on trust. Not really. And when I was betrayed I was hurt but I wasn’t surprised.

How could I explain why to my kid? I can’t say I didn’t know better.

I knew better. With my brain. 

But I didn’t feel better. I didn’t have the felt knowing of that truth.

Or that there was another option.

Why would I have someone in my life I don’t trust?

Was there ever a time I trusted everyone in my life? Did I grow up believing people were good, loving and reliable?

I didn’t.

I thought people were weak, back stabbing, screwed up and incapable of taking care of themselves.

Underneath my try hard, good girl and always do what’s right exterior – I thought people were total shits.

Myself included.

I was suspicious of humans.

The entire species.

The sun for the way it rose and set so consistently got my trust. Cats, dogs and plants were fun, loving and cheery. Teachers were acceptable as long as they didn’t try to talk outside of school and stayed in the role of teaching.

Books were sanctuary.

But real live 3D people – not so much.

People = bad bet.

Don’t need anyone and you won’t get hurt.

That’s what I believed in my stomach, gut and bones.

I didn’t go around saying that or even admitting to myself that’s how I felt. It's just how I operated.

It was subconscious and unconscious and implicitly believed.

I remembered this yesterday when making a PowerPoint slide on the ACE Test & Study for an upcoming event at Mobius in Boston (free and on March 15th at 2 p.m., if you’re interested).

One of the slides showed how high ACE scorers are more likely to be raped as adults and in abusive relationships. Childhood adversity is the gift that keeps giving. 

“Why? Do people have a magnet or a mark?,” my low-ACE-scoring friend and collaborator asked. “I don’t understand why that is. It makes no sense."

“It makes perfect sense,” I said, “To those with high ACE scores love and good treatment don’t have to go together. We have a high tolerance for shits. From the start we’ve loved and been loved by people who treat us (and themselves) terribly - but not all of the time. Mistreatment isn’t a red flag that says run - it's just part of what happens - it’s familiar.”

Being dismissed, ignored or ridiculed are apples in the made from scratch pie of home mixed in with sugar and sprinkled with cinnamon. Tart can be disguised. Bruises can be mushed in. All blended together it can tastes and smell and feel so warm, intimate and enveloping.

Deep. True. Real.

Like chemistry and soul mates and meant to be can feel. 

Chaotic. Dangerous. Crazy.

Connected. Enmeshed. Pre-verbal.

Like family.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

For a moment we shared the knowledge that though we lived on the same street we had lived in different worlds – at least as children.

And though in our 40’s and 70’s now those childhood worlds still shape our views, expectations and experiences now.

But something else was evident too.

We were just having a conversation. I mean, when I was younger a conversation like this one, if it even happened, would have made me feel ashamed, embarrassed or angry.

I might have felt like she was luckier, privileged or being nice to tolerate or put up with me. Or I would have judged her for living on Easy Street or and acting like she knew squat about being a fixer-upper human that needed sweat equity just to function and hold it together. 

I would have worried that she’d pity me – or worse – not pity me.

I would have felt robbed, ripped off, vulnerable, victimized and damaged.

Not yesterday. I didn’t feel explained by my past. I didn’t require explanations or excuses. I was just talking with an activist, friend, parent and woman. I was with a person I liked and admired and shared ice melt and creative work and yoga classes with. We spoke of childhoods the way you compare domestic or foreign cars. They are different but both get you around the same towns.

I finally knew my experiences brought more than pain. I've got insights and scrappy resourcefulness I wouldn’t trade.

I caught myself inhabiting the now with acceptance.

I’ve given up the wish that my past could be any different (which doesn’t mean I love all the side effects). Gone is the belief that I am flawed and only a different past could make a different me.

I don't want to be different.  I’m o.k. here and now as I am. I may even have gifts, talents and be lucky and blessed.

Holy shit – when did this level of healing happen?

“Why would I have someone in my life I don’t trust?” my daughter asked, stumping me.

One day, I may say more: “Because he’s your father. Because you don’t always have a choice. Because most people don't change but some do and you risk it.”

For now, I am taking in her candor. She's incredulous. 

I am happy she is not carrying mistrust of herself and others like a gun aimed at the world. She feels safe - not defended - and most of the time - so do I.

Originally published on www.healwritenow.com