Azure Jane Lunatic (azurelunatic) wrote,
Azure Jane Lunatic

Trust, Darkside

My experiences with That Idiot Shawn have given me a keen sense of who may and may not be trusted, especially with my heart, mind, and stability.

Someone who doesn't give a shit about my emotions, no matter why I'm feeling them, is not to be trusted. If someone were to say, as Shawn effectively did, "I'm sorry you have to feel that way. It's your fault you're sad. You should stop feeling that way because no one's going to feel sorry for you," then they are not welcome around me. It may well be that way; it may well be that I was lighting up incense in the no-smoking zone around a buried bomb, but that doesn't excuse him for crawling around with lit matches trying to locate the fuse. Though it was my fault for telling him that there was a bomb there to start with, I suppose, even though I saw him smoking and warned him not to.

Someone who acknowledges that I feel the way I do, and if it's good, yay, and if it's not good, sucks, and says that if it's not good, then something needs to be done to make it better (and who kicks my ass if I'm just sulking), is more on their way to earning my trust. Even if there's nothing that can be done to make it better short of moving the universe, and I'm feeling horrendous about it, a hug-it-all-better and a "I'm sorry you feel so lousy, and I hope you feel better soon, because you being sad makes me worry and I care about you," do wonders. If Darkside should see me waving lit incense around in a buried bomb zone, he points out the appropriate sign, sometimes forcefully, and lugs along a fire extinguisher, his own flak jacket, and an extra one for me.

I came to be a friend of Darkside when I was losing my very shaky grasp on my mental health. Instead of squeezing my wrists until I had to let go of it, and then blaming me for not having a high enough tolerance for pain, as Shawn did, Darkside grabbed it, wrapped both of my hands around it, and left his hands over mine until he was sure that I could maintain my hold of it. Then he stuck around and re-positioned my hands when it looked like it was slipping again, and gave me pointers that he'd learned the hard way himself, on how to keep it and not let it slip away like that so often.

Once I could drag my focus away from my grasp of my own mental health, once I no longer had to hold onto it so tightly my fingers were going numb, I was able to look up and see what he had in his own hands, and how his hands were shaking from time to time. And, very gently at first, I helped steady him.

We're not both in college anymore, as he's graduated. His schedule sucks. In classic introverted Army brat fashion, he'd never had a friendship that didn't fade with distance, and doesn't know how to handle it. I am Anomaly. I am Joanie. I am still his friend.

And every now and then, my hands shake on my sanity. Weird things happen inside me, and I reach out to him as one of two people I trust to help me figure out how to make things right inside me, who won't make me drop myself on purpose or by unknowing accident.

Comments for this post were disabled by the author