Rebuilding Trust

I have squirrels in my back yard - one in particular who will climb on to my patio screen and chatter until I toss him a scrap of bread or a cracker. (I've named him Marvin.) He snatches his treats and hops to a safe distance where he can watch me warily as he nibbles. (We've run this routine for a good year now.) Because I have cats (and until recently, a dog) who can fly out the pet door at any moment, most of the other critters keep their distance. But Marvin is always there. He taunts the cats (and has tussled with one of them at least once) and flaunts his courage to the other squirrels who stay far away - close to their escape routes.

This morning, he used my head as a landing pad and jumped from the screen to my noggin and then hopped down within 8 inches of my feet and looked up as if to say, "Your move, giant woman."

I tossed him a scrap of bread, and instead of snatching it and retreating to a safe distance like he always does, he stayed. Nibbled right there at my feet.

I crouched down to be closer. He flinched, but didn't bolt. After a second he resumed eating, and upon finishing his treat looked to me for the next one. I held out my hand.

He sniffed the air, inched closer, stood 'at the ready' (I could swear I saw him take a deep breath) inched closer again - and snatched a bit of tortilla right out of my hand with the slightest brush of fur and tiny nails. Again, he didn't retreat - just sat there and ate his fill.

Trust.

It took us a year to build.

No words, no 'relationship status', no intentions, no expectations. My patience. His courage. A mutual respect for the damage we could inflict upon one another. Care (mostly on my part) not to compromise that respect. To honor it - nurture it - celebrate it. (Quietly, and without any sudden movements.)

I imagine this wouldn't mean much to most people, but to me... it's everything.

Trust can be rebuilt. It will take time. It will take patience and courage.
The rewards, though intangible, are what feed my soul.

Remembrances

I'll never forget the day you left.
The weather was as fickle and bipolar as I. Sunny one moment, drizzling grey the next.
The desert dryness of the paper as I wrapped the plates we both love.
Our dog... who smelled of sweat and Fritos.
The cats - hiding in corners. One of them as old as "us".
The red-sided garter snakes that taunted me from the side of your U-Haul with the simple question,
"Where will U go next?"
I don't know.
I don't know anything right now.
If I try to think too hard, I forget to breathe.

The ring of the doorbell and the leap of my heart when it reached for the impossible one last time, opening to a stranger with a slender package.
The new blinds for our room... my room.
The pit in my belly swells with the clouds.
Will you be okay? Will I be okay?

I still expect to hear the jingle of a collar and the patter of paws as the dog makes her rounds.
Like a zombie, I shuffle from room to room seeing everything and nothing.
You left your Gatorade on the coffee table, half-drunk.
If I lift it to my lips, can I still taste you?

Gone in an instant are the vile names we called each other, the hurts we hurled so carelessly, the pain we bore silently for years.
There is an echo... losing strength with every repetition... until there is only the vacuum of silence.
I want to cry and scream and wail and chase you down to beg you to stay.
I'll change. I'll be different.
Better. Stronger. Kinder.

The phone rings to distract me from my selfish indulgence to embrace the pain.
The voice on the other end speaks words of encouragement that wrap my heart in hope. She tells me that I am better today than I was yesterday. Stronger now than I've ever been. Kinder than I am even aware.

The universe heralded your exit with dramatic booms and thunderous applause, raining sheets of silver that stripped my garden to its roots.
The only survivors, the potatoes, safely buried in their protective cocoons.
The beans, once the pride of my labours... are a heap of delicate, fragile tendrils, their fat leaves caked with compost and soil, weighing them down to the earth that promises to reclaim them.
The landscape is desolate, but I urge them to fight... to survive... to thrive, even.

I will never forget the day you left.
The first time I've seen my son cry since Junior High.
He poured his rum and coke and sliced a lime - just like yours.
I poured a glass of KJ Chardonnay - just like old times.
We talked about our next step. Our "plan".
We inventory the things you left behind. The Keurig, the bathroom hooks, a painting...
us.

My tears blur the path - I can only see one step at a time.
I trust the rain will cleanse.
I trust my heart will heal.
I trust you will be well.

Emotional Sabotage and 'The Retroactive Lie'

Human memory is a funny thing.
While some elements of a memory may be fixed and immovable, other elements are fluid and evolving as we age, grow, gain wisdom, and put distance between the present and our brain's catalogue of past events.

Some of my memories of the past many years hover and shift like shadows from a candle. Other memories are as bright and hot as the flame itself - always moving, shifting - details emerging and retreating back into the recesses, a new discovery and different landscape each time I revisit.

What happens when someone informs you that your memories of the past aren't accurate - or truthful - or even real?
Do you blow out that flame, discard your experiences and emotions and start over?
Or do you protect those memories and allow them to illuminate your present decisions?

The Scenario:
You and your partner attend a dinner party. You splurge on a new outfit/pair of shoes/hair-do for the occasion and your partner is effusive in his praise over your appearance. You attend the party, feeling like a million bucks on the arm of your mate. The two of you drink, dance, socialize, and you are the belle of the ball. You arrive home slightly tipsy, have sex with your guy, and fall into bed with the thought, "What a great night!"
Several years later, you are chatting with your mate and something spurs a recollection of the dinner party the two of you attended some years back. You bubble with remembered excitement about how fantastic that party was and what a great time you had.
"I hated that party," replies your mate. "Bob was there, and you know we don't get along. You were drunk early in the evening, making your rounds in that ridiculous dress/pair of shoes/hair-do, and I spent most of the night hopelessly flirting with the girl at the bar, hoping to escape the scene you were making."

As an empath, my response is immediate. What right do I have to keep my happy memories, when the person I love (and profess to share my life with) has only unhappy memories of the same event?

Even more devastating, what happens when your partner admits that they've not been committed to the same goals (or even the relationship itself) for quite some time? How quickly do we replay every event, milestone, intimate exchange, or argument and "rewire" our memories to be more accurate?

ALL of our experiences are subjective. We bring our history, our convictions, our baggage to the party and use them as filters to judge and categorize. What touches me or brings me to tears may not affect the person next to me. It doesn't have to.

Embrace it. Lean into it. Learn from it. Love it. Don't give in to the sabotage, and don't allow the 'retroactive lie' to invalidate your character and constitution. YOU have all the knowledge and experience you need to make the decisions that are right for you.

Just because my partner wasn't experiencing our relationship the same way, doesn't mean my experience isn't real and true. Our experiences don't need to be shared in order to be valid. To allow others to compromise that is to invalidate your own reactions, responses and feelings. Oftentimes based on nothing more than 'hearsay'.

Don't ever let someone else rewrite your story. It is yours and yours alone.