trust /trʌst/Show Spelled[truhst] 1. reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety of a person or thing; confidence. 2. confident expectation of something; hope.
No where in the definition of trust does it explain how to earn it or how fragile it is. Maybe it's because it is an inherent practice we learn over time. That we continually surround ourselves with people we can trust, and we learn from experiences when people demonstrate who we shouldn't trust. Because let's face it, nothing is more hurtful than the moment you realize someone you trusted betrayed you.
I read a brave blog entry about detaching ourselves from relationships that may be expired. And it made me think about the law of attraction. Maybe we attract certain types of people in our lives so we can learn. And we continue to attract these same relationships until we make the decision to consciously reject a certain type of behavior. At what point do we stop giving and start looking out for ourselves? And when do we totally learn to trust ourselves enough to be brave?
The hardest part about "friendship euthanasia" is that usually the person who ultimately has to end the relationship is the person that cares the most and is hurt the most. Because no matter how much trust you have in someone, and no matter how much you hope for someone, the "someone" in the equation determines the outcome.
"I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they are right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together."
— Marilyn Monroe
I believe that, too. All of it. Thanks for sharing, Karma.
I love March Madness. More than I love ... coffee. And that's a lot.
I missed half of the games today but I am not ashamed to say that my ticket to Vampire Weekend inadvertently went unused because the allure of madness was so strong. Nor am I ashamed to say that I plan on staying in bed until at least 1pm tomorrow watching games.
It is a simple kind of love. One that might be tested by a few bracket busters, but one that ultimately stakes claim on my heart for all time and eternity.
I really don't like daylight saving time. Especially when I have incurable insomnia. It really adds extra yucky-ness to the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I have read a million different articles on insomnia (okay, maybe fifty). Is it better to lie in bed and force yourself to meditate? Is it more stressful to toss and turn and worry about not sleeping? Should I get up and work? Or read? Or write? Should I watch television or listen to music? Many schools of thought exist on the topic; some say to stick it out in the dark while others say to get up and be productive. The truth is, there is no simple cure for insomnia. It's annoying and, well, just really annoying.
I am a good sleeper, too. I love to sleep. Sleeping is the best! So it doesn't really make sense that I am struck with sleepless nights. I worry too much. I don't worry enough. There is still so much to think about. I have two interviews on Tuesday. I don't have any clean clothes. CJ is not feeling good. I overreacted. I am sick. I am tired. I am a perpetual glutton for punishment. I have a huge zit on my chin. My skin is becoming transparent because, despite our best efforts, we could not locate the sun this weekend. I have been a jerk. I drove for a long time today. I couldn't sleep last night. Or the night before. I need new tires. I need to get the oil changed in my car. I am hungry.
Last night, when I finally drifted off around 3AM, I had a nightmare. I must not have been very sound asleep because it woke me up really abruptly. I was in a complete panic when I woke and could not fall back to sleep. In my dream, there were people trying to attack me and they were disguising themselves as demonic sheep. Considering I live on a farm and listen to sheep all day and night, this is terribly haunting. My point: nightmares do not help insomnia. An underlying, non-related point: sheep are scary in real life.
I have placed towels and sweatshirts at the bottom of both doors to the bedroom. The reason I did this was because my mom came to visit a few weeks ago and hasn't left. If that's not enough to make you sick, I'll tell you what is. Her butt. She smells like my 35th birthday felt: rotten. Her gas permeates the house, literally. It is not an exaggeration to say that it seeps through every crack and vent and pore throughout. the. entire. effing. house. It just might be the most disgusting thing in the world. (Apparently I use that expression a lot? I had no idea.) I digress. I wish she was as put off by it as others. Not only is it repulsive, it is a pretty clear indication that she is destroying her insides. It is also really rude if you ask me.
I give myself until March 20th before I have a complete nervous breakdown.
I have been reminding myself to breathe, just breathe, for the last few weeks. I didn't really notice I was doing it until I stopped remembering to remind myself - at which point I found myself whirling in frequent dizzy spells or sitting down to catch my breath.
Where is all the oxygen going? Why are my lungs failing me? Open up that rib cage and breathe!
Life is definitely (maybe) telling me to slow down and push pause (probably). My dusty airways are craving the fresh, crisp air of Spring. Blue skies and late sunsets can't come soon enough for me. I dream of walking barefoot on warm sidewalks, driving with the windows down, and tasting salty, sweaty lips. The grayness of winter has already overstayed its welcome. And how.