Fragile Trust

I meet with someone new next week.

And I already know they’ll probably ask me to sign a release of information.

It’s a pretty standard thing, just so therapists can talk, share updates, and help with continuity of care. I get it. But it’s something I’ve always struggled with.

When I think about that phone call, it’s not the idea of being misrepresented that scares me. It’s the fear that someone I still love might not carry me in good light anymore. That what I thought they thought of me, and what they actually do, might not be the same.

And that thought breaks my heart.

Because for me, it’s about not wanting to risk finding out that the version of me they once cared for doesn’t exist for them anymore. That maybe the tenderness, the understanding, the “I see you” that once lived between us has faded.

Part of that fear comes from everything that’s unfolded since I last saw her. I worry that her view of me has changed because of it. That who I am to her now might not be who I once was.

I’ve tried to let therapists in by signing a release, and each time I have to spend a monumental amount of time processing the emotions that come up for me. The lack of trust that they’re being fully transparent with me. The fear that they might be sparing my feelings by keeping certain things out of what they tell me.

And most of the time, I’m stuck processing all of those feelings alone, because I’m too ashamed to be fully honest about how much it actually stirs up for me.

I’ve refused signing them altogether before, because sometimes I just feel too raw to open that door. It’s complicated. I know it can be helpful, but I can’t help wondering how much pain I’ll have to feel because of it.

Knowing that’s even a possibility makes avoidance feel safer.

Because sometimes, not knowing hurts less than knowing for sure.

Having only one person I trust enough to sign a release for makes it hard too, because then she knows.

Damn.

He fucked it all up again.