I’m Not As Trusting As I Used To Be And I Can’t Figure Out If It’s Good Or Bad

Jose Alfredo Lerma Contreras

Last week I sent a text to a friend and quickly followed it up with, “fyi, you’re the only one I’m telling.”

That might sound normal to some. But it was beyond weird for me. So foreign. It’s not a disclaimer I ever use.

Most days it’s safe to assume I’ve told at least 5 to 6 people, not including my family, very intimate details of my life. None of my secrets remain secret. It’s like verbal diarrhea. I’m talking, talking, talking. I’m trusting everyone. I’m spilling my guts on the reg.

I’m not shy about my personal life.

Back at Johanna’s apartment, I emerged from the bathroom and asked her and Alyssa, without a second thought, “Hey guys, what do hemorrhoids feel like?”

I say shit no one wants to hear.

(Hahah hemorrhoids?! Shit?! I’m too good)

I’m open. An open book. An open book you want to shut but it keeps opening back up.

I don’t know how to be closed off. I don’t know how to hold onto pieces of myself. I am shouting my every desire from the rooftops.

HEY WORLD, IT’S ME, ARI EASTMAN. CAN I TALK TO YOU FOR A SECOND?

I think I’ve always been like this. I grew up an only child in a family that made honesty the most important thing. What did that mean, you ask? Means we talked about everything. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

After losing my virginity, I told myself I’d keep it a secret. Not even two days later, I told my mom. I was bursting at the seams. I can’t keep anything zipped.

I still trust easily. I will give the homeless woman on the street corner $5. I don’t care that you had a bad experience or heard about someone who was scamming people and driving off in an expensive car. That’s not how I choose to live my life. That’s not my mindset. I see the best. I believe the best. I would rather give and be taken advantage of than never give to begin with.

But something is up lately. Am I getting older? Does age make you less shiny? Less trusting?

Even people I love, I’m being careful. I’m calculating which parts I can give out. I’m not running back and forgiving those who hurt me. I’m paying attention to behavior and patterns and deciding not everyone is worth bending over backwards for.

Is that good?

Or am I just at a breaking point?

There are things inside me I am dying to scream. But instead, I’m whispering.

Am I becoming a skeptic? Or is that what being guarded looks like?

I guess it’s all new to me. TC mark

Ari Eastman

✨ real(ly not) chill. poet. writer. mental health activist. mama shark. ✨

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