Class memory murdered my trust

"I don't trust anyone."

The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

On the other end of the Zoom call, my therapist's eyes widened slightly, though her face remained calm.

We sat together in the silence that followed, the weight of what I'd just said filling the space.

It was the first bit of raw honesty I'd offered her in the three months we'd been working together.

And it was true. I didn't trust anyone.

The thought of people getting close to me made me want to scream, push them away, and lash out.

 "When do you think this lack of trust might have started?" she asked, calm but probing.

Her question hit me like a lightning bolt. 

Before I could think, a memory surged to the surface. 

I’m 7 years old at school seated at my small wooden desk under those sterile, flickering lights. 

I'd just asked my teacher, Mrs. Limbert, a question. 

I wasn't trying to be funny or cheeky. 

But for some reason, the whole class erupted in laughter – along with Mrs. Limbert. 

I was fine playing the class clown normally, but this wasn't funny. 

This felt different.

Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face. 

My shoulders shuddered as I sobbed uncontrollably, my face turning red and scrunched into that horrible expression kids make when they cry too hard. 

I remember the silence that followed, even sharper than the laughter. 

No one said anything. 

Not the kids. 

Not the teacher. 

I sat there, shaking with shame, feeling completely alone, completely unlovable. 

As I told this story to my therapist, I felt my body tighten with anger. 

"I want to walk into that classroom, call the teacher a fucking useless bitch, and take Ollie out of there," 

I snapped, surprising even myself. 

She nodded, her voice steady. 

"Go ahead. Do that. Give him what he needed." 

So I closed my eyes and imagined it. 

I stormed into the classroom, stood in front of Mrs. Limbert, and told her exactly what I thought of her. 

Then I walked over to little Ollie, picked him up, and carried him out. 

And as I pictured this, something cracked open in me. 

The tears came fast and hard—tears of sadness, love, and relief, pouring out like a storm that had been building for years. 

I cried for the boy I used to be. 

The boy who was trapped in that moment, with no one to protect him, no one to hold him, no one to tell him it was going to be okay. 

I cried for how alone he'd felt, and I promised him that he'd never feel that way again. 

When the tears stopped, I felt something unexpected. 

A desire to connect. 

To reach out. 

To let people in. 

I didn't think these things would be connected. 

But now I understand: the boy in my psyche, stuck in that classroom, was the one who kept everyone at arm's length. 

And by going back to him—by standing up for him and giving him what he needed—I was able to release the pain that had made me push people away. 

Is the process complete? Not even close. 

Healing isn't linear. It's messy, chaotic, and often feels like stumbling in the dark. 

But that moment taught me something important. 

Many of the things holding us back in life aren't about the adult we are now but the child inside us who is still hurting. 

If we can connect with that child and give them what they need but never got, then maybe we can begin to trust again.

Stay courageous, brother.

Oliver