Trust and Fear: Never a Happy Couple

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“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them,” Ernest Hemingway wrote—and what a terrifying thought that is; sounds like more of a leap then look situation if you ask me.

To trust is to allow for vulnerability, it is to all but invite tremendous emotional pain and suffering into our lives. Trust, however, also creates an opening for near-infinite beauty to come in, as well. To trust and be trusted is a beautiful manifestation of love and reciprocity.

Last August, I had been dating the same person, on and off, for about three years. The relationship was emotionally charged and very loving, but complicated by a nine-year age difference and, at the end, distance.

I was living in California and Anna (let’s call her) had moved home to Massachusetts, but we decided to give the relationship one last go. We had spent about six months apart, and had both done a tremendous amount of self-work. When we got back together, she had a full, pleasant life in Cambridge, and I had the same in LA.

We made it work for quite awhile, both making trips cross country to see the other. The jet setting and mini-vacations were exciting, communication was good, we were content—if not thriving.

But anytime I told someone, typically someone who didn’t know either of us well, that my girlfriend lived 3,000 miles away, I would always see that same scared almost pitying look on their face. And, a bit presumptuously, they would often ask, “Aren’t you worried?”

“About her cheating on me? No, I’m not,” I’d say, finishing their question then answering it.

Anna and I had full trust in each other, there was no question. I knew her, I knew her heart. And she knew me. We’d been through too much already to mess it up by being unfaithful. We didn’t get back together on a whim, it was a conscious choice. We knew we would be living apart for the foreseeable future, and we weighed the costs and benefits of a long-distance relationship carefully.

I know “costs and benefits” probably sounds unromantic, but that was definitely not the case. We loved each other deeply, believed in each other, and trusted each other’s feelings—spoken and unspoken.

My confidence in Anna came from experience, from our history. We worked through a range of differences, not just age, and differing views of the world until we found an amicable middle ground—or just agreed to disagree. She was also patient, graceful, and unwavering as I brought her along on my journey through alcohol and drug abuse. She was devoted to me at my worst, and I was now offering her my best. If she didn’t want that, what else could I do?—that’s why I trusted her.

A relationship without trust is destined to be problematic. For in the absence of trust comes jealousy, destroying any chance for tranquility, especially in an already unconventional relationship. Jealousy is, essentially, another form of fear: fear of loss, fear of embarrassment, fear of inadequacy. And, as Seneca wrote, “love and fear cannot be mingled.”

During that last phase of my relationship with Anna, I felt no jealousy, I had no fear; mostly because I knew I could not lose her due to infidelity. I was ever only at risk of losing the illusion of her. The person I loved was incapable of hurting me so purposefully, therefore, if she cheated, I was losing someone I didn’t truly know. I would be stripped of my illusions—and nothing more.

Please don’t mistake my equanimity for indifference. Illusions die hard. Losing your perceived reality can be just as painful as losing something real or tangible, but the former is infinitely more survivable than the latter.

If your partner turns out to be someone other than who you thought they were, this doesn’t call for anguishing over the loss, it calls for examination of yourself: Why were you unable to see the truth about this person and/or the relationship? What were you ignoring? What were you inventing?

Anna and I eventually reached the crucial point where someone needed to give up the life they had if we were ever going to move forward with a life together. I guess you could say neither of us blinked. We were both happy with our lives as they were and decided to keep them.

Anna and I respected each other, and only wanted the best for each other, but, in the end, we trusted ourselves as much as we trusted each other. And we believed we were doing what was right for us as individuals.

It was certainly scary to walk away from so much history and such an amazing connection, and I’d be lying if I said I never second-guessed myself. But when we are learning to trust ourselves, Hemingway’s advice also applies: The best way to find out if you can trust is—simply—to trust.

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This post is republished on Medium.

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