The wall behind Blackout is disgusting.
If you exit to the left of the back doors of the concert hall, you'll run right into it. You wouldn't know it was concrete unless you ran your finger over its surface. I don't know how long it had been since the wall had been clean, nobody has cared enough to scrub the graffiti off.
Most of the words are written in Sharpie. Odd, teenagers seem to have an abundance of them.
Lyrics are the choice of the graffiti, whether from bands the scribblers like, or bands playing inside. Most of the bands that stop by Blackout sign the wall, too. It's like any other wall in the city, a canvas for our artists. The Blackout wall is different in one way, though. Spray painted in red over all the other writings is the word trust. It also inspired me to write this article.
Trust is such a beautiful, yet ugly thing. Man, it feels so good to confide in someone your problems, your thoughts, your fears, anything, but you can never know if you can really trust them. I never know if I can really trust them.
We've all had our secrets spilled. At least the majority of us that share our secrets. But most of them are petty. We don't really reevaluate trust until it's really been broken, until it really hurts.
My first experience with that was when I was in middle school. I was getting into a lot of trouble in those last few months, and so the counselor called me out and asked me exactly what was making me act like that. We talked for awhile, and the topic finally came to my parents' divorce. I broke down crying. I told her everything. I told her about how hard it was for my mom to deal with my dad and step mom, especially with her depression. I told her how hard it was on my little brother, Braden, who at that time didn't understand anything. I don't know what made me say it, but I said everything.
And that counselor told my family everything.
I couldn't believe it. At a parent-teacher conference a few weeks later, the counselor told my family what I had confided in her. I couldn't believe it. I was in shock. I told her those things in private, and know my family knew everything. I don't know whether she thought it was in my best interest, but I was scarred.
My parents didn't get angry, but they started treating me differently, even if it was subconsciously. I never told anything to a counselor again. To this day, I still haven't. Maybe it would be a little easier to understand if you were betrayed by a "friend", but a full-grown, mature counselor?
I've never been big on telling people my personal feelings, just by nature, but my trust in a lot of people was destroyed that day. A lot worse things have happened since then, but how can I forget that first time?
Trust is such a precious thing. When I think of trust, I think of the word in bold letters, sitting atop a tightrope. It hangs in precarious balance, and even the slightest breath can shake that rope. The smallest things can make trust fall off the tightrope, and make us draw back into ourselves.
Broken trust is like a dark room. You're sitting there on the cold floor, and you know you should be looking for the light switch, to make things light, to make things better again, but you can't. You don't want to. You think thrown on the floor is better than feeling anything, it's easier.
God, can I relate.
Sometimes I want to wipe that big red TRUST off of the wall. I want to replace it with "Trust sucks, you're better off by yourself," but I'd never be able to believe it, not fully, anyway. Because when you find that person who you can really believe in, who you can really trust, you'll be thankful of that feeling creeping over your heart when you see that word.
