Turns out, no. But apparently you can rebuild it with gold…
By Helene Waters
There is a very specific kind of pain that comes from trusting someone with your deepest wounds and that person stomping all over it like an enraged rhino.
I’m not talking about the casual stuff.
I’m not talking about someone asking how you are and you giving some generalised answer about traffic or the weather. A “Gee, it’s hot today” kind of reply.
I mean the real stuff. The things you don’t just hand out.
I’m talking about the memories that still have sharp edges.
The dark moments that changed you.
The parts of yourself that you carefully protect because you know exactly how much they hurt.
You wouldn’t trust a stranger with those things.
Because your brain is smart enough to know that sharing this pain with a stranger is just ridiculous – except if it’s a therapist, then that’s okay because you’re paying them to listen right?
You know that you’d never walk up to a complete stranger and say:
“Hi, nice to meet you. Here are my deepest wounds. Please handle with care and don’t poke them with a stick.”
Because that would be weird.
You choose someone.
You decide:
“This person is safe.”
And that is not a small thing.
Trust is built.
Slowly.
Carefully.
One brick at a time.
It is not something you throw around like free samples at a supermarket.
And then comes the cruel little plot twist nobody ordered:
The person you trusted becomes the person who hurts you.
The person who knew where the cracks were becomes the person who pushes against them.
The person who knew your pain becomes the person who adds to it.
And suddenly…
Someone who was once safe becomes a stranger.
That is a different kind of ouch.
Because you’re not only trying to process what happened.
You’re also trying to reconcile the ouch with the person you thought you knew.
This is a human problem.
This happens to men.
This happens to women.
This happens in relationships.
Friendships.
Families.
Anywhere broken people attempt the terrifying act of saying:
“Here. I trust you enough to see the parts of me that are not polished.”
And then sometimes, because as people we hope, we love, we have faith, that trust gets mishandled.
Sometimes intentionally.
Because apparently this is allowed since “Hurt people hurt people”
Sometimes carelessly.
Sometimes because someone is more focused on proving they are not the villain than actually acknowledging the damage they caused.
And this is where things get messy.
You say:
“That hurt me.”
And instead of:
“I’m sorry. I understand why.”
You get:
“How can you think that of me?”
“I’m not that kind of person.”
“I was in a bad place.”
“I was angry.”
“I was drunk.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
Now, people make mistakes. Sure.
People say stupid things.
People have bad moments.
People have times where their brain clearly takes an unpaid leave of absence and words fly from their mouth unsupervised. This happens to me often because I have the tact of a donkey.
It happens.
But there is a difference between an explanation and accountability.
An explanation tells you why something happened.
Accountability acknowledges what it caused.
“I was drunk” might explain the words.
It does not erase the wound.
Alcohol may remove the filter.
It does not always create a completely different person who climbed into your body and pressed the “say something hurtful” button.
The emotional gymnastics Olympics
And this is where things become exhausting.
Because somehow, through some incredible emotional gymnastics, the person who caused the pain becomes the person who needs comforting.
Honestly?
The performance deserves a medal.
Gold.
A flawless routine.
A spectacular display of avoiding accountability. You can almost hear the applause…
You start apologising.
You.
The person who was hurt.
You start saying:
“I’m sorry I reacted that way.”
“I’m sorry you feel like I misunderstood.”
“I’m sorry I upset you.”
And suddenly you are apologising for a wound you did not create.
The person who broke the window is asking why you’re upset about the glass on the floor.
Impressive.
Truly.
When the script gets flipped
This is where gaslighting can enter the picture. I did a blog on this a while ago.
Gaslighting: When You Stop Trusting Yourself
The conversation moves away from:
“What I did hurt you.”
And becomes:
“Why are you making me feel like a bad person?”
The focus shifts.
The behaviour disappears.
The impact disappears.
And somehow you end up defending why you are hurt.
Which is a bizarre experience.
Like being robbed and then having to explain to the burglar why stealing is upsetting.
The walls get higher
For someone who already struggles with trust, this kind of betrayal changes you.
Because your brain remembers.
Unfortunately, there is this very dramatic thing it can tend to do too.
It does not always say:
“That was one person’s behaviour.”
Nah uh!
It says:
“Excellent. New rule. Nobody gets in.”
Your heart installs an update.
Heart Protection System 2.0
New features include:
- suspicious pattern recognition
- overthinking every tone change
- emotional detective work nobody asked for
- the ability to identify possible red flags from another country
Useful?
Yes.
Exhausting?
Also yes.
You start noticing patterns.
You start looking for warning signs.
You start protecting yourself.
And sometimes, the saddest part is that you begin protecting yourself from people who would never have hurt you.
This is not because you don’t want connection or love.
But because your brain remembers:
“Last time we trusted someone, we got hurt.”
The day you stop
Then one day something changes.
You get tired.
Not angry.
Not bitter.
Just tired.
You stop.
You say:
“No more.”
You say:
“You don’t get to play the victim anymore.”
“You don’t get to pretend what you said didn’t hurt.”
“You don’t get to make me responsible for the consequences of your choices.”
And that moment is often misunderstood.
Because when people are used to your endless understanding, your boundaries look like cruelty.
When people are used to you explaining, your silence looks like anger.
When people are used to you carrying everything, putting something down looks like coldness.
But maybe it isn’t coldness.
Maybe it is self-respect.
Maybe you are not becoming disconnected.
Maybe you are finally connected to yourself.
Walking away is not always giving up
Walking away from someone is hard.
Regardless of who they are.
A friend.
A partner.
A family member.
Someone you thought would be in your life forever.
Walking away does not always mean you stopped caring.
Sometimes it means you finally started caring about yourself.
Because why stay in a place that makes you bleed?
Why stay somewhere you feel like you are fighting just to breathe?
Why stay somewhere you constantly have to explain your pain, defend your feelings, or prove that you deserve kindness?
We are often taught that leaving means failure.
That walking away means giving up.
That if you just try harder, love more, forgive more, maybe you can fix what is broken.
But sometimes you cannot heal in the same place that keeps hurting you.
Sometimes the thing you are desperately trying to save is the very thing drowning you.
And maybe walking away is how you save yourself.
Because staying in a toxic friendship, relationship, or family dynamic can slowly teach you to disappear.
You become smaller.
You silence your voice.
A version of yourself built around survival.
And nobody should have to spend their life proving they deserve to be treated with care.
Making peace with the wreckage
The hardest truth? You may never get the apology you deserve.
You may never hear: “I understand what I did.” “I understand why it hurt.” “I’m sorry.”
And that hurts.
Because sometimes the person who created the wreckage isn’t the one who helps you clean it up.
Sometimes healing means accepting that accountability may never arrive. Sometimes healing means standing in the middle of the mess and saying:
“Yes. This happened. Yes. It hurt. Yes. It changed me. But I refuse to build my home out of rubble.”
You make peace with the wreckage — not because it was okay, not because it didn’t matter, but because your life deserves to be more than a waiting room for someone else’s apology.
And that’s where you rise. Not because you were never broken. But because you finally stopped letting someone else hold the pieces.
And your cracks? The ones that they pushed against?
Well those no longer show your vulnerability.
They show your strength. Your weight in gold. And you learn the art of Kintsugi on your own heart.
Cheese & Jam 
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