To Trust

I am, quite unfortunately, a very trusting person by nature. So much so, in fact, that a close buddy in the army wrote me a note once, reminding me not to dispense trust so freely, in case I was taken advantage of.

With a certain amount of disappointment, a casual foray into the past has revealed numerous examples of just what my buddy cautioned me against. The first and probably one of the more painful incidents involved none other, than my very own mother.

You see, I had a favourite purple pillow when I was about four. The covers were made of satin, and it was incredibly soft, cool and silky to the touch. But because young children tend to overcome their teething issues by chewing anything that doesn't chew back, my favourite pillow (Mr. Purple) was also clumpy, fraying and soggy.

In fact, if I still had it now, I daresay if you pressed it against your ear you could hear the germs and bacteria on it playing classical music, on account of the ideal conditions for them to multiply and evolve. After which you would probably need a full-time nurse and daily injections of drug cocktails.

But try as my mother could, Mr. Purple and I were inseperable. "Hygiene" was just this 2-syllable word that meant as much to me as "hedge funds investment", and "Let-me-throw-it-away-or-I-will-spank-you" was easily countered by grabbing my mother's leg and screaming "Mommy-mommy-please-don't-I-love-you-don't-kill-Mr.-Purple".

After threats, cajoling, and reasoning (oh when will parents realize that there's almost no way to reason with children until they're older, say, 25) failed, my mother resorted to... deception.

She bided her time, too. When we moved to a new house, she waited until the moving men left before she told me that we had to leave Mr. Purple behind. There was no more space, the moving men told her, for Mr. Purple on the moving truck. But don't worry, now he has our old house all to himself!

Oh, was I a sucker then. I forgave my mother eventually though - after all, she was only trying to save the whole family from the inconvenience of a premature death through disease.

You would think that from that experience I would grow up to be this hardy, cynical, bitter shell of a man ensconced behind high walls. Oh ho ho. Let's just say that maybe if I figured out the truth about Mr. Purple during my formative years, then yes. Finding out when you're 17 doesn't change anything.

Friends have not spared me from such agony as well. Back in JC1, my dear, charming friend Dot told me that in RGS, every belt was unique to the owner. On the inside was sewn a little tag containing all of the owner's personal information, which doubled as proof of identity in exams. From the first day of school, every RGS girl was bonded to her belt.

Maybe it was her straight face and trustworthy demeanour. Maybe it was my eargerness to consolidate our friendship by not doubting her. Or maybe, it was just plain stupidity. In any case she was tickled to no end, and I contemplated throwing a Mr. Purple at her. (But seriously, it sounds possible, right? Right?)

And I must have repeated this army story a million times, but for good measure, I'll recount it once again. In the first few weeks at a new army camp I kept to myself, mainly because I didn't know anyone else. Then, one night I heard screams, laughter and sounds of determined struggle from outside my bunk - another day, another stripping. I turned back to my book.

"Hanting! Quick! Come help us strip him!" Then, more sounds of struggle and unholy laughter.

Those words set my blood on fire. Finally! I was being accepted! I was recognized as one of the them, what with this most dignified invitation to partake in one of their holiest ceremonies! The joy of conquering loneliness was potently sweet. I threw my book aside, flung my door open... and rushed out into a most despicable trap.

When I joined the guys, I sensed something amiss. There was no struggle. There was a guy on the floor, but he wasn't flailing about trying to keep his underwear on. He was only staring straight at me, grinning this horrible smirk. The decoy.

"He's out! Get him!" The 20+ guys turned on me, and a dozen hands gripped my arms and legs. I shut my eyes. 5 minutes never lasted so long.

Some of my friends find it strange the way I don't seem to learn, and wonder why I haven't become less trusting. And the reason simply is that friendships blossom so much faster when you're not skeptical and cautious and preoccupied with putting all your defenses in place.

Of course, this has to be tempered with a bit of common sense. People who abuse that trust simply don't deserve it, and when I say trusting people is good, it doesn't mean you go throwing yourself at everyone.

You see, things like what Dot and my army friends did, don't really matter. I don't mind being caught up in a little harmless joke (ok the stripping doesn't exactly qualify as harmless), but it's another thing when people abuse your trust, knowing full well what they are doing.

I'm not a perfect person. Though I believe in the basic goodness of man, and I try to reach out to as many people as possible, there are some things I find hard to forgive. Though it pains me to consciously keep a distance from some people, I have no choice, sometimes.

Not everybody has the same benevolent, well-meaning intentions for destroying the Mr. Purple in your life.