It is a mark of character to be thought of
as someone that others can safely confide
in; there is a high degree of empathy, generosity
and open-mindedness implied in being the person
that friends instinctively turn to when everything
has gone dark. But we may come to realise
that, despite our best intentions, often others
do not quite see us in this way. If we ask
them directly what the matter is, they try
to look cheerful and insist that everything
is fine. We know it can’t be but nor do
they seem inclined to open up to us. We end
up lonely and a little helpless. There are
plenty of good reasons why people tend to
show extreme care before opening up. A confidant
may turn out to be patronising, alarmist,
sentimental, panic-inducing or moralistic.
The dangers of humiliation can be acute. To
dare to confide, we need a strong feeling
that our companion is going to be unreservedly
understanding, gentle and kindly. But even
if we feel ready to be all these things, how
do we signal our capacities properly to others people?
The almost touchingly obvious method is via
direct assertion. We might say: don’t worry,
I won’t judge or simply: you can tell me,
I’m very understanding. Kind though such
statements may be, they can’t generally
help because they don’t touch the core fear
that – whatever we may say – we may still
turn out to be disturbed by, or hostile to,
the details of actual revelations. The more
skilled approach requires a greater degree
of courage on our part. It involves regularly
admitting to something difficult and troubling
and rather shameful about ourselves. It’s
by letting others know something of our own
vulnerabilities that we free them up to share
some of the things they are terrified of admitting
in their lives. Our revelation proves far
better than a headline statement that we are
reliable because we know from the inside what
it’s like to carry a dreadful secret and
to feel frightened of another person’s reaction
to it. We’re demonstrating a crucial idea:
that we won’t turn on them because we’ve
trusted them not to turn on us. The process
of building up trust often functions in an
incremental way: we reveal a small and not
too awful fact about us, and the other then
starts to share a little of what’s going
on for them. From there, we take a bolder
step of admitting to something more significantly
awkward: something we know could be seen as
really not very acceptable. We’re inviting
the other to follow us in turn and to feel
secure in opening their hearts yet wider.
©Flickr/Cabin Events
The underlying idea is that in order to demonstrate
our position as an empathetic receiver of
confidences, we have to show our broken and
flawed sides: we’ve failed, so another can
tell us of their failure; we’ve been hurt
so, they can admit to being hurt; we’ve
done, and admitted we’ve done, very stupid
things so we’re not going to turn against
those who have also been at points very silly.
To be a good companion, it isn’t enough
simply to be polite or to commiserate. We
need to take a risk. We need to give our friends
something they could use against us – so
that they can feel safe in giving us something
we might use against them. Under the umbrella
of mutually assured destruction, real trust
and friendship
can then flourish.
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