When Trust Hurts

By Michelle Labine, PhD

November 2025

I still feel embarrassed when I talk about this. Even after my autism diagnosis, even after years of reflection and learning, there’s a flush of shame that rises when I admit how often I’ve been tricked, misled, or taken advantage of. I know I’m not alone in this, that many Autistic people are more vulnerable to manipulation or deceit, but there’s still a familiar ache that comes with saying it out loud.

I’m a trusting person. I always have been. I like to believe that people are honest, that they mean what they say and say what they mean. That kind of straightforwardness makes me feel safe; it’s how I communicate, how I connect, how I understand the world. But the world doesn’t always work that way; it runs on hints, social shortcuts, and unspoken meaning. And for people like me, that can be dangerous.

When I was a teenager, a particular group of friends called me “Bill.” It was short for “gullible.” It was intended as a joke, but it stuck. Every time I believed something too literally, or missed the sarcasm in a conversation, someone would laugh and say, “Oh, Bill!” I laughed along, but inside it stung. I was also called dippy from time to time, which never fit, because in the same breath, I was often called smart. Teachers praised me for my writing, for my insight, for how “mature” I seemed. I was the friend people came to for advice. I could analyze complex ideas, understand emotional nuance, and think deeply about almost anything except, it seemed, the hidden meanings people wove into their words.

It was confusing. How could I be both intelligent and gullible? Both insightful and naïve? Over time, I began to internalize the answer in the only way that made sense to me back then, I must be smart in some ways, but stupid in others. Those “Bill moments,” as they called them, became quiet little verdicts about my worth. Each one seemed to confirm a belief that I wasn’t as capable as other people and that there was something defective in the way I understood the world. That belief followed me into adulthood.

Last year, I lost a significant amount of money to a scam because I thought I was talking to an old high school friend selling concert tickets. The messages were casual and friendly, believable in every way. When I realized what had happened, that old shame came roaring back. I could feel it in my body that hot, sick feeling in my gut. The voice that surfaced was the same one from all those years ago: You’re so stupid. You never learn.

It wasn’t just about the money; it was about what it meant. Each time something like this happens whether I’m scammed, misled, or manipulated it reinforces that old story I learned as a teenager: that I can’t trust my own judgment, that other people see something I don’t and that I’m somehow “less.”

It’s the everyday moments when words don’t mean what they seem to. When someone says one thing but means something else. When “Let’s get together soon” turns into silence. When someone’s kindness comes with strings attached. Those moments are disorienting like stepping onto a surface that looks solid but gives way beneath your feet.

The social world is full of those moments. The older I get, the more I see how much of life runs on subtext somehow universally understood. For years, I thought I just needed to pay closer attention, to learn that language better.

I remember my dating years within this context as well, when someone would say, “come over to watch a movie,” I thought we were going to watch a movie. I didn’t realize that was code for sex or romantic interest. I’d show up with snacks, genuinely ready to watch something, and then be blindsided by what happened next. The shame of those moments still makes my stomach twist. I’d replay everything afterward, trying to pinpoint the exact place where I missed the cue, the line where my reality and theirs diverged. And each time, I decided the same thing: It must be me. I must be stupid.

This is what happens to so many Autistic people. When we miss cues, get manipulated, or fall for someone’s dishonesty, we rarely walk away angry. We walk away ashamed. We don’t just think, “they shouldn’t have done that.” We think, “I should have known better.” We internalize the harm as evidence of our own inadequacy.

The long-term cost is the self-doubt that grows from those moments, becoming a kind of emotional scar tissue, shaping how we see ourselves and how safe we feel in relationships. Over time, those experiences can erode self-trust and make it harder to connect authentically. Some of us build walls, becoming skeptical and guarded. Others overcompensate, trying to please, perform, or anticipate every hidden meaning so we won’t be caught off-guard again. Both responses are a kind of armour born from pain.

Even now, these patterns show up in new forms. As my book gets ready to launch, I’ve been approached by podcasts and collaborations. Most have been genuine, but one was a marketing scheme disguised as an interview. I caught on before losing money, but still that same wave of embarrassment rolled through me. I recognized the familiar echo of my teenage self, sitting in a group of friends, hearing, “oh, Bill,” and feeling small.

For Autistic people, repeated moments like these can become deeply internalized as a devastating belief that there is something wrong with me. It shapes everything: how we trust, how we relate, how we view our competence, and it’s why so many of us oscillate between trusting too much and not trusting at all.

But here’s what I know now: I believe people because I want to believe in goodness. I take things literally because words matter to me. I seek honesty because I give it. There’s a kind of purity in that, even if it sometimes leads to pain. I don’t want to become cynical. I don’t want to lose the softness that allows me to connect so deeply with others. But I do want to protect it.