But what about those people who say they will listen? Don't they mean it?
Maybe. But I always believed that either they didn't mean it, or that they would be too busy when I needed the help. That they didn't quite care enough to drop everything and listen to my life story, to ask questions, to be interested in me and my life. But do you want to know the worst part of this? As soon as I made someone aware of that fact, that I wanted them to ask about my life, ask how I was doing, to be interested in me, I then made a wall. A wall between me and them, because I didn't want someone to be interested just because I said something. I just want them to be interested because they are, because they aren't afraid of how I will see their interest. I don't like feeling as though I need to push people to be interested in me, because then it becomes a pity thing in my mind.
So some of my beliefs are:
I am not worth any ones time.
I am not interesting enough for people to want to get to know me.
I am not good enough for them to listen when I speak.
People only become interested in me because of pity, which I will not accept.
My story isn't interesting enough to know.
People lie about what they see about how I look to try to make me feel better.
And the most detrimental of all:
I don't deserve any form of love or affection, and should avoid it whenever possible.
There are of course more. And maybe you see yourself in some of these. And maybe you can feel the pain that is caused by one of these. And although I know that these beliefs are not always true, I have treated them as though they are my entire life, never entertaining the positive opposites of these beliefs.
And how could I? I don't receive affection or touch of any kind. there is the rare hug once in a while, but they are never long enough. I always let go early, because of my belief that I don't deserve to be loved. No matter how badly I want to hold on, I let go. And no one stops me, because they believe I am fine, they believe that I am normal, and don't crave the touch of another person. And not in a sexual way at all. I crave touch as a child craves to be held by its parents, as one who is injured desires to touch the hand of a loved one as they lay in a hospital bed, as one who has been beaten hungers to be wrapped in the arms of a loved one, that they may be comforted and believe things will be ok.
But I push it away, believing that people think I smell bad, or that if I held on more than a second or two they might think I wanted something more, that they might think I am strange. I never think they might be ok with it, I never think about what if they need to be held too.