Anita

Well it feels good that despite you knowing about all the parts of myself I’m not necesarily proud of you still try to help me, and it seems for some reason you wont give up on me either. That’s part of my definition of love, acceptance of someone for all their flaws. It feels really good that I can depend on you to respond within a reasonable amount of time and that you are not put off by some of my responses. It’s not hard for me to understand on an intellectual level, I treat my own clients In the same way. I feel an almost maternal connection with you, wishing I had you’re type of guidance in the flesh more often. You operate in a similar way to my personal therapist which is why I come here so often because I can only see him a couple times a month. I feel grateful for you and this resource.

I also feel that you are being sincere in you’re response based on the assumption that I have been authentic in what I have shared with you, which I believe I have. It just feels really good to know that someone like you even exists in this world. Someone who will cares and sees me compassionately always.

It feels like I have someone on my side, who wants to see me doing better. However despite all of this it’s never enough. I feel like I don’t want to believe you I’m not sure why anymore, I argue with people who try to help me that I deserve the misery I feel.

One of my classmates/coworkers came to my office just to talk last week. She expressed how difficult school has been, she had a class with me last fall when my life was most chaotic. She said I was quiet and rarely talked even though we sat right next to eachother. I told her I was severely depressed at that time. She stated how she too was depressed since being in school and how no one talks about it. I shared with her my most recent mishap with this girl who had a boyfriend. She tried to empathize with me but I wouldn’t let her I told her it was my fault for picking women I think I can help.

I realize how hard I make it for people to help me. I blame myself for every misfortune that happens to me. Yet if someone else told me the same story I wouldn’t put the blame on them. It all seems to come back to empathy for myself, I don’t have it and It keeps me from letting others help/love me.