Why do I often feel as though people don’t believe me?
I’m not an overly sarcastic person; that side only really shows through when I’m feeling slightly confident and even close to relaxed around people. Yet, I can think of several occasions throughout my life where others don’t appear to accept some of the truths and feelings that I’m trying to share.
My first example is going to revolve around love and a woman I met last summer. All I know for certain is that I can express something for this woman that I’ve not been able to let go of before. I want to believe it’s love, even though I’m always the first to question my own mind (anxiety). There’s no question of the way in which my body changes when I’m near or in communication with her; my senses come alive as warm blood flows to enliven my cautious bones. Mum is usually the next to doubt it before I’ve even raised the question. She’s always been highly judgemental over my understanding of ‘love’, ever since I confronted her for using and sleeping around with younger men a few years ago. She cites my lack of experience yet, she regards my sister (with little experience of friendship, I’m sorry to reveal) as some kind of ‘expert’ and confidant in the field. Hypocrisy?
After a weekend of watching my bowels and not eating for almost 48 hours, there’s been plenty of opportunity for all the thoughts to enjoy an all-day ticket and a free pass on the never-ending ride inside my head! I’ve just skimmed through a post by someone on the subject of OCD tendencies and I admire how she is able to cite and list each of her compulsions with distinction. I can’t even do that with simple thoughts a lot of the time, let alone to try to explain to you the obscene ‘counting’ routines that plague my brain.
I’ve had situations in previous jobs where I’ve been offered the chance to do a particular task and, even though I felt highly anxious, I wanted to have a go. Despite my efforts (I wouldn’t say ‘best’ efforts) to put myself forwards, it often ended up going to someone else. That’s more to do with my own fears of failure, judgement and criticism in what I do, I think. Am I afraid of being judged for my emotions towards someone who’s neither blonde nor top-heavy?
Going all the way back to primary school, when I must’ve been about 6-years old; there’s one faded memory that I’ve never forgotten. Neither have I ever been able to understand the situation. We had a supply teacher in for this session – or, at the very least, this man was covering or maybe in to talk to us about a specialist subject. I clearly don’t remember. He sat opposite me, on a large collection of tables with around six others sat around the perimeter. Behind him was a TV and I remember him asking me about whether I could hold the remote and use it to, well, switch the TV on I think… Something tells me he was about to leave the group shortly after. Anyway, I insisted that I could do it, twice, as he leaned over the table but, he paused, staring at me, as if I’d morphed in to something un-human. It ended up going to one of my friends; I’m sure he only had to keep an eye on the volume while a video was playing or something.
I never saw that man again. In my mind today, I have an image of Claude, one of the interviewers from the penultimate episodes of The Apprentice, which isn’t pleasant! Perhaps I gave the wrong answer. Mum’s told me before that, sometime during primary school, I was tested for autism along with the rest of the school; just as we would also receive injections for things like the measles. I’ve always thought that this would be something I’d remember, with the questions they would’ve asked… Why doesn’t another memory stand out in my mind? I can only relate that meeting and testing to him, which may well be a mistake. But, it’s another situation where I look back and feel as though he didn’t believe me; someone didn’t believe in me and it’s the earliest memory of its kind that I can recall at this moment.
Do people suffering from anxiety give off a repellent stench that instantly dissolves any trust others may be willing to place within us? That would, to me, also explain why my conversations with new people often seem to die within footsteps…
I just needed to write that this evening. I’ve spent most of the weekend not eating, lying around feeling ill and helpless, all in preparation and near-perfect timing for another slogging week at work. Please excuse me if I’m staring at my shoes as I walk past you tonight.