"Does this mean anything?" I ask curtly.
"What do you mean?" is the justifiably confused reply.
"Whenever I want it to mean something, it means nothing; the only time it ever seems to mean anything at all is when I want it to mean absolutely nothing." Rambling.
"It shouldn't matter what it means." Confusion.
"But it does. It all matters." Silence. "It has to matter. What is it if it doesn't matter. I just have to know."
"What do you want it to mean."
"It doesn't work like that."
"Everything." Exasperation seems like a reasonable reaction at this point.
"To nothing." Of course.


I do not believe I am worthy of love.  In order to believe I am worthy, someone needs to prove it to me.  In order for me to believe anyone who tries, I need to know it for myself.  In order to know it for myself, someone needs to prove it.  I am stuck.