I don’t need proof, but it doesn’t matter in the end.

Them saying that isn’t a lie. It’s a logical inference based truth based on a kernel of faith in the basic decency of human beings and some common sense.

Look at it like this. There are serial killers who have people who love them. They’re generally considered by society to be evil incarnate, practically the devil. If they can find love as the worst amongst us, does the fact that you can’t or haven’t mean that you’re worse than a serial killer? Worth less than a psychotic killer? Really?

Try this one. Does it mean that out of 4 billion women on the entire planet, absolutely none of them would find him attractive or want to date him, all things being equal. Out of 4 billion? You understand that the odds of that are astronomically small, don’t you?

Or does it more likely mean that you’ve been unlucky, you’re not really putting yourself out there, you’re missing some fundamental skills you need to get that relationship, you’re self sabotaging, or a mix of these?

Common sense should tell you it’s the latter. You really don’t have to strain yourself here.

Why it doesn’t matter. It’s a rather obvious and rational conclusion, but still a subjective truth because none of us know every other person. It’s absolutely true to the one saying it. They’re not lying to him. Semantically, they’re more correct than he is because they’re using logic and inference; he’s using mansteria and run away emotions. He does not know every other woman on the planet either, to say that NOT ONE SINGLE WOMAN will have him with any kind of real, tangible proof. Why is he not equally required to provide proof of his statement?

But to Gareth, he really believes it…it’s his truth because he’s got horrible head space. He’s not lying with what he says either. He truly truly believes that shit narrative he tells himself. He doesn’t believe he’s worthy of love. Not really. So he sets out to make sure that becomes his reality, subconsciously. It wouldn’t matter if our imagined friend person lined up a row of women around the block for him. He’d find some way to drive them off and then determine, in full Eeyore glory, that no woman finds him suitable, inexplicably. Rejected again. Unlovable. No value. Hoh well.

He’ll keep landing back there until he ditches that script in his head. He’ll make sure of it. It’s become like a touchstone, home base for him. You can tell it after you’ve read his articles for a while.