What’s the fucking point. in Diaryesque Stuff

Can anyone tell me that? Why bother anymore? There’s nothing at the end of the finish line, and yet I’m expected to try and reach it. Like I’m fucking capable of reaching it, like the others.

There’s no point in going forward. It’s a lost cause. A dead world. No one in power cares enough to save it. We’re just digging our hole deeper and deeper, stacking up our reasons not to bother.

I just don’t see why, anymore. I’m broken. It’s as simple as that. I can’t function like a normal human being. Being autistic aside, there’s more than just that. Something else is wrong. Something broke from day 1. George Street. I never recovered. I don’t know who or what I am anymore. If you asked me to describe myself, I wouldn’t know what to tell you. I’m just coping mechanisms and self-denial bundled up and shoved into a person. I pretend it’s alright while everything is shoved deep down and kept quiet until eventually it bursts free again, shattering that delusion
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I don’t feel like I have a real possibility of getting better and becoming a functioning member of society. It’s too ingrained in me now. I don’t talk about this stuff. My own mother didn’t know my primary used to lock me in a room all day until I told her a few weeks ago. Every time I tell somebody something, a trigger in my brain activates that just screams to stop, that they can’t be trusted, I’m making it up, it’s bullshit, I’ve got to burn everything and run before they do because the rejection hurts, even though it’s not real and sometimes there’s nothing to reject but me.

I just can’t let people in. It doesn’t happen. Never did. It’s been there for so long, I don’t know if it was a coping mechanism, something they did, or just me. I don’t know anything, anymore. It’s all this big fucking jumble of a mess in my head I just try to force down and pretend doesn’t exist.

I’m on a hairline trigger for a breakdown and it’s only getting worse. How the fuck did I end up here? Why did I end up here? I shouldn’t have to deal with this shit, getting fucking yanked from one extreme to another by my haywire emotions that I can’t control. I should’ve had a normal childhood, like the others. I should’ve been able to finish school, be happy without some fucking medication or drug in my system, go to uni, have dreams and hopes and a future but instead it was taken away from me by those fucking cunts and I’m never getting it back. I know that. There’s a me that existed before all this, and I don’t remember him. He’s dead. Gone, before his life even really began. But I’m expected to still give a shit, to do something with my life. But what? What can you do with something this broken? Give up on it and throw it in the trash. Sunk-cost fallacy, really. Can’t wipe this slate clean, can’t fix it. There’s only breaking it more, and getting rid of it