Being empathetic is not something I am sure I am capable of anymore.

I want to be, believe me, but hearing about others’ problems, or lack thereof, sends me into a depression spiral like nothing alike. I can no longer be the friend that you go to when you need help. I am simply there, and I try to do things for my friends, and I try to be the best friend that I can in this situation, but my mental well-being is not something I should sacrifice for the sake of “being a good friend”. What kind of friend would I be if I off myself because I can’t handle the rest of the world leaving me in the dust?

I struggle with self-esteem.

Not just self-esteem, but the idea that I might still be worth something. My father drilled it into my head from a young age that only people with some sort of usefulness are worthy of being alive. What usefulness do I still have? My purpose used to be tied to my future career; get out of the house, do something that makes money, get away from my family, that was useful, I guess. Laying in my bed or sitting in a chair for 24 hours a day for over a year… Why am I still alive? I call myself a dumb bitch or I discount my accomplishments, because I really don’t think anything I do makes me something, or someone, my (autistic) father would be proud of. I am just a disappointment now, because I still live at home, and so do my siblings.

I can’t bring myself to care about getting better.

Addressed in my first post, even if I did recover within a decade I wouldn’t have nearly enough time as I want to live a full life. Why try? Why not just become comfortable, find a routine in my online community, do my best to not kill myself? Anything that I thought I was working towards is gone now.

I feel like my friendships are invalid.

My current friends have no idea the extent of my problems. I share quite a bit of my day-to-day and my symptoms, but I don’t think they realize just how hopeless I feel. I wouldn’t ever tell them. How can someone love you if they don’t know you completely?

I am a burden.

My inability to deal with my grief and move on with my life is my fault. I put so much responsibility on other people to keep me alive. Why do they try, anyways? I’m just a vegetable at this point.