Dear God, what is the point?

What's the point of even trying to make this work? Obviously, I'm not responsible enough, or mature enough, or independent enough, or... whatever enough. I am a continual disappointment. Do I have to keep doing this?

Sure, we can structure our lives, but will that really help? Can I schedule myself into  a competent person?

You want to see irresponsible? Oh, I can show you irresponsible. How about if I packed a bag and disappeared for a few days? That could happen. You don't know how hard I have to beat myself mentally to keep from doing just that... so often....

At least Juneaux doesn't see my flaws.

I don't want to be seen. Least of all by you.

The very medicine that was supposed to heal me has poisoned me, and I wither away... but you'll never know... 'cause I still don't want to let you in. All that talk, all those good intentions, and for what? I'm still the same person... with the same old dysfunctions. Of course I understand you. That's why it frustrates me so.

Am I selfish? Maybe. Aren't we all?

And what, really, is the point? To give yourself totally, to invest so thoroughly, to open up so completely... for what? Tonight, I saw a woman who loves her husband take his warm, unresponsive hand and weep. He was taken from her without warning, without mercy... and now she agonizes alone. What's the point?

Elderly people, once useful, productive, and cognizant... now wasted, withered, and unable to comprehend reality. They fritter the remaining dregs of their lives away... for what?

What is the point? Why should I even continue living? I'm just going to die, anyway, someday...

The car accident... yesterday was the anniversary. I am whole and (somewhat) healthy, yet other people have had almost identical experiences, and they are paralyzed from the waist down, they are unable to use their arm because of nerve damage, or... they're dead. Why am I still alive? Why am I here? Why me? And, please tell me, what is the point?

Is all that I've worked for for naught? Does it even matter? Is it that big of a deal if I live the rest of my life as I have lived the past 22? What difference will that make in the grand scheme of things?

When I hate myself, I don't want to sleep. I guess it's a way of punishing myself. I don't want to sleep tonight. I don't want to pull out my hope box. I just want to revel in the pain, to drive the sharp knife of loathing deep into my soul so that I can drown out the agony of disappointment. I want to cry until I bleed. I want to do something destructive with absolutely no (apparent) consequences.

It's times like this I'm glad I live in the country. If I lived in the city... you better believe I'd be out doing something right now, instead of sitting in my room, stewing in my juices. I suppose it would be better if I were to just sleep...

...but what's the point?

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