I think the worst dark moment I've experienced so far is that I am not loved by anyone nor do I have anyone to love. Most of my immediate family has died. The last family member I had a good connection with died last year. My old friends I had to distance myself from because they were stoners and I've been clean from weed for three years now, so I couldn't hang around them any more. The remaining friend I had moved away last year to another country and we have lost contact.
I get this a lot, the combination of ASD, ADHD, and alexithymia can really intensify those feelings that no one cares.
Personally, I have very little contact with my family. My mother and I speak occasionally, but it's inconsistent and strained. Most of the time, when we do meet, it ends in a big argument. As for friends and acquaintances, they rarely last. Like you mentioned, some were drinkers or generally negative influences, people you eventually need to distance yourself from.
Having ASD and ADHD often means you've spent years masking, trying to appear “normal” in a society that’s predominantly neurotypical, one where being different often feels like being put on display at a zoo.
Friends come and go for everyone, but for neurodivergent individuals, it's even harder to maintain connections. One contributing factor is something we struggle with called "object permanence" if we don’t see it, we tend to feel like it no longer exists. That includes relationships, which only adds to the emotional weight we already carry.
Making and maintaining friendships is generally more difficult for neurodivergent people. High levels of anxiety, stress, and a lifetime of ridicule, suppression, and masking don’t make it any easier.
My boss might be bummed that he has to hire someone else, but if I had to take myself out tomorrow no-one else would really care.
And that's what scares me, I don't even have to worry about "loved ones" because I don't have them, so why do I continue alone?
I really hear you. When you're in that kind of headspace, I was there last week, it can make everything feel heavier and harder. In a world moving at breakneck speed, where everything is about instant gratification and performance, it's easy to feel like you're just… lost. Like you’re not contributing, not connected, not even sure why you’re still pushing forward. And yeah, when that spirals, it’s hard not to ask: why even bother?
As for “loved ones”, I get it. That word can feel meaningless when you don’t have anyone close, or when you constantly feel like no one really cares. That emptiness, that silence, it eats at you. You're not alone in that feeling, even if it feels like you are.
Maybe just some hope that things could be better, that I still have time to try to course-correct and build a another life for myself, but at my age and financial situation it just seems unsurmountable. I see a Clinical Psychologist twice a month and while it helps having someone to talk to I get the feeling that they really are out of their depth.
How can you live being alone and without love.
I've tried to change course, many times. And it usually starts well. But then the winds pick up, the sea swells, and the hurricane approaches. You do your best: steer carefully, bring down the sails, try to move from its path, do whatever you can to stay afloat. But some of the cannon hatches are still open, water seeps in.
Then comes the unavoidable that reef in the dark, the one you've hit before, the one you've tried so hard to avoid. You've taken drastic steps, learned new routes, even rebuilt the ship... but somehow, you're stranded again.
As for living alone and without love, I still don't know how. I keep searching for answers. But most days, all I see are jagged rocks.
I don’t have neat answers wrapped all in a pretty bow, and maybe that’s okay. What you’ve written, echoes with parts of me I rarely say out loud. We’re out here, some of us just clinging to driftwood, some still trying to rebuild ships that keep breaking. Some days there’s no land in sight, just jagged rocks, open sea, and exhaustion.
But somehow, even in all this, we’re still here, you and I, so are those here. Not thriving, maybe not even really living the way we wish, but still here. Still speaking. Still trying.
Maybe that’s not hope in the bright, shiny sense. Maybe it’s something smaller. Something like breath in the wreckage. A tiny, stubborn heartbeat that says: Not gone yet.
And if nothing else, let that be a tether. You're not the only one out in this storm.