A box of broken things

I'm done with this day, this week, this month and this year.
I am riddled with depression and anxiety from all angles and I am just fucking done with it.
I never get time alone, ever. I'm always at the mercy of some other human. I feel chained by choice and am, not surprisingly, sad about it.
All of the death and the loss it has caused topped off with false accusations and the decision to walk away from my team. I may as well have been crumbled up like paper and tossed aside. A missed jump shot in some random strangers office waste basketball ball game.
There is a subtle, ever present, panic just inside my ribs, right beside that spot that no matter how hard I try, doesn't warm. Always discomfort. Always alert. Sometimes furious but generally helpless and desperate. No one will give me answers. No one understands. No one cares. All the news is old, why read it again, right? I'm an archive of bitter, confused, hurt.