Calling for Help

The worst part of being this version of me for the last nine months, is the utter silence, the cold barren chill of complete isolation.
It is my kryptonite.
It's my worst nightmare to have no consistent discourse.
See that without it, I am but a lost and drifting soul.
I have no anchor point.
I am lost.
And it feels alone.
Probably more so than it is. I know through education and logic that it is only my depleted dopamine levels that send me to the ground in tears, when a death metal song's lyrics mention "no one gets left behind". I have been left behind.  I am so far back from the pack now. I'm sure they count me as one of the dead. Rather than search for me, they fancy the illusion that I am too far gone to find and bother with. Maybe I am not as valuable to their survival as I once was. That only arises other predicaments entirely.   So what, i got some wires crossed, i medicate and adjust myself to enable comfort and functionality. I have broken old coping skills that to others it may appear as though I in the midst of a conscious suicide effort. I am not. I am trying to live. You see none of my problems or maladaptive behaviors stop me from having deeply emotional experiences. Which I think is why "normal" people or non addicts choose distance as a cure for a friend's or family members addiction. But we are all lost buoys. Bouncing around in the waves of this chaos of heartbreak and disappointment . Where is all the compassion? Where is the comradery? The conversations? The ones that tell us of who we are. All I get is the robot cashier yelling at me to put the item in the bag. Over and over again. Threatening me with calling for help. Why the fuck does the robot have someone to call? When I don't. I am lost and drifting. The robot stays plugged in. And will never value its connectivity as I would and do.