A not-so-short vent.

I've been with depression since I was 17, even though it feels just as if ages have passed since, or maybe I was born with it. My life has been marked by a seemingly unending train of solitude. Lost friends gradually as they have grown up and found better, less mentally ill people to hang out / date with. I can't relate to my age's peers in most aspects. I don't have bustling social lives, exciting memories, whether indoors or outdoors, and I've never had any partner or just anyone interested to strike a conversation up out of their own will.  
I've tried my very best to be sociable in college, but instead, despite my efforts, I just wasted three years of my life trying to no avail. As the saying goes, "you are the person they chat with out of boredom until their true friends come by."  
Was it me? Did I ever do something wrong? No friends that I can call friends. No partner with whom I can spend time with and laugh. Hell, even stargaze or talk about "how was your day?". Everyone is a grown up, and they have other, less mundane things to do. Yet I still feel like an adolescent nobody. Never grew up, 'cause I never had the chance to do so in the first place, and as such, I'm stuck in that perpetual place of wanting to do things not meant for people my age.

No friendship that I've made in real life, or online, has lasted. And, if every interaction you do inevitably and invariably falls short and ceases to be, then you have to wonder if you must be the problem.

Outcasted, rejected. Tried but failed.

Now, I've been going to therapy with a college appointed psychologist, and though he's a good person, all I hear is to endure the pain while trying different strategies that do not distance me from a hypothetical utopic future. But in honesty, because I did not have the courage to tell him then, I don't believe it; he's acknowledged that my mind has a confirmation bias, and so do I, but how could I not if everything that has happened in my life goes the same way, over and over again?  
Even now I know, in retrospective, that I had trouble making friends. I still do, and most probably, I will keep having trouble making friends. It won't get better, so I spare myself the gentle platitudes. Gotta get real, don't we all?

That is the sad thing about it. The endless, soul-crushing, repetitive routine of having to keep trying, because what else is there to do? How long have I thought of ending it all, and how strong is my wish to enact such judgement, yet still fail to find the straw to break my proverbial back... or neck.  
How long do I have to keep trying to get the same results? To the internet-ridden definition of insanity?  
Books no longer give me excitement, videogames no longer give me the sense of novelty, music no longer soothes me, languages no longer give me the sense of curiosity, life no longer has any meaning beyond its trivial, inconsequential ought-to-be: to exist just for the sake of existing.

Indeed, two phrases have dwelt my mind overlong: "Every man dies. Not every man really lives," and "When the pain of living exceeds the fear of dying is when people make the decision." Tiresome is the life of the aimless, filled with solitude for he sails alone, and the only light therewith leads to his breakage.

&amp;#x200B;

Fml.