Expecting me to be happy is like expecting a paraplegic to walk

I'm in my late 30s, and my life is over before it could begin. Been dealing with depression and BPD since I was 16. Things took a bad turn early in 2024. I got rejected for the first well-paying dignified job I ever thought I'd have (long story, but a reference bad-mouthed me out of spite). From that point on, I became angrier, less ambitious, and more cynical. I socialized less, consultations with my therapist became infrequent, and I generally self-sabotaged with work and relationships. My parents have money, but I became severely anxious about spending on nice things. I'd have unhealthy outbursts based on paranoia and repressed anger. It wasn't pretty.

But that's not the worst of it. Last year, my good friend became my favourite person in BPD parlance. I needed her attention and approval like an addiction. My FP was also autistic, and built a career with reptiles and other animals. She was my first and only autistic friend. She was productive, resilient, creative, and vivacious. But I was blind to her emotional limits. In the midst of pointless job hunting, I grew bitter. I started shunning good friends for no reason. A lifetime of repressing my anger or disapproval took its toll. Eventually, my FP couldn't handle it anymore, and decided to cut me off. I made a huge fucking mistake and now she utterly hates me.

For 10 months now, I've tried reaching out to my friends. I reunited with two other friends, even spoke (however briefly) to my estranged biological father. I've had a boatload of therapy, stopped drinking, and tried to rekindle my interests. None of it worked. Worse still, anytime I think about what I used to like, it feels like a blowtorch inside my head.

People have told me that this FP was just a blip in my life, that the fun, kind, quirky person is still there. But in my heart, I can't feel it. I've tried. I'm totally anhedonic. I am starting to accept that I cannot ever be happy again.