Acrophobia

As more and more aspects of my life spiral out of control, and more and more people I care about decide they don't want me in their lives, I don't know what to do.
I don't understand why this is happening.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, the drugs seem to be working, and I am not falling into depression. I'm sleeping, and functioning, but it seems to be worse than the depression. At least that dulled all my feelings, so I didn't end up feeling quite so awful about things I couldn't control. I was so focused on my own pain and my internal issues that I didn't even notice when others had problems with me. And now that I do, I don't know how to cope with it, or what to do to fix anything.
I've screwed things up with Danielle, and Friedman, and Elias, and Jason, and I've massively neglected pretty much everyone else. And I'm just left with fear. If I do nothing, it'll just keep getting worse, but I don't know what to do to fix anything, and I don't even have anyone left to ask, so I am just waiting, hoping for a thought that will tell me how to proceed so I don't make things worse.
Halfway up a sheer cliff, I looked down. And I saw how far the ground was, how cold and hard and unforgiving it will be when I plummet. Suddenly, every muscle is frozen, and tired, and threatening to cramp. My calves are burning, as are my icy fingers, and my feet are twitching. My mind shrieks for me to keep climbing. But there are no more hand holds I can see, and the ones I cling to are crumbling. I press my face to the rock and try to remember how to breathe through the feeling that the bottom has dropped out of my stomach, my feet, my life. And above me I hear calls of encouragement, tinted with impatience. And I know that if they all reached the top successfully, there must be grooves for my fingers, jutting pieces of rock that will support my toes, but I still don't see them. I breathe and wish for solid ground, or at least a belay line. I am not meant to climb cliffs. And I am equally sure that if I remain paralyzed here, my body will fail me and I will fall, and that if I try to climb, I will miss my grip and fall. So falling seems to be the only option. I press closer to the rocks and pray to a deity I didn't believe in at the base of the cliff.
I can't help but wonder, as the wind tugs my fingers and buffets hair into my eyes, if there is a third option. The toe holds I climbed up from have vanished also, so I cannot go down, and try to get around. If my life were a novel, I could just push off from the cliff and soar, and the wind would support me. But even if I could, those at the top wouldn't accept it. And I don't think it's an option. I'd have to do it fully, completely trusting that I'd miss the ground, but I don't have that kind of faith. I'm much too aware of how far the ground is, and of my own frailty. If the cliff is some sort of metaphor for recovery, shouldn't it get easier as I get higher? It doesn't. I cling to the sheer wall, wondering how many of them actually climbed the cliff unaided, and wait as the blood drains from icy fingers clenched into sharp stone, wait for the inevitable fall.