Why?

Why?  Why do we want weapons and a chance to live?  Sometimes I just want to be armed when they try to snuff or hurt me as early as possible, preferably when I can't tell anyone how much I want to live because I don't have a voice yet.  I couldn't trust you to give a damn when they were hurting me, even when I told you directly what was happening; why should I trust you to protect me now or ever?  Self-reliance, right?  Grow up, right?  Get over it, right?  This world is cruel and heartless, and it's your world, not mine.  Even now, you want me to shut up and get in line to be hurt by doctors too busy to see me, police just doing their jobs, preachers who can't be expected to represent God, or even best, slaughtered in the womb so I'm not a financial or emotional inconvenience to the rest of society.  That's why.  And it's not some nebulous "them" or "they" who are responsible, because it's you, directly you because we are all responsible for each other, right?  It's the system, right?  Guess what? It's your system.  So now I get so sign a deal with an orange devil, and he is a devil, for a measure of self-determination, or wait around for the grand party of empathy to care.  Schizophrenics don't have a flag or a month or a year or five hundred years or a hashtag or even anyone to listen for five minutes.  I'm not holding my breath for you, because I'll die first, and that's what you want.  Tell me I'm wrong.