I find myself thinking more and more about death and less and less about life.

In a logical mind, those two are intertwined. You can't have one without the other. Yet, I feel I am pushing those envelopes again, seeing how far I can go with my own body before it finally gives. It's passive aggressive suicide. It will always be deemed "an accident", because it was never my intention to die. It was only me, rolling the dice and seeing what pops up. Playing Russian roulette with myself. Click. No bullet. Dodged. Live to see another day.

Live to play another game.

I already have my death planned. At least, the aftermath of it. I know I will die by my own hand in a violent manner someday. I know this to be so because I dream of it. Not nightmares, but dreams. I can see myself testing how far I can push myself. I will cause my own demise someday and people will say "we never saw that coming!! She loved life."

And I do. I love life. I just don't love MY life.

I have run dry. I have nothing else to give. I don't want to die, it's not high on my things to do list. But, I am not afraid of it like most people are. The only part of death I fear is what impact it will have on those who love me. Death by ones own hand is a very selfish manuever. It some macabre way, it is also the bravest thing a person can do. I find myself caught between owing my life to those who will survive me...or, releasing myself from the burden that is me. Because I love my husband and my children so much...I could never kill myself. At least, not outwardly. Instead, I will do it passive aggressively with too much alcohol, drugs, or allowing my mania to make decisions for me that the depressed or logical me would never want.

There are too many facets of my illness to keep track of. I watch criminal profiling shows all the time. Court TV. Forensic Files. North Mission Road. Masterminds. And of course, the most amazing show of all...Dexter.

I want to be able to kill people like that. Creatively with my own specific MO. I want to be the perfect serial killer and sometimes, I feel I can be. When I feel that way, it is just another argument for me to err on the side of caution and make me go away before anyone else. No idle threat. I don't do threats. I commit to my mistakes and make them with great freedom and pride.

But, oh so selfish the mother that could take her own life...and in doing so, ending the life of her children as they know it.

Do I dare assume their life would be better without me in it? God no. I am the driving force in their life. They adore me as I do them. They accept that I am damaged goods and live for the moments when Mommy can stay awake and be funny and outgoing. They love my mania, they detest my depression. What kind of mother would I be if I left them alone in the world? So, despite not wanting to be here, I am needed and even wanted. I would destroy so many people if I allowed myself to be free of myself. My parents would never recover. My children would be devastated and never recover. My husband would be inconsolable and would live his life mourning me...and nothing more.

I have every reason in the world to stay alive. Yet, I don't know who I am doing it for. I am pretty certain that I am not living for myself. I would love to swallow a handful of pills and make it all go away. Then, I could simply fall asleep. I would look peaceful and content...the way I can't in my real life. That is the way I would be remembered. Peaceful and content.

And gone. Very, very gone.

I simply must accept the fact that I am not that brave, not now. Maybe in the future when I really reach the end of my rope and can no longer hang on. But for now, I will remind myself that while I cannot stand to be me...there are others who are dependent on that fact and that I will always be there for them.

It's selfish and selfless all at the same time and just another confusing aspect for a woman who is here...and wishes to be gone.