I've been thinking so long know about death, dying, taking my own life and wondering quite often why I shouldn't. First, I feel strongly about autonomy and one's right to choose the time and place of one's death. I do not consider it a sin or a cop out or even a betrayal to the handful of folks with whom I'm connected. I've been isolating quite a bit and self-medicating somewhat even though I have a perfectly capable MD drug dealer who makes sure I'm properly medicated for bipolar. But in spite of years and years of therapy, mood stabilizers, group counseling sessions, and a couple of hospitalizations about a decade ago, I am somewhat incompetent at intimate relationships; oftentimes angry or completely passive, and, I can't seem to cure my addiction to being alone. It feels very much like an addiction; I have a run of two days when I'm out of the house doing things, bug immediately afterwards, I need another five or six days at home, the only place I feel some level of un-self-consciousness. (Excuse the poor grammar). I do, though, get anxious and depressed during these times. I have no spouse or children to worry about; no one, really to worry about. I make myself somewhat useful writing part-time to pay the bills. There isn't much I get excited about these days, and even a plan for a night out with friends causes me so much anticipatory anxiety. But I am present and somewhat engaged when I keep those plans. But really, I feel done. I've had successes, a few good lovers, a country and urban living experience. I've played Beethoven symphonies as a violinist and listened to the greatest orchestras of the world play them better . I've eaten at fine restaurants, had poignant discussions about all sorts of topics with people far more sophisticated and intellectual than myself. But now, and for some time now, I've been dead inside. So when I say I want to kill myself, I'm saying that I'm done. I'm sad and lonely and really do feel done, and this is nobody's fault. I'm just done. Is that so terrible? As it is, my life revolves around intermittent therapy sessions where I can speak these thoughts to a paid-for friend so as not to freak out the few free ones I have. But even with shrinks, I self censor to make sure nobody's cover-your-ass instincts kick into high gear and I find myself in a locked ward. Thankfully, there is one therapist I trust to not go into that mode, so I'm lucky I can speak to her occasionally and let these thoughts out. I just feel done. I am done.