When I am in the deepest throes of my hopelessness, helplessness and purposeless - aka the three musketeers of my mental illness - I take comfort that my friend, "The Grim Reaper," never takes a vacation.
Lest you think I am referring to suicide, although it crosses my mind fleetingly, I am really just referring to death. Death in all its myriad forms: accidental, deliberate, painful, prolonged, quick or quiet. The eternal sleep. The complete peace. The space beyond the breath.
If my friend, "The Grim Reaper," chooses to visit, whether invited or not, I have no fear. I have done enough. Though there could always have been more to do. Those things can be just as well left to those who remain behind.
Yes, there would be those whom I would miss and who would miss me. But we would all go on. Well...I wouldn't...but that's another story for another day.
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