I've been circling the drain for a long time now and received news yesterday that my last gambit at holding on, waiting for better, striving for hope has failed. There's a project I need to complete to meet my responsibilities to a friend, but right now I'm trying to set things up, make those end of life plans to make things easier for those I'll leave behind. I think I would have liked to have told people in my own time and in my own way. I reached out to my dad's therapist to ask her to leave appointments available to him after I'm gone and of course as a mental health professional she deemed I was in crisis and called my father who is bitter and angry and "feels abandonned." I really wish that could have been put off. This isn't about hurting him, it's about ending my long struggle with pain and confusion and despair and self-loathing. I've tried to explain that this is the best decision for someone who is draining him financially and emotionally. To ease the burden I represent in his life. I wish he would accept that. Instead I'll be plastering on "happy face" for the next while until it's time, but his distress is deeply upsetting me when really all I wanted was to make arrangements to be sure as few people are inconvienenced as possible and achieve some measure of peace. I've accepted my choice; it's not easy. But it is time. What I don't want is to spend this time being tormented by other people's anger, grief, hurt, what-have-you.

I don't need futile interventions. I need acceptance and to be able to say goodbye without being overwhelmed by other people's desires. This isn't crisis. This is acceptance and resignation. I have been struggling for so long and I'm just so tired. I hurt all the time. I'm sad and anxious all the time. The incidence of panic attacks has increased to the point where I feel I'm going to die horribly of a heart attack several times a day. That's not living.

When I was first diagnosed, a friend at the time dismissed my depressive cycles noting that she knew a man who lived with his bipolar and was a distinguished professor. She implied it was all very manageable and to get over myself. I have thought about that conversation many times over the years as I push myself to maintain some sort of stability. But I am so tired of fighting my mind. So tired of feeling overwhelmed. So very tired of seeing my efforts fail and plans come to naught. I am tired of being a burden on my family and the cause of my father's tears and my mother's scorn.

I have no answers, no solutions. I have no prospects and no purpose. I have tried. And, as with so many other things, I have failed. In some ways having decided on an end point is reassuring. And I hope to mitigate some damage before it's over. Death doesn't happen to the dying. It happens to the survivors. I think end-stage planning is kinder than presenting those survivors with a sudden shock and devestation. I just wish there could be greater acceptance of what I need to do. It's not easy saying goodbye. It's not easy letting go of those slight gimmers of hope - the wish that I could be better, that things could get better if I keep trying. At some point, I think you have to admit that you may have won some battles but you're fighting a losing war.

I have my own grieving to do - regret for missed opportunities and failed potential. It's part of the acceptance procress and is tiring in and of itself. I don't know, maybe I'm looking for some small measure of comfort and seeking peace in these last days. I'm trying to compartmentalise - address the practicalities as needed but also embrace my own sadness at what is my ultimate failure. I'd like to leave without being overwhelmed by hurt and guilt. I'd like to have a bit of assurance that it's okay.