You aren't leaving without me

I was dying again yesterday. I'm only today recouperating from the twisted mix of West Nile and SARS that pulled me to the edge. I teetered towards black and I knew it.

Some of us watch our deaths progress, some prefer it's suspense. I can't stand the thought of battling some obscure cancer my entire life only to forget to look both ways at a crosswalk and get run over by a bio-diesel public transit bus. I can't spend my entire life running from a death that isn't mine.

It's part of the beauty of dying, not knowing how we'll go. I don't need to contribute to cosmic irony, if there is such a thing, with my death. I can handle not knowing. My demise may be a ton of metal and glass parked at a Tim Horton's in Toronto or some fleshy heart flap gradually rotting away, being eaten by myself.

If, when we die, it is the end then we'll never know our deaths. That's the attraction of suicide. It's knowing, planning, and carrying out your own passing, taking back that control. I always planned on some grand fall if I killed myself. The idea of falling in a way no one else could appeals to me. An experience only had if it ends in death.

Hanging myself alone in a room seems sad, and boring. Shooting my head off is way too messy. I've never been a fan of my own blood so the idea of spilling it everywhere feels out of character. Freezing, or burning to death, is too drawn out and unnecessarily painful.

What's the point of this thought again? Oh right, I'm rotting inside, dying a slow and sometimes painful death that I'm choosing to ignore. Even that I'm obviously doing a poor job of by rambling on about it here.