I don’t know what it feels like to not have death as an option. Even when I’m considered stable, like I am now, I still think of it often. I haven’t burned myself in so long, my scars have faded and yet, I still think of suicide as a “get out of shitty life” free card. I stare at the giant 15o count bottle of pills and wonder if I’d make it though without throwing up first or passing out. Of course I’d have to eat all of my Vyvanse and Klonopin too. Lamictal won’t cut the mustard. Why is this still an obsession for me? Once it was there, in my brain, it’s like it planted it’s seed to stay. I keep hacking away at the soil around it but, nothing. Will I always struggle with suicidality? What an exhausting existence.