I don’t know what it feels like to not have death as an option. Even when I’m considered stable, like snow, I still think of it often. I haven’t burned myself in so long, my scars have fasted, an yet, I still think of suicide as a “get out of shitty life “free card. I stare at the gian 150 count bottle of pills and wonder if I’d make it through 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 such an obsession for me? Once it was there, in my brain, it’s like it planter it’s see to stay. I keep hacking away at the soil but to no avail. Will I always struggle with suicidality? What an exhausting existence.