Passive suicidal ideation.

That’s what it’s called. The happy moment interrupted suddenly by the painful thought, “God, I’m so stupid, I wish I could die.” It’s so silly, I can’t cross a bridge anymore, or stand near a high window, without it creeping up on me. “One jump, two seconds, splat! It’s all over.” You think that you’re happy, but all of a sudden the sanctuary of your mind is no longer safe. You have to tiptoe around your own thoughts, control the urges, try your damndest to keep it just that. Passive. Because if you take that leap, if you make that plan, if you reach for that knife, then suddenly the scary thing becomes more than the shadows in the corner of your mind. The monster becomes real. I’m too old to be afraid of monsters, I’m too young to die, I’m to happy to be depressed, I’m too scared to be myself. So I have to keep it like this. Passive. Passive.