I have often indulged in a bit of suicidal thinking if things in my life go sour. I think of it constantly during the day – and I never really thought it to be odd until my Therapist specifically made a point of asking me if “I thought of it everyday.”
In my  most painful moments, my mind staggers towards a bloody, morbid mess of images, as if to soothe me. They are unusually sharp and vivid, unlike when I am not experiencing emotional pain.  And pain – it seems that I have almost come to depend upon it to tell me what’s real. I  keep telling myself, “if it’s painful, it must be real.” Maybe that is true, maybe it isn’t. Maybe that doesn’t matter because in my experience it has proven to be true. A part of me intrinsically distrusts “Happiness” now.
I haven’t yet “done” it. I mean, I once tried to overdose, but since I told my parents what I did a few minutes later, I cannot categorize it as an attempt.
But I do keep thinking about it. And it gives me relief and a peace of mind. Maybe it’s unhealthy, maybe it isn’t – but we all die someday. And I want to die young. But before, I have to do something of value. I am not sure what it is, but that is one of my main purposes before I leave forever.