At 27, I’ve settled into a comfortable coexistence with my suicidality. We’ve made peace, or at least a temporary accord negotiated by therapy and medication. It’s still hard sometimes, but not as hard as you might think. What makes it harder is being unable to talk about it freely: the weightiness of the confession, the impossibility of explaining that it both is and isn’t as serious as it sounds. I don’t always want to be alive. Yes, I mean it. No, you shouldn’t be afraid for me. No, I’m not in danger of killing myself right now. Yes, I really mean it.
How do you explain that?
I’ve explained it like the episode of Family Guy where they have a reality show made about them and Stewie says “it’s not so much that I want to kill Lois, it’s that I would very much like for Lois not to be alive anymore.” I don’t want to kill myself, I just don’t want to be alive.