For the first time

Today I wondered what it would be like to commit suicide. (Before you freak I didn't actually think about doing it, just what it would be like.) I was crawling around on the floor of the shed trying to find a bottle cap my grandfather had dropped, and I reached behind the shelves and almost cut myself on a huge, jagged piece of glass that had fallen behind it. There was one small moment where I paused and realized how easy it would be. I had the perfect excuse - how was I supposed to know a massive piece of glass was back there? All I'd need to do is shove my hand back there and my wrist would be sliced open like soft butter with a steak knife. Obviously the shock would hold me immobile for a few minutes, and knowing me I'd probably be morbidly fascinated by the blood rushing out, but eventually there would be pain and I'd stagger back into the kitchen (no one would hear me if I just cried out) and everyone would freak out and knowing my family they'd probably try to drive to the the ER themselves after saran-wrapping my arm up. Maybe I'd make it, maybe I'd have waited too long, doesn't matter. Either I died and didn't have to deal with all this anymore, or I live and they remember that they could loose me at any moment, maybe from an asthma attack, maybe just from doing my grandfather a favor.

I didn't, obviously. I carefully picked up the glass and put it in the bin, finished my search, and went back inside to listen to the grown-ups talk about how mom can't do anything with her life because I'm too dependent on her. I'm not worried that I had these thoughts. What worries me is, hours later, wishing I hadn't thrown the glass away, just in case.