In the back of my mind, somewhere to the left of where the little dark one hides, is the firefighter of last resort. She’s got a full bottle of pills hiding in her sock drawer, a package of razor blades in the bathroom, and a suicide plan up her sleeve, like a secret agent carrying a cyanide capsule in case the enemy captures her. I’ve still been holding on to killing myself as a legitimate option. And while it’s unthinkable that I would pour a bottle of pills down someone else’s throat or slice another person’s flesh with a razor blade, the relationship I have with myself allows this option
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