Your mother was famous for threatening to kill herself. This happened at least weekly while you were a little girl growing up.
You’re setting the table, but you drop the pitcher, and it breaks.
“God dammit, I should kill myself! This family doesn’t care about me.”
You burn the steaks while grilling them.
“Nobody cares about me! I should die!”
You refuse to be confirmed as a Catholic because you’ve discovered you don’t believe in Catholicism.
“You’re going to hell! I should just die! Just Die!”
The trouble was that you found yourself wishing that she would go away in whatever form, as it was a personal hell listening to all the threats, so much so that you felt responsible for all of it.
When you hear that a friend is struggling with suicidal ideation you just want to run, flee. The whole concept gives you the willies, and you feel hypocritical for that because you also struggle with the very same thing. You want to be there for them, but it’s not possible, and it’s heart breaking.
You love seeing and hearing happy children out in the world. You study their faces intently for any clues, and you detect that their parents don’t threaten to kill themselves.
You hope you never speak to your mother again as long as you live. You’ve nothing constructive to say to her.