I can honestly say that I've struggled with suicide my whole life. I am 50 years old and still have the same thoughts I did at 14. I have the scars to prove it. Much to my shame. Life has improved. I am loved. I am still empty. I am not sure there is an answer. Why do I feel this way. Why do I long for the past, even though the past was shit. Why am I not happy? What the fuck do I want? Death seems like the only way our or this monotonous life.