That's a joke, of course.
I'm not going to kill myself. And neither is my kid, but she's gotten into a pattern of throwing that phrase out a good two dozen times a day and it makes me bonkers.
Anna isn't normally a drama queen, but in this, I have to say she goes too far.
"Aaaaugh! I'm gonna kill myself!" she shouts, when she's pouring a drink and it overflows. "Ugh! I'm gonna commit [suicide]! Seriously!" comes when Netflix is taking too long to buffer. Eyebrow pencil nearly out? Kill myself. We're having tacos for dinner? Kill me now. Kill me, kill me, kill me.
And to her brother? "OhmyGodstopthat! Kill yourself!" (That one always get a very stinging rebuke from me).
She knows how very, very much it bothers me - and that's probably why she keeps doing it, to be honest. She's fifteen. 'Nuff said.
To her, this is just a phrase, to be thrown around. Just an exclamation. To me - it's both alarming and irritating. Telling me you're "ready to commit" may just be a throwaway moment of exasperation, but I can't take that chance. Anytime the word suicide is used or hinted at, I will pay attention. And I will call it out and want to discuss it. Every. Single. Time.
Beyond that. . .
This is her one, beautiful life. And it is beautiful, because she has a beautiful mind and a healthy body and she inhabits that life with such gusto. Begging the heavens to end it for you because you got a mark on your white Converse is a bit extreme and a whole lot ridiculous.
Perspective is everything, and at fifteen, it's in short supply. Sooner or later, she'll realize that I'm not going to let that phrase slide because it's my job to make sure she wrings every moment out of that life of hers.
This is non-negotiable, and my most sacred task as her mother.