It's not actively suicidal. That's the completely wrong thing to call it. It's more, "If I got hit by a car in the morning, I wouldn't much object." It's a bone-deep apathy, weariness in the face of the world and its futility. Whatever she does, it can never be enough to make a change, never be enough to matter no matter how much she longs to.
The uncertainty is tinged with fear, a rolling wave which crashes into her and threatens to bear her away. If she could will it all to stop she would, even if it meant ceasing to exist. It sounds almost pleasant, this lack of existence. Decidedly peaceful. No worry, no fear, no crippling sense of failure and inadequacy. Simply nothing, forever and ever. It doesn't seem that different from how she feels right now.
Her fingers tremble, twitching on the coverlet. Thank God she has no blade nearby. The jasmine was supposed to help, supposed to ease the knot deep inside which threatens to suffocate her. Five years. Ten years. Fifteen. What does it matter? Any of it? In all likelihood she'll still be lying here, still inadequate, still not-actively suicidal. That's if she hasn't starved.
This is temporary. This is nothing. She has to tell herself, and if she repeats it enough, maybe she'll believe.