1940 in Virginia Woolf's life

I'm now nearing the end of Virginia Woolf's diary. I'm now in 1940, she talks about the war, about the fear and the attempt to carry on with everyday life. So strange. So strange to read about the apple blossoms in the garden while they talk about air raids and fear of bombing. Stranger still. The book has only a few more pages to the end. yet, there is no sense to that. That is the strangest and the most disturbing feel. Perhaps, it is a reflection of life--we take it one day at a time never knowing it will end, never thinking, brooding over it. It is strange, because Virginia Woolf chose to take her own life, yet that element of choice, one feels about suicide is absolutely absent in these last few entries and its been bugging me, eating at me. I haven't gotten to the end, but there is no trace of her discussion of death or even terror. She talks about her life, her work with bravery, determination. Is it a front? Are we such unaware creatures--that we will not know the day, the hour we decide to take our own life if we do? This changes my view on suicide completely. I'm beginning to think it is a deep subconscious desire, but it is mostly founded on a whim.