suicidal-thoughts

Babies are never suicidal. Hard lives, not hard boiled eggs do that.

To be mad is worse than not to be if this is what it is.

That the very delusion which drove me to a death-loving desperation should so suddenly vanish would seem to indicate that many a suicide might be averted if the person contemplating it could find the proper assistance when such a crisis impends.

When the heart accepts death first, words you can trust are feelings you can take.

Self-slaughter is an extravagant enactment of feeling sorry for oneself. Suicide is stingy act, because no matter how wretched our life may currently be, a person can always rise tomorrow and perform some small act of kindness for other people, care for a pet, or perform some other caring act that works towards preserving nature__ graciousness. To die of their own hand is to cheat other people and shortchange Mother Nature; it is taking without giving back in kind. What combats suicide is a sense of gratitude, a willingness to give to other people, and to cease living life as a taker. Without a profound appreciation for all that is living and devoid of a sincere willingness to contribute to the flourishing of all life forms, one can callously write off the value of their own life.

Suicide is not a choice, it is what is left when everything else fails.

I personally don't think about jumping because things can't possibly get worse... To the contrary, I contemplate it because I believe things probably will.

Conscience is worse than death, some people commit suicide to evade it.

The truth a fairly important thing to hold on to when you__e been pulled out of the sea after wanting to drown in it. I could__e let the sea take me. I could easily be dead now, which is funny when you think of it. When I say funny, what I actually mean is weird and kind of disturbing.When there__ the loud sound of a siren screaming in your head it doesn__ take too long before a feeling of not caring what happens washed over you and you become recklessly self- destructive. I used to be full of energy and happiness but I could barely remember those kinds of feelings. The cheerful, childish things I used to think had been replaced. A whole load of new realisations had begun to grow inside me like tangled weeds, and they were starting to kill me. That__ why I__ make the decision that involved heading ogg to the pier on my pike in the middle of the night and cycling off it.

Death is not the end! The exit for the world of mortals is the entrance to the world of immortals!

I steered by self as evenly as I could, and it was easier than I thought. My bike and I went shooting off the end, and together we well into the sea that__ cold and huge and doesn__ care whether living boys launch themselves into it or not.

What if I just want to die?""Then I will be sad and disappointed that you cheated yourself out of your chance at existence. Not all of us have that opportunity, you know, to choose life.

I used to think it utterly normal that I suffered from __uicidal ideation_ on an almost daily basis. In other words, for as long as I can remember, the thought of ending my life came to me frequently and obsessively.

You can think about killing yourself a thousand times a day and each time it gets just a little bit more real. But the day you wake up and know beyond the shadow of a doubt you are going to go through with it, that is both the worst and best day of your life. When you accept it you will find it amazing that everything you were thinking about suicide before was wrong. Suddenly you realize suicide is easy and desirable and that brings relief. No one wants to die. The act of dying is horrific but the reward is being dead and that sounds glorious to me.

Suicide. It's something I've been thinking about. Not too seriously, but I have been thinking about it._ That's the note. Word for word. And I know it's word for word because I wrote it dozens of times before delivering it. I'd write it, throw it away, write it, crumple it up, throw it away.But why was I writing it to begin with? I asked myself that question every time I printed the words onto a new sheet of paper. Why was I writing this note? It was a lie. I hadn't been thinking about it. Not really. Not in detail. The thought would come into my head and I'd push it away.But I pushed it away a lot.

I am sorry.I'm sorry that I feel as if you don't trust me enough to confide me. This is me being selfish even though this isn't about me, it's about you. I'm sorry that it makes me upset that in those times you thought about ending your life, I feel like I didn't cross your mind. I hate myself for thinking you didn't care enough to talk to me about those toxic thoughts that's trying to push you to end everything, because I know myself that's it is hard to share.I hate myself for thinking you didn't care enough to think about how horrible it is going to be for me once I learn what you've done.I'm sorry for feeling like this, it is selfish, I am selfish.I'm sorry for feeling like I'm not a good friend, I know that's now how you think, I'm sorry.I just love you and I'm hurt.

I have just now come from a party where I was its life and soul; witticisms streamed from my lips, everyone laughed and admired me, but I went away _ yes, the dash should be as long as the radius of the earth's orbit ___________ and wanted to shoot myself.

The whiskey was a good start. I got the idea from Dylan Thomas. He's this poet who drank twenty-one straight whiskeys at the White Horse Tavern in New York and then died on the spot from alcohol poisoning. I've always wanted to hear the bartender's side of the story. What was it like watching this guy drink himself out of here? How did it feel handing him number twenty-one and watching his face crumple up before the fall of the stool? And did he already have number twenty-two poured, waiting for this big fat tip, and then have to drink it himself after whoever came took the body away?