Suicide Is Not An Option Quotes

Eric called Al's suicide brave, and he was wrong. My mother's death was brave. I remember how calm she was, how determined. It isn't just brave that she died for me; it is brave that she did it without announcing it, without hesitation, and without appearing to consider another option.

When people are suicidal, their thinking is paralyzed, their options appear spare or nonexistent, their mood is despairing, and hopelessness permeates their entire mental domain. The future cannot be separated from the present, and the present is painful beyond solace. ‘This is my last experiment,’ wrote a young chemist in his suicide note. ‘If there is any eternal torment worse than mine I’ll have to be shown.

The difference between a non-suicide and an ex-suicide leaving the house for work, at eight o'clock on an ordinary morning: The non-suicide is a little traveling suck of care, sucking care with him from the past and being sucked toward care in the future. His breath is high in his chest. The ex-suicide opens his front door, sits down on the steps, and laughs. Since he has the option of being dead, he has nothing to lose by being alive. It is good to be alive. He goes to work because he doesn't have to.

If killing yourself is not an option anymore, you have to sink into the darkness instead, and make something out of it.

I often think of death. True. Suicide is a reasonable option. True. My sins are unpardonable. I stare at the question. My sins are unpardonable. I stare at the question. My sins are unpardonable. I leave it blank.

On bad days I talk to Death constantly, not about suicide because honestly that's not dramatic enough. Most of us love the stage and suicide is definitely your last performance and being addicted to the stage, suicide was never an option - plus people get to look you over and stare at your fatty bits and you can't cross your legs to give that flattering thigh angle and that's depressing. So we talk. She says things no one else seems to come up with, like let's have a hotdog and then it's like nothing's impossible. She told me once there is a part of her in everyone, though Neil believes I'm more Delirium than Tori, and Death taught me to accept that, you know, wear your butterflies with pride. And when I do accept that, I know Death is somewhere inside of me. She was the kind of girl all the girls wanted to be, I believe, because of her acceptance of "what is." She keeps reminding me there is change in the "what is" but change cannot be made till you accept the "what is.

Trust me no matter how horrible you feel or how bad things seem, there is always a way out. Suicide is never your only option.

You deserve more of their attention than their phone does. You deserve quality time, not just time. You deserve effort, not just routines. You deserve to be treated as if you are a priority, not the last thing on their checklist. You are special and you deserve to be the only option. If that is too much to ask, you are asking it from the wrong person. If begging ever becomes your last approach to receive those things which ought to be freely given, it’s safe to say, you are out of your dang mind. Begging to be loved is suicide. It’s like going sky diving from the Eiffel Tower naked of proper equipment, and expecting gravity to overturn the outcome.

Decision invariably involves renunciation: for every yes there must be a no, each decision eliminating or killing other options (the root of the word decide means “slay,” as in homicide or suicide).

In that six months, so much happened that death seemed, primarily, inconvenient. The trial period was extended. I seem to keep extending it. There are many things to do. There are books to write and naps to take. There are movies to see and scrambled eggs to eat. Life is essentially trivial. You either decide you will take the trite business of life and give yourself the option of doing something really cool, or you decide you will opt for the Grand Epic of eating disorders and dedicate your life to being seriously trivial.

Because if suicide was the only option, you could at least choose your weapon.

I still wasn't entirely convinced that if somebody suddenly gave me the power to snap my fingers and cease to exist, I wouldn't use it. I wasn't suicidal anymore. But once you go there, once your mind has seriously weighed it as a possibility, it never really goes away. It's always there - always an option.

I found posts about how to slit your wrists the "right way", so you will actually die, and that depressed me, because people actually post stuff like that, and even though I wanted to know the answer, so I could weigh my options, that info maybe shouldn't be on the internet... But really - why do some people post the correct ways to commit suicide on the internet? Do they want weird, sad people like me to go away permanently? Do they think it's a good idea for some people to off themselves? How can you tell when you are one of those people who should slash his wrists the right way with a razor blade? Is there an answer for that too? I Googled but nothing concrete came up. Just ways to complete the mission. Not justification.

COPE Create Options Pending Emergence

I hate myself. I hate myself so much that I can't look myself in the eye. I hate myself so much that suicide seems like a reasonable option.

Don’t kill yourself on the fence, Clara,” the woman urged her. “If you do that, you’ll never know what happened to you.” It has always been the most powerful of answers to give to the intending suicide. Kill yourself and you’ll never find out how the plot ends. Clara did not have any vivid interest in the plot. But somehow the answer was adequate. She turned around. When she got back to her barracks, she felt more troubled than when she’d set out to look for the fence. But her Cracow friend had—by her reply—somehow cut her off from suicide as an option.

We've got this idea that there are only two options in grief: you're either going to be stuck in your pain, doomed to spend the rest of your life rocking in a corner in your basement wearing sackcloth, or you're going to triumph over grief, be transformed, and come back even better than you were before. Just two options. On, off. Eternally broken or completely healed. It doesn't seem to matter that nothing else in life is like that. Somehow when it comes to grief, the entire breadth of human experience goes out the window.

When the door to suicide opens it becomes a viable option that you never considered before, but, once ajar, it initiates an invasion strategy. Day by day thoughts blacken under the occupation of the new inhabitant. It becomes an all-consuming addiction that makes its home in your head and heart and, before you know it, the whole neighbourhood is talking and thinking about suicide. Eventually, the mind is overwhelmed by the conspiracy of its own darkness and begins to wage war against the body. At this point, the body is powerless.

Eli: 'If a machine like that really existed, people would be willing to kill for it. Lots of people.' Nora: 'Yeah, and if hot vampires really existed, suicide would be a viable option for wrinkle prevention. Your point?

The second, “alternatives exclude,” is an important key to understanding why decision is difficult. Decision invariably involves renunciation: for every yes there must be a no, each decision eliminating or killing other options (the root of the word decide means “slay,” as in homicide or suicide).

The way I feel about suicide is, I like knowing it's there. I like having it as an option. Because if I'm going to kill myself, then nothing really matters, so I might as well stick around for one more day. Just to see what happens. Out of curiosity. If I'm going to die anyway, then nothing is of particular consequence, so why not see what happens next? That way all I have to do is live until tomorrow. I know I can always handle one more day.

For those that have recognized that suicide is a better option than a lifetime of sickness, disability, extreme poverty, and never ending treatments from an incompetent corporate controlled medical profession, you are to be congratulated on your good judgment.

How can it be that after all of this work, killing myself once again seems like the only option left?

He upended the conventional wisdom on altruism by introducing new elements to a clever lab experiment to make it look a bit more like the real world. If your only option in the lab is to give away some money, you probably will. But in the real world, that is rarely your only option. The final version of his experiment, with the envelope-stuffing, was perhaps most compelling. It suggests that when a person comes into some money honestly and believes that another person has done the same, she neither gives away what she earned nor takes what doesn’t belong to her.

The non-suicide is a little traveling suck of care, sucking care with him from the past and being sucked toward care in the future. His breath is high in his chest. The ex-suicide opens his front door, sits down on the steps, and laughs. Since he has the option of being dead, he has nothing to lose by being alive. It is good to be alive. He goes to work because he doesn't have to.

You deserve quality time, not just time. You deserve effort, not just routines. You deserve to be treated as if you are a priority, not the last thing on their checklist. You are special and you deserve to be the only option. If that is too much to ask, you are asking it from the wrong person. If begging ever becomes your last approach to receive those things which ought to be freely given, it’s safe to say, you are out of your dang mind. Begging to be loved is suicide. It’s like going sky diving from the Eiffel Tower naked of proper equipment, and expecting gravity to overturn the outcome.

Sometimes the rope seems the only option when at the bottom of the pit. Climb it to safety.

Life is full of options but you don't have an option for life

If he found himself penniless, suicide was always there as an option. Suicide... When his thoughts arrived at this point, he found himself overtaken by a kind of psychological malaise. No matter how you looked at it, he reflected, to kill yourself just because you've suffered some setback required too much effort. If you've finally managed to carve some time out for yourself and flop out, you're hardly in the mood to get up and fetch a cigarete that lies just beyond your reach. Sure, you're dying for a smoke, but it remains just outside your grasp. In fact, it requires a huge effort to heave yourself up and fetch that cigarette: just like when you're asked to push a car that has broken down. That, in a nutshell, is suicide.

He [Wallace] sent a quick note to his friend [Franzen] explaining his behavior. "the bold fact is that I'm a little afraid of you right now,"[...] "all I can tell you is that I may have been that [a worthy opponent] for you a couple/ three years ago, and maybe 16 months or tow or 5 or 10 years hence, but right now I am a pathetic and very confused man, a failed writer at 28, who is so jealous, so sickly searing envious of you and Vollmann and Mark Leyner and even David Fuckward Leavitt and any young man who is right now producing pages with which he can live and even approving them off some base-clause of conviction about the entrprise's meaning and end that I consider suicide a reasonable- if not at this point a desirable- option with respect to the whole wretched problem.

On the surface, I was bullied for being effeminate, articulate, overweight, well-read, interested in recreations and matters non-traditional for black boys or even black people--essentially for being myself. To be hounded for merely existing in one's own skin is not unique to blacks, but at least during Jim Crow we could turn to one another. In modern-day terrorism, we turn on one another, with limited options for sanctuary.

The story is told of Socrates walking through the market in Athens, with its groaning abundance of options, and saying to himself, "Who would have thought that there could be so many things that I can do without?"4

Knowing that he didn't have to keep going was a solace to him, somehow; it reminded him that he had options, it reminded him that even though his subconscious wouldn't obey his conscious, it didn't mean he wasn't still in control.

Suicide is a realistic option, I hear myself saying a minute later. Some people take comfort in the realization that they have control over the way their life ends. What they dread most of all is the implementation. The way in which. A train is so violent. Cutting your wrists in the bathtub is so bloody. Hanging is painful—it takes a long time before death comes. Sleeping pills may be vomited up. But there are substances that bring about a painless, easy death.

This time it was his mother who spoke up. Wendy Torrance, who had smoked right to the bitter end. Because if suicide was the only option, you could at least choose your weapon. Is this how it ends, Danny? Is this what it was all for?

There are questions about my spiritual health – mildly spiritual; any suicidal thoughts – never; my sexual life – occasional wet dream. Belief in God? I wish they had an option saying ‘I wish’. I tick the square that says ‘firm believer’.

I couldn't motivate myself. I was subject to occasional depression, relatively mild, certainly not suicidal, and not long episodes so much as passing moments like this, when meaning and purpose and all prospect of pleasure drained away and left me briefly catatonic. For minutes on end I couldn't remember what kept me going. As I stared at the litter of cups and pot and jug in front of me, I thought it was unlikely I would ever get out of my wretched little flat. The two boxes I called rooms, the stained ceilings walls and floors would contain me to the end. There was a lot like me in the neighbourhood, but thirty or forty years older. I had seen them in Simon's shop, reaching for the quality journals from the top shelf. I noted the men especially and their shabby clothes. They had swept past some crucial junction in their lives many years back - a poor career choice, a bad marriage, the unwritten book, the illness that never went away. Now there options were closed, they managed to keep themselves going with some shred of intellectual longing or curiosity. But their boat was sunk.

I enjoy running people over in a chariot as much as the next deity, but I did not like the idea of being the guy run over. As the dragons barrelled towards us, Meg stood her ground, which was either admirable or suicidal. I tried to decide whether to cower behind her or leap out of the way - both options less admirable but also less suicidal -when the choice became irrelevant. Piper threw her dagger, impaling the left dragon's eye. Left Dragon shrieked in pain, pushed against Right Dragon, and sent the chariot veering off course. Medea barrelled past us, just out of reach of Meg's swords, and disappeared into the darkness while screaming insults at her pets in ancient Colchian - a language no longer spoken, but which featured twenty-seven different words for kill and not a single way to say Apollo rocks. I hate the Colchians.

In a world of terrorists, terrorist states and weapons of mass destruction, the option of preemption is especially necessary. In the bipolar world of the Cold War, with a stable non-suicidal adversary, deterrence could work. Deterrence does not work against people who ache for heaven. It does not work against undeterrables. And it does not work against undetectables: non-suicidal enemy regimes that might attack through clandestine means—a suitcase nuke or anonymously delivered anthrax. Against both undeterrables and undetectables, preemption is the only possible strategy.

I don’t need to write. Madness or suicide are other options, though not nearly as compelling. But I want to create; I hope to create worlds in my own image, admittedly a self-centered plan. I want others to understand me better, pay more attention to me, like or love me for who I am. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe I should simply learn to say, “Let’s have lunch.

Suicide has become fashionable nowadays. A Low EQ generation. Never think about anyone else and choose the easiest option for ending life. Don’t have the guts to face a situation like a true man. For God’s sake, life is not a video game where you get numerous chances. You have only one chance to live. Learn to value your life. Don’t throw it away like an idiot.

Men's rights activists tend to make a series of valid observations from which they proceed to a single, 180-degree-wrong conclusion. They are correct to point out that, worldwide, suicide is the most common form of death for men under fifty. It's also true that men are more likely than women to have serious problems with alcohol, that men die younger, that the prison population is 95 per cent male and that the lack of support for our returning frontline soldiers is a national disgrace. So far, so regrettably true. They are incorrect, however, to lay any of this at the door of 'feminism', a term which they use almost interchangeably with 'women'. [...] No, sir. No, lads. No, Daddy. That won't help us and it won't help anyone else. Men in trouble are often in trouble precisely because they are trying to Get a Grip and Act Like a Man. We are at risk of suicide because the alternative is to ask for help, something we have been repeatedly told is unmanly. We are in prison because the traditional breadwinning expectation of manhood can't be met, or the pressure to conform is too great, or the option of violence has been frowned upon but implicitly sanctioned since we were children. [...] We die younger than women because, for one thing, we don't go to the doctor. We don't take ourselves too seriously. We don't want to be thought self-indulgent. The mark of a real man is being able to tolerate a chest infection for three months before laying off the smokes or asking for medicine.

Sure, I’ve contemplated suicide. But mostly in the way everyone has. What it would take. If I could follow through. In the wake of Jenny’s death, I’d toed that ledge, but ever since the Eatons took me in, it was never an option. I know how it feels to lose someone you love, and I couldn’t do that to these people who’ve become my family. I’ll suffer before ever making them do the same.

Decisions are difficult for many reasons, some reaching down into the very socket of being. John Gardner, in his novel Grendel, tells of a wise man who sums up his meditation on life’s mysteries in two simple but terrible postulates: “Things fade: alternatives exclude.” Of the first postulate, death, I have already spoken. The second, “alternatives exclude,” is an important key to understanding why decision is difficult. Decision invariably involves renunciation: for every yes there must be a no, each decision eliminating or killing other options (the root of the word decide means “slay,” as in homicide or suicide). Thus, Thelma clung to the infinitesimal chance that she might once again revive her relationship with her lover, renunciation of that possibility signifying diminishment and death.

That fall it was the most talked about book in America, because the pundits could not fathom why a book giving guidance on suicide could be in such huge demand. What, they asked, had happened to America?   The simple answer was perhaps contained in my response on ABC-TV’s Nightline program when Barbara Walters asked me: 'Why is it a best-seller, Mr. Humphry?' My reply was: 'Because everybody dies, and nearly every person wonders, however privately, what form that death will take. They’re looking to Final Exit for options.

Maybe if you’d been able to restrain yourselves from endlessly screaming about the unique evil of white people, I wouldn’t have started to look into exactly who was doing most of the screaming. Since you apparently can’t help yourself from continually profiling me, don’t cry foul when I start profiling you. And I don’t think it qualifies as imagining there are Jews in your sandwich when anywhere from half to three-quarters of the hoagie you’re feeding me is stuffed with kosher meat. Palefaced XY-chromosome devils have been persistently framed in popular discourse as eternal oppressors and congenital spewers of venom, bile, and hatred. But despite everything the media has been peddling for generations, it appears that this oft-maligned demographic suffers from a fatal flaw, one that runs contrary to the stereotype—they’re way too nice. They’re not homicidally intolerant so much as they’re suicidally tolerant. And unless their antagonists—whether they’re self-loathing crackers such as Michael Moore or anyone else in the increasingly hostile and jeering Rainbow Coalition—learn to cool it with the screaming, it appears that the only option is to start screaming back. Otherwise it seems evident that the tireless bashers of everything white and male don’t view white males as a powerful oppressor so much as an easy target.

I realise now that the pain Kevin felt - that night, and for nearly eighteen months beforehand, since his suicide attempt - was no less real, no less urgent, than a heart attach, a stroke, a seizure. Than the sensation of running too hard or running too fast, keeling over, grasping for air. Wishing for something to fill your lungs - to rush in and then revive you - except nothing ever does, and maybe nothing ever can. It is unpleasant, of course, to sympathise with suicide. It is unpleasant to believe in a reality in which death is the only option. And it is problematic, certainly, to compare suicide to running, to cardiac arrest, to terminal cancer. But this is precisely the problem: There is no fair parallel that can be drawn between those who felt the dark pull of suicide and those who never have.

Looking beneath the history of one’s country is like learning that alcoholism or depression runs in one’s family or that suicide has occurred more often than might be usual or, with the advances in medical genetics, discovering that one has inherited the markers of a BRCA mutation for breast cancer. You don’t ball up in a corner with guilt or shame at these discoveries. You don’t, if you are wise, forbid any mention of them. In fact, you do the opposite. You educate yourself. You talk to people who have been through it and to specialists who have researched it. You learn the consequences and obstacles, the options and treatment. You may pray over it and meditate over it. Then you take precautions to protect yourself and succeeding generations and work to ensure that these things, whatever they are, don’t happen again.

When we go to the doctor, he or she will not begin to treat us without taking our history—and not just our history but that of our parents and grandparents before us. The doctor will not see us until we have filled out many pages on a clipboard that is handed to us upon arrival. The doctor will not hazard a diagnosis until he or she knows the history going back generations. As we fill out the pages of our medical past and our current complaints, what our bodies have been exposed to and what they have survived, it does us no good to pretend that certain ailments have not beset us, to deny the full truths of what brought us to this moment. Few problems have ever been solved by ignoring them. Looking beneath the history of one’s country is like learning that alcoholism or depression runs in one’s family or that suicide has occurred more often than might be usual or, with the advances in medical genetics, discovering that one has inherited the markers of a BRCA mutation for breast cancer. You don’t ball up in a corner with guilt or shame at these discoveries. You don’t, if you are wise, forbid any mention of them. In fact, you do the opposite. You educate yourself. You talk to people who have been through it and to specialists who have researched it. You learn the consequences and obstacles, the options and treatment. You may pray over it and meditate over it. Then you take precautions to protect yourself and succeeding generations and work to ensure that these things, whatever they are, don’t happen again.

I’m a writer. I have to believe in the power of love. Suicide isn’t an option.’ ‘Not for you.’ ‘And not for you. If you’re thinking about it, you can also put some thought into the fact that you don’t have the right to take your own life. Nobody does.’ ‘Why not?’ Rannveig like the runway asked, her eyes wide, innocent of the cruel, broken question she’d just asked. ‘Think of it this way, Rannveig, does a deranged person have the right to kill a stranger?’ ‘No.’ ‘No. And when suicide is in your head, you’re the deranged person, and you’re also the stranger, in danger of the harm you might do to yourself. No matter how bad things get, you don’t have the right to kill the stranger that you might become, for a while, in your own life. The rest of your life would tell you, at that point, it’s not an option.

I wanted to kill myself. I would have done it, too, if I had owned a gun. I was considering the gruesome alternatives — pills, slitting my wrists with a razor blade, jumping off a bridge — when another student called to ask me a detailed question on relativity. There was no way, after fifteen minutes of thinking about Mr. Einstein, that suicide was still a viable option. Divorce, certainly. Celibacy, highly likely. But death was out of the question. I could never have prematurely terminated my love affair with physics.

In 1982, when Arafat and his Fatah fighters were besieged in Beirut, on the brink of being pushed out of Lebanon by the Israelis, Gaddafi sent him an open telegram suggesting his best option was to kill himself. “Your suicide will immortalize the cause of Palestine for future generations,” he said. “There is a decision which, if taken by you, no one can prevent. It is the decision to die. Let this be.” Arafat is reported to have replied that if Gaddafi would like to join him, he might consider it.

As historian Arnold Toynbee (1889–1975) noted, civilizations rarely die simply from external assault; they are first hollowed out by internal moral decline. “Civilizations,” Toynbee wrote, “die from suicide, not by murder.”1 They are weakened from the inside out, like an old tree rotted to the core and knocked

I'm not going to lie: there are no good options here.

Suicide Is Not An Option, It's A Decision You Make From Curiosity To See How Another Side Looks Like

Most Of Us Are Living For Nothing, But Just Some Of Us Are Dying For Something

And There She Goes, Down The Road, With The cut-open throat

Suicide was once the first option that came to mind, But then I reminded myself I'm tougher than the situation.

De-cide. Homo-cide. Sui-cide. Patri-cide. The root word decidere means “to cut off.” All decisions cut us off, separate us from nearly infinite options as we select just one single path. And every decision we make earns us the favor of some and the disfavor of others.

Most people believe suicide is impulsive, a rash decision made in a moment of deep despair. For some, it is. But what Hazel is doing is not impulsive in the least. After carefully considering her options, she has decided this is the course she most wants to take. The idea is not abstract, rash, or irrational. The opposite. It is well thought out and contemplated from every angle. Not seeing a path forward, she is choosing instead to end the journey, either because she’s decided the pain is too much or because she is searching for peace. For Chloe, it was both. With

Evil is only an option for the powerful and a suicide attempt for the powerless. That's why it's often a misconception to describe a powerless person as a good person.

His humbled mind drew a blank. & was graced with a revelation. A timid smile dimpled the ear canal, as though god's little finger had suddenly loosened an obtuse bit of wax: Suicide needed to be made accessible to all of suffering humanity. Not only to doctors & dealers.

Suicide is not an option.

Many people are so miserable that they do not want to enter the future at all. Their whole future projected life is worthless to them. In technical terms, their utility over all future time intervals, appropriately discounted, is less than zero. Also, their current utility (present circumstance) is zero or negative (otherwise they'd stick around a bit longer to pick up extra utility). • Suicide is one option for such people. But there are two other options, according to Becker & Posner (terminology is mine): • Take what you have and "bet" it on a chance at something that would make life worth living. If it fails, you can always kill yourself. (Gamble) • Since there is an element of uncertainty to the future, take what you have and use it to make the present livable so you can postpone suicide. Something to make life worth living might be just around the corner. If not, you can always kill yourself. (Palliate & Wait)

When her body dries up it will all be over. What will I do then? she wonders. Then she remembers that suicide is always an option, and the thought provides sudden relief.

Placing and implementing black magic is a suicide that results in hell.” --- The black magic that evil-minded people of all religions practice for their ugly and inhuman motives. The modern world ignores that and does not even believe in it. However, it exists, and it works sufficiently. For many years, I edited and published these stories as an assistant editor for an evening newspaper, and as a believer, I believe that. It’s important to note that it doesn’t have any impact on everyone; otherwise, every human would be under attack from it. No one can explain or define black magic or similar practices. Today’s scientists are not capable of recognizing, diagnosing, or even denying such a phenomenon; therefore, options are open for black magic to proceed with its practices without any obstacles. By searching online websites and YouTube, one can uncover the many victims of the evil practices of evil-minded individuals in different societies. Evil power, black magic, and magic do exist and are also effective. Evil power causes physical damage and appears as diseases and psychological issues since no one can realize, trace, or prove that horror practice; it is the secret and privilege of evil-minded people that the law fails to catch and punish them for such crimes. I briefly exemplify two events, one of which was very authentic, and I suffered from it, and another of which also happened to someone who also became a victim. The first time when I arrived in the Netherlands, I assumed I was in the most secure area; however, within a year, I faced an incident that was a tradition in my family, including the involvement of my brothers and my compatriots who lived in the Netherlands. The most suspected were the evil-minded people of the Ahmadiyya movement from Surinam and possibly my ex-wife and a Pakistani couple. I had seen the evidence of the black magic that my family took upon me, but I could not trace the reality of other suspected ones that ruined my career, future, health, and even life. The second person, a Pakistani who lived in Germany for several years as an active member of the Ahmadiyya Movement, told me his story briefly during a trip to London, attending a literary gathering. Besides receiving a gold medal for his poetry work, he also worked for the Ahmadiyya TV channel. However, when he became a real Muslim, Ahmadiyya warriors turned against him. They practiced the devil’s work to punish him when they couldn’t force him back into their false group. The symptoms of magic became apparent to me after he mentioned that since I had them on my body as well. Such a possibility and chance exist that can be created by using drugs and chemicals to defeat their opponents; it needs a comprehensive investigation to save humanity. Multiple other stories reveal that the Ahmadiyya Movement may use black magic to achieve its goals. From my observation, they were involved in eliminating Muslim imams and scholars, which caused the failure of that new religion and the appearance of a false prophet claiming to be Jesus. I have been a victim of these types of practices. Their activities revolve around social media and similar websites. In Pakistan, they are deceiving the uninformed by pretending to be genuine Muslims, just like they do in Europe and other parts of the world. I tried to contact the Dutch authorities about the incident that occurred to me in 1980, but they ignored my request for cooperation; however, I still hope and look forward to any miracle that someone from somewhere gives me the courage to verify all this I want.

if sentient life recognised the futility of its existence, if it recognised that it had been born on the line and was eternally bonded to the perverted servitude of another who does not—and will never—hold council to discuss emancipation, then it is inevitable that birth rates among all self-aware creatures would plummet as reproduction itself would be viewed as an unconscionable and outrageous act of unforgivable selfishness. Being freely acting, morally autonomous, and presented with an insufferable reality, complex conscious life would find no option but to rebel, and to rebel completely by deploying the only weapon it had against the architect of its unforgiving world: a massive denial of service; self-administered, intentional extinction. Revolutionary suicide.

If you block the person on whatsapp, facebook. who Caring you a lot and do -did -done everythink for you. Please suicide.......... Its better option for you. you never know what you done.

suicide is not an option. 

So if you feel like me... Like the end is night... Take heed. I know it seems like nobody cares. That the world longs to sweep you away. I know the sun no longer warms your skin. The food you eat no longer nourishes. I know you're always the last in line. I know this hate you feel, the frustration that never dies. I know it well. And I know it seems there's but one option left to you. But you're wrong. You are so much more important than you think. You are more resilient than you could possibly imagine. You will be cherished. Believe me. The people that care are out there somewhere. We can be saved, all of us. You can be the catalyst. And remember - even it it feels like no one else can, or ever could... I love you. I always will. Please. Don't kill yourself.

Alan Turing was another cryptanalyst who did not live long enough to receive any public recognition. Instead of being acclaimed a hero, he was persecuted for his homosexuality. In 1952, while reporting a burglary to the police, he naively revealed that he was having a homosexual relationship. The police felt they had no option but to arrest and charge him with “Gross Indecency contrary to Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885.” The newspapers reported the subsequent trial and conviction, and Turing was publicly humiliated. Turing’s secret had been exposed, and his sexuality was now public knowledge. The British Government withdrew his security clearance. He was forbidden to work on research projects relating to the development of the computer. He was forced to consult a psychiatrist and had to undergo hormone treatment, which made him impotent and obese. Over the next two years he became severely depressed, and on June 7, 1954, he went to his bedroom, carrying with him a jar of cyanide solution and an apple. Twenty years earlier he had chanted the rhyme of the Wicked Witch: “Dip the apple in the brew, Let the sleeping death seep through.” Now he was ready to obey her incantation. He dipped the apple in the cyanide and took several bites. At the age of just forty-two, one of the true geniuses of cryptanalysis committed suicide.

Yes, you are still grieving for the fact that Olly is not loving you as you love him. But death is no solution. Certainly not this horrible, messy death. Could you at least not consider possible option that is not leaving you looking diabolical at funeral?" Oh, for the love of God.

There was no greater form of social suicide than anything hinting at homosexuality, which was probably why it took me so long to figure out what I was. Anything besides straight was never an option, and we lived in regimented heterosexualism. It was as compulsory as high school.

My dedication is for all those who are living with depression. For all those who are thinking or have thought that suicide might be the best option. I am proof that there is a life to be lived after depression and a life to be lived with depression – though it might not always feel like it. Don’t give up. Talk it through, write it down, run, dance, read, paint, sleep, play sport, do yoga, sit in a chair, walk in a park! Do whatever you need to and wait it out until the demon is off your back and the darkness passes. Take a breath. Take a moment. As I say in the book, things can and often do get better. Don’t delete yourself.

Imposing trade, economic, or other kinds of sanctions on an intransigent or authoritarian regime, whose head lives in an ivory tower, is not desirable as an effective weapon, because sanctions directly hit the common people, pushing more of them to the edge. Dear leaders, we must stop warmongering and give peace plenty of chances. Killing fellow humans is disgusting. Reach out to your so-called enemies and engage them in discourses to foster reconciliation. The world counts on your statesmanship. It is a well-established fact that a single leader can change the mood the world over. Leaders can make a mess, create, and fuel tension, or bring peace and order. The world does not need aggressive, combative leaders; it is starving for skilled diplomats and peacemakers.” Excerpts from Chapter 10, “War: A Senseless Option Versus Sensible Alternatives” of AWAY FROM THE MADDING WORLD: A Thoughtful Analysis of the Causes of Human Woes, and Remedial Suggestions If our political leaders had offered Vladimir Putin some concessions, instead of provoking, humiliating, and infuriating him, the current brutal Ukraine war could have been averted. End this conflict thru compromises. Everyone is suffering – physically, emotionally, or economically. Let us not forget several of the players in this suicidal game are nuclear powers, and Putin’s nuclear threats must be taken seriously. I’m afraid another Hitler is in the making!

We treat suicidal people like criminals. Voicing misogynistic or racist thoughts is less dangerous than voicing suicidal thoughts. People can be hospitalized against their will for wanting to die. No suicide prevention is willing to actually talk to suicidal people, to deal with the arguments behind why suicide is a valid option. At least when people argue against misogyny, they got science and philosophy behind them. When people talk about suicide, they write people off as ‘irrational’. There are a lot of ways to look at this tricky subject. Suicide is a private action that causes great distress to the environment. Perry doesn’t delve enough into why suicide should be protected. The main arguments suicide are the value of life and the harm it causes to others. The harm it causes to others is especially important, since ethics often blur when freedom, pleasure and pain mix.

My parents did their best to feed their children’s bodies, minds, and hearts, every day, whether they felt like it or not. Now that I have had children, I am in awe of how consistently they did this at such a young age, without complaint. They made a commitment to each other and to my brother and myself, and they kept it. I do not know what this cost them. I may never know. But having had children of my own, I know how hard it is some days to do what has to be done. Many of my parents’ generation were raised with a belief that was both curse and blessing: commitments were to be fulfilled, duties carried out. There was no choice. When we are convinced there is no choice, we waste less energy on wondering what to do and railing against that which needs to be done. This is the blessing we have when the rules are clear, the duties delineated. But there is another side to the ease we feel when our duty is laid out for us. If the strict parameters of what is expected do not fit us, we must shape ourselves to meet them, regardless of the costs. My mother, if she did not by nature fit the role of full-time homemaker, successfully managed the Herculean task of bending to meet it, without losing her enthusiasm for life, her ability to experience joy. Other women and their children were not so fortunate. Behind closed doors, within spotless rooms, many of my friends mothers drowned the pain of not living who they were with alcohol and prescription drugs, and they sometimes descended into illness and suicide. Many of the women of my generation are torn apart daily by the choices available to us, choices I am nevertheless grateful to have. When I went to work, I felt worried and guilty about leaving my children at daycare. When I stayed home I thought I would go out of my mind with the mental boredom, the struggle to live without enough money, and the worry that I would never be able to go back into the workplace and make a living. I had inherited my parents’ values in a world with so many more choices and demands, plus my own expectations that I could, and should, develop my own interests and talents. So, I tried to do it all - to keep a house and care for my children according to the standards required of a full-time homemaker, to attend classes to develop my skills, and to work to provide money and financial security. And I got sick – very, very sick. One of the gifts of lying on the floor too ill to get up with two young children to look after is the ease and clarity with which you know what really does have to be done. No, when I work with men and women who are worn out with too much work and worry, you tell me all the things they have to do, I tell them, “You know, very little actually has to be done.” I found out when I was ill that cookies do not have to be baked, floors do not have to be spotless, PTA meetings do not have to be attended, the dish drainer does not have to be emptied, meals do not have to be exotic and innovative. Too ill to do anything that did not have to be done, I did the impossible: I lowered my standards.

My guys, my people, we wake up every morning and we go to bed every night facing an existential threat. It’s the story of David and Goliath. It doesn’t matter whether the threat is invincible. We are all going to die anyway. What is important is how you face your death. You have just two options. Do you go down fighting, or do you commit suicide?” She paused, watching Sue’s face. “Some might say the choice is irrelevant if you’re going to die anyway. But you know what makes that choice important?” Sue stared at her but didn’t answer. Gallin said, “Your soul. Your soul makes it important.” She grinned. “Come with me if you want to live.

Prehistoric humans were too busy clawing their way to survival to consider suicide any sort of necessary option. Perhaps in a situation of imminent death there might be a decision to end one’s own life one’s own way instead of, say, by being ripped limb from limb by a surly gorilla. But apart from that, no, suicide was not a feature of the prehistoric human’s repertoire. In fact, I would further assert that suicide can only be a facet of modern society that expects happiness. And on that and many other bases, I suggest that happiness is a modern invention.

Handguns are the suicide method of choice in the US... Handguns are uniquely deadly. Handguns are America's town gas. What would happen if the US did with the British did and somehow eradicated its leading cause of suicide? It's not hard to imagine. It would uncouple the suicidal from their chosen method and those few who were determined to try again would be forced to choose from far less deadly options such as overdosing on pills which is 55 times less likely to result in death than using a gun. A very conservative estimate is that banning handguns would save 10,000 lives a year just from thwarted suicides. That's a lot of people.

Evil is only an option for the powerful people and most likely a suicide attempt for the powerless people. That's why it's often a misconception to describe a powerless person as a good person.

Depression is a mental health disorder that affects millions of people worldwide. It is a serious condition that can lead to a range of negative consequences, including social isolation, physical health problems, and even suicide. Understanding the causes, symptoms, and treatment options for depression is essential for better mental health and well-being.

Every suicide is a collective social failure. The social support system seems weak, which could not give a sense of security and hope to the person, whose life becomes so unbearable that he thinks death to be a better option than to continue living.

Life continued after my phone call with Paul, as life always does. It’s funny. Life has moments where you should have the choice to continue carrying on with all of life’s silliness or just be done. I’m not necessarily talking about suicide, but more of a waving of the white flag. You should be able to say, “Okay life. I’ve given it my best. This isn’t working out so well, and I’m tired. Can I just be done now?” It’s a perfectly sound and compassionate option. Shouldn’t a person be able to plead mercy? Shouldn’t emotional injury be enough to eradicate you the same way physical injury can? It seems almost cruel that the system is not set up this way. Instead, we survive emotional death, and are forced to continue trudging through the remaining hollowed-out and painfully cavernous life day after goddamn day. A life that incessantly echoes at us of what should have been. It’s erroneous, it’s unfair, and it pissed me off. The body should be allowed to just shut down. I truly do not understand how it continues to work.

In Jukai you will always find, A reason for someone who said goodbye, Jukai, the sea of trees, Jukai, brings you to your knees, Upon high, under Fuji’s stare, They lay, all their troubles bared, The sky as blue as blood they shared, Jukai, the sea of trees, The sea of trees is where they go, Full of fear of the life they know, Jukai, a resting place, Jukai, you can’t escape, Can’t escape the sea of trees, And what you choose is not your savior, Jukai, not responsible for your behaviour, Jukai, like you will never die, Jukai, the sea of trees, Take your life, but take the blame, You’re not alone when you choose to lay, The ones you leave behind, Are still reaping the pain, Jukai, the sea of trees, CHORUS In Jukai you will always find, A reason for someone who said goodbye, Jukai, the sea of trees, Jukai, brings you to your knees, Jukai, under Fuji’s watch, Can’t hide and cannot stop, Jukai, the sea of trees, Jukai, don’t hold responsibility, Jukai, the sea of trees, A song about a forest in Japan where people go to commit suicide

The second component is accountability. Because the Bible instructs us to “confess your trespasses to one another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed,” we must be willing to confront or be confronted by one another when we exhibit unhealthy patterns. Furthermore, we must be inclined to submit ourselves to the authority of not just our leaders but our peers. You see, our community’s prayer life is directly connected to our shared life. We can only pray for and bear together the burdens we know about. Independence isn’t the path to freedom but to captivity. Autonomy isn’t the way to painlessness but to quiet suffering. If you don’t have accountability, you don’t have community. How many divorces would have been prevented if people were in true community? How many suicides would have been stopped? How many cries for help would have been heard? How many bankruptcies would have been avoided? How many affairs would have been evaded? How many needs would have been met? Now, there’s nothing more stressful than trying to solve a problem that has no solution. So where do you go from here? How can you find biblical community? How can you begin pursuing a life of real Christian relationships? You have two options: you either plant it or find it. You either seek God’s navigation for your life and ask Him to reveal the remnants of counter-cultural, biblical communities that are scattered across the world, or you create it. Now as many of you know, it’s just about impossible to create something you’ve never experienced. That’s why Veronica and I have chosen to devote the rest of our lives to helping people find this. If you’re interested in learning more, consider our nonprofit program at UnlearnChurch.org.

Cyanide pills had been distributed among the SS officers, giving them the option of suicide, rather than a trial, if they were captured. The idea of suicide terrified Manfred. He cringed when he thought of death, and what judgment might await him if there by some chance was a God. Although he tried to put the fear of his demise out of his mind, it continually haunted him.

It’s all good, even the bad stuff. It’s all blood, flowing through the heart, and wonderful minutes, of wonderful things. I’m a writer. I have to believe in the power of love. Suicide isn’t an option.’ ‘Not for you.’ ‘And not for you. If you’re thinking about it, you can also put some thought into the fact that you don’t have the right to take your own life. Nobody does.’ ‘Why not?’ Rannveig like the runway asked, her eyes wide, innocent of the cruel, broken question she’d just asked.

T he silence in the room is unnerving. There’s no mistaking it, all the teachers in this room are in trouble. We are as helpless passengers on a cruise ship whose captain is the principal, and he alone is navigating this treacherous sea and taking us to the island of judgement. Our options are limited - we can either stay for the ride or jump ship but judging from the earlier exchange between Adeshina and ‘Captain’ principal, such a move would be suicidal.

Suicide wasn't an option for me anymore, I found. Not like good old adolescent angst. I'm no longer of the secret opinion that death will somehow overlook me if I don't do something about it.

Decisions are difficult for many reasons, some reaching down into the very socket of being. John Gardner, in his novel Grendel, tells of a wise man who sums up his meditation on life’s mysteries in two simple but terrible postulates: “Things fade: alternatives exclude.” Of the first postulate, death, I have already spoken. The second, “alternatives exclude,” is an important key to understanding why decision is difficult. Decision invariably involves renunciation: for every yes there must be a no, each decision eliminating or killing other options (the root of the word decide means “slay,” as in homicide or suicide).

Enter, therefore, a new and ingenious variant of Ultimatum, this one called Dictator. Once again, a small pool of money is divided between two people. But in this case, only one person gets to make a decision. (Thus the name: the “dictator” is the only player who matters.) The original Dictator experiment went like this. Annika was given $20 and told she could split the money with some anonymous Zelda in one of two ways: (1) right down the middle, with each person getting $10; or (2) with Annika keeping $18 and giving Zelda just $2. Dictator was brilliant in its simplicity. As a one-shot game between two anonymous parties, it seemed to strip out all the complicating factors of real-world altruism. Generosity could not be rewarded, nor could selfishness be punished, because the second player (the one who wasn’t the dictator) had no recourse to punish the dictator if the dictator acted selfishly. The anonymity, meanwhile, eliminated whatever personal feeling the donor might have for the recipient. The typical American, for instance, is bound to feel different toward the victims of Hurricane Katrina than the victims of a Chinese earthquake or an African drought. She is also likely to feel different about a hurricane victim and an AIDS victim. So the Dictator game seemed to go straight to the core of our altruistic impulse. How would you play it? Imagine that you’re the dictator, faced with the choice of giving away half of your $20 or giving just $2. The odds are you would . . . divide the money evenly. That’s what three of every four participants did in the first Dictator experiments. Amazing! Dictator and Ultimatum yielded such compelling results that the games soon caught fire in the academic community. They were conducted hundreds of times in myriad versions and settings, by economists as well as psychologists, sociologists, and anthropologists. In a landmark study published in book form as Foundations of Human Sociality, a group of preeminent scholars traveled the world to test altruism in fifteen small-scale societies, including Tanzanian hunter-gatherers, the Ache Indians of Paraguay, and Mongols and Kazakhs in western Mongolia. As it turns out, it didn’t matter if the experiment was run in western Mongolia or the South Side of Chicago: people gave. By now the game was usually configured so that the dictator could give any amount (from $0 to $20), rather than being limited to the original two options ($2 or $10). Under this construct, people gave on average about $4, or 20 percent of their money. The message couldn’t have been much clearer: human beings indeed seemed to be hardwired for altruism. Not only was this conclusion uplifting—at the very least, it seemed to indicate that Kitty Genovese’s neighbors were nothing but a nasty anomaly—but it rocked the very foundation of traditional economics. “Over the past decade,” Foundations of Human Sociality claimed, “research in experimental economics has emphatically falsified the textbook representation of Homo economicus.

Suicide had never been an option; you took your own life, you couldn’t get into the Fade

He didn’t tell them how Britain’s national suicide rate dropped by a third when coal gas was phased out, because once people no longer had the option to impulsively stick their head in the oven, there was time for their dark and dreadful impulses to pass.

If you ever want to see His (God's) face, Suicide should never ever be an option

I will not think about suicide. No matter how much you tempt me, Satan, that is not an option. God is my strength and my shield. Jesus is my Lord and my protector. The Bible says to resist the devil and he will flee. So get out of here!