Ultimately, I’m (representative I as an example, as well as me personally) the only person who has to live in my body and in my head all the time. Nobody else, however close, has the right to tell me how I should or do experience that. I’m the only person, essentially, who ges to call whether the life I experience on a daily basis is worth living or not.
there is no state, suicidal or otherwise, in which I would want anyone else to be taking ultimate responsibility for my decisions or desires. Well, and thinking about myself suicidal, I am always, always glad there was the choice. I didn’t – and, evidently, don’t – take it. But I need it to be there, and to be *my* choice, and for the people that love me to understand and accept that fundamental to the person they love is the fervent desire not to be alive – and, perversely, the courage to face life every day even though it’s intolerable.
Death is permanent, but it’s also inevitable. It’s the one element of life that doesn’t frighten me. I remember when I woke up in hospital after one of my heart attacks, the nurse admonished me I’d almost died, and I said ‘but it’s living that’s the hard part.’ And i stand by that to this day. Any man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind; but my own would be a blessed relief.
Doesn’t mean I’ll do it, tho. But that’s because I’m bloody-minded, and take no prisoners.