Making an attempt really is not worth it.

[miningforhope416]

I read this article here on this site, the one about a painless way to die. And one thing that stood out to me when I read that is that 97% of suicide attempts fail. The odds are against you. When you only have a 3%chance of succeeding, that alone should tell you that attempting to kill yourself is not even worth the time. You should also consider that depending on the method (I can’t be specific about that), you could end up permanently disabled or in a world of pain. If your life is bad enough as it is to the point where you literally want to end your entire life just to escape, you really don’t need to make your situation worse.

So what am I saying here?

Find a coping strategy that won’t make your life worse. And I don’t mean self-harm, or drugs/alcohol and whatnot, they’re called negative coping mechanisms for a reason. They’ll just make your life even worse than it already is and cause you to consider making an attempt even more seriously. Find a positive one that will actually improve your situation, or at least not make shit worse.

 

[Anchorite]

Thank you for the positive reinforcement of placing hope in finding a reason to live.
Would you consider being too lazy to end your life as a positive thing?

 

[LumberJack]

I’m not too lazy; I’m afraid of the commitment. I’m pretty sure that the chances of fatality are not evenly distributed among methods, meaning some methods are probably making up more than their share of failed attempts.

I really don’t understand the insistence on painless methods. To me I’d be fine with pain if it was quick. Because staying alive is also quite painful. What keeps me around is that I don’t think that my nihilism is true. I don’t know how, but I have faith that I can rectify this view.

 

[Anchorite]

Yes, I feel that fear of commitment in me too. As I reflect upon the laziness to get the deed done, it's more so the voices in my head that taunt me with the accusation of laziness, rather than me actually not doing it because of laziness. It's the spontaneity of the potential act that does frighten me, as ideation for me creeps up gradually and I think it is probably part of my 'fed up reaction' against the laziness of inertia that gets me to the point where I feel more ready to attempt again.
I've felt that 'conflict' with an desireable meaning/author behind it all, when I've been pleading for some kind of intervention to make the pain go away and either just let me die, or let me live, in peace. But my own nihilism smacks me round the face again and I wake up more intrigued by the inner workings of my body which has caused my tear ducts to secrete that salty substance that rolls down my cheeks in alternate heaving fits of rage and resignation. And then I realise that I'm just a defective 'human' again, unfulfilled, deprogrammed and just not working right.

 

[LumberJack]

I've felt that 'conflict' with an desireable meaning/author behind it all, when I've been pleading for some kind of intervention to make the pain go away and either just let me die, or let me live, in peace. But my own nihilism smacks me round the face again and I wake up more intrigued by the inner workings of my body which has caused my tear ducts to secrete that salty substance that rolls down my cheeks in alternate heaving fits of rage and resignation. And then I realise that I'm just a defective 'human' again, unfulfilled, deprogrammed and just not working right.

Okay sorry this is so long. I have bolded the main points

For me it started with learning about biology, specifically, the human nervous and circulatory systems. Later I learned about how many improbable events had to happen in order for life to even exist and exhibit the vast diversity that exists now.

So this human body that we have is the most complicated exhibit of evolution that we know of, and it can contemplate itself, along with reaching for the cosmic mysteries that really we have no more chance of comprehending than a snail has a chance of learning calculus.

The nihilism part is that, in my heart of hearts, I think the afterlife is identical to the before-life. Not “nothing” as in still extant but no perception, but nothing as in no observer to experience anything or nothing. I have been under general anesthesia before and it what I imagine death to be.

So what difference does it make if I die by my own hand? I won’t be that being because I don’t have my current brain and the rest. That said if I did complete a suicide, then it would hurt many other people. Since my ethics are grounded in utilitarianism, meaning that, although my life is more painful than joyful, my suicide would relieve my pain but at the expense of everyone I am closest with, effectively multiplying the total amount of suffering.

The faith bit is that I have learned much from practicing Buddhism and contemplating Tibetan teachings on impermanence and death, along with non-self, in short, even the me that I perceive is ultimately nonexistent. So if I can be miserable without existing, then now the stakes are higher. I still don’t behave as this were true, or else I would be focused more on discovering the harmony with reality that we are all born with. The problem is we get educated out of it and even though I feel it’s there I would rather enjoy my sense experiences than develop my consciousness.

 

[Windhover]

If, after the body dies, there was some kind of awareness of a self we'd already know about it. There isn't. We are in the one chance we're given to experience whatever comes our way &/or we create.

Besides this one, there aren't any other 'nows.'

 

[Anchorite]

My head hurts from the throbbing illusion of a wiring system that cannot comprehend truth from the pursuit of truth. And it spills out into the rest of my body. The empty spaces that my body doesn't fill, the eternal replications of sentience that tortures me as I descent into metaphor and logic dissipates. So I'm left with the contemplation of what it means to be a soul without being conscious of being one. That my being is my essence and the 'invisible part of me' (perhaps as direct a description of 'soul' as I can currently muster) remains detached from the nuts and bolts of my existence, which took some tangible form over 40 years ago. But it's not who I am. Either the 'meat suit' with a consciousness, or the lonely detached soul that compels me to strive for a freedom beyond all that ever is or will be. Talk of either 'the universe' or 'the creator' doesn't cut it for me. The torture in my soul either places me outside of the actual universe (as in, I truly am 'nothing' - not just the stuff that our collective sapient consciousness reports as 'nothingness') or outside of the 'knowledge' of any creator. So when I feel this detached, it is tantamount to feeling like I am my own essentially unknowable deity, as much as being essentially unknowable to the point of truly being a 'nothing', therefore effectively squaring the circle and accepting that the divinity that I am is actually 'nothing', therefore 'nothing' is true and my nihilism is both my salvation (from competing forms of hope that I am 'something') and my 'pisspot' (that is, a random interjection of meaninglessness that represents the feeling of pointlessness at the core of my being).
My head hurts from transitioning from the daily subconscious 'alter-existence' (sleep) to the not too different consciousness of being somehow part of something I'm not. And the meat suit needs feeding etc because the mind is used to the routine of survival for the sake of survival. The soul remains lost, peeking eagerly into the Abyss at the siren call of the event horizon, and 'my' (whatever 'I' is) yearns for a full dose of unconsciousness to finally end this pointless charade, so pointless that I'm reduced to praying to the unknown for a known cancer to finish me off (ideally swapping places with some other random tortured body and soul). And I can remain nothing for ever and endure the fate of the suicidée - which, if belief means anything, will hopefully be incalculably worse than the torment of existence.