Best 243 quotes in «suicidal quotes» category

Being in a relationship has the tendency to deceive one into believing that there is someone without whom one cannot live.

Bradley, my marriage is over. I think my life is probably over. What a poor affair it has been.

But death is the ultimate blissfulness To be a candy or a corpse The world holds you on its tongue And no one can save you

But now I remember, of course, I'm never going to be old.

But then, once you agree, it is necessary that you, the cajoler, move into the realm of self-deception, because you can see that it is costing them, you can see how much they don't want to be here, you can see that the act of existing is depleting for them, and then you have to tell yourself every day: I am doing the right thing.

COPE Create Options Pending Emergence

Even suicidal people can smile.

Death could be waiting for him, but he wasn’t afraid. Whether it be sooner or later, he welcomed the inevitability with open arms.

Do you have an idea of what your parents are going through? Set your world right. Parents have no idea of what you are going through.

Crisis is what suppressed pain looks like; it always comes to the surface. It shakes you into reflection and healing.

During those times, they'd stand there watching me watching them. I'd pray, please. Put a pillow to my face. Clench a hand around my throat. Stab me. Shoot me. Put me out of everyone's misery. Why did you give birth to such a loser? Why didn't you admit I was hopeless and fat and stop trying to make me fit in? This world wasn't meant for me. I was born too soon or too late. Too defective. I wish I could tell my parents, "If you want to help me, help me die." I wonder, Are they required to fill out a 24-hour suicide watch form? Is the Defect at home? Check. Is It alive? Check. Why did they bother with the constructive surgery on my throat anyway? Waste of money. They threw away or hid from me everything with sharp edges or breakables. Picture frames. Pottery. Did they think they could suicide-proof this place? I want to tell them, "Chip, Kim, there is no way to suicide-proof a person

How unhappy does one have to be before living seems worse than dying?

Everything is very nearly over. And so none of the normal rules of behavior apply. And so none of my actions can have consequences.

Fear manifested itself as a physical presence that seemed to dominate the public sphere. Time almost stopped. Even without confirmation I could sense that something had gone terribly wrong.

He felt life more clearly too—even, perhaps especially, when he came to decide that it wasn't worth the candle.

I do not have a problem with people killing themselves, as long as they took at least a hundred years to think about what they are about to do.

I can't stand it any longer. If only I could will myself dead.

I do not know what I would do if you left me." For the first time I felt the suggestion of a threat in his voice—or I put it there. "I have been alone so long—I do not think I would be able to live if I had to be alone again.

I hung back, staring at cars driving past and wondering if they were moving fast enough to knock me down.

If, when I woke up in June, life still wasn't worth the trouble, I would end it. I would jump. This was the deal I made.

If you won't live for yourself than do it for me. If you don't want to live for me than choose something else. Anything is better than losing another person to that fake paradise that comes after death.

I have a soft spot in my heart for suicidal people. I know that others make presumptions about suicidal people, painting them with the darkest of paints; but the way that I see it, these are people who look out into the world and see how broken it is and they look into their lives and they remember all the people they've hurt and then they look into themselves and they are faced with how ruined they are and they think that if they can't make anything really better then they just shouldn't exist anymore. It's not a form of selfishness or mental illness. It's a form of extreme state of empathy and selflessness. Suicidal people really are the best kinds of people. But they need to know that this world has a place for them, that this world needs the kind of light that they carry with them as they walk through it, they need to know that they have a home. That their type of darkness is like the darkness of the universe: it's the type of darkness from whence comes forth the light! Some people are just okay with everything, they don't feel the pain and the guilt that comes with the way that this world is. And I don't think that the lack of feeling makes anybody healthier in the mind. Our world is sick. And some people know that. These are not the sick people, these are the beautiful creatures!

I have nobody in the world. I'll kill myself. That's best. Everyone will say, It's for the best that she killed herself, she's better off dead . . . I hate myself so much I could spend hours and hours just screaming with hatred and with the pain of it, oh the pain of it . . .

I just want to serve and help people and be good to everybody, only it always goes wrong somehow—I think about suicide all the time, every bloody day I want to die and stop this torture, but I go crawling on . . . I'm so Christ-awful bloody lonely I could scream with it for hours on end.

I know with unqualified certainty that I want to die. But I also know with equivalent certainty that I won't do anything about it. That I will only remain here and wait for death to indulge me.

i'm the beast rattling the cage, asking for slaughter.

I'm sure we all have dreams of leaving at some time in our lives, but when we reach the bottom, most of us go running home.

I, myself, spent 9 years in an insane asylum and never had any suicidal tendencies, but I know that every conversation I had with a psychiatrist during the morning visit made me long to hang myself because I was aware that I could not slit his throat.

In the wasteland of metro Boston, at thirteen, fourteen, his big dream had been of a gun to his own head, putting him out of his misery—a misery that by sophomore year of college was indistinguishable from everybody else's.

It is almost always better to take a chance and hope that your life will get better instead of ending it.

I spent most of my life believing l was crazy because all the crazy things I experienced in childhood were treated as nonexistent or normal. This belief colored every decision made, from something so basic as what to wear today, to the more esoteric boundaries of whether I should kill myself. I understood very well that killing myself under the wrong circumstances would establish my insanity forever. So I analyzed every word, every gesture, before committing myself. (Which probably accounts for why I am alive today.)

It is possible to have a thousand problems and still not have a single valid reason to kill yourself.

I've been so unhappy for years, so unhappy . . . I don't understand how a human being can be so unhappy all the time and still be alive.

It was the seventh or eighth floor, she couldn't remember which. A streetcar crawled past the front of the hotel, and people on the sidewalk moved in every direction, with legs on either side of them, and it crossed her mind to jump.

I want to commit suicide but am afraid someone will think I am crazy.

More people would be depressed, if parents tried to please their children as frequently and as badly as children try to please their parents.

I will kill myself soon. But until then how do l tame my pain?

I was now, all the time, unutterably tired as if simply keeping alive was a terrible effort.

My father was a doctor,' she says, 'a very kind man. He died in the early '70s, relatively young.' She taps the cigarette packet on the table. 'Of lung cancer.' 'Oh.' 'But the thing about that is,' she says as she exhales, 'it doesn't take very long at all.

Not everyone who has killed themselves because they were HIV positive would have been killed by AIDS.

My love is toxic and you're suicidal.

No hole is deep enough to be unclimbable. Not even the one you dug yourself into. Never give up. On yourself.

She was her death now, that death which she had so much striven to emulate in life, which she had studied and practised and loved. She had succeeded, and death and she had converged into a single point. Who knew if that was victory or defeat? His last vision was of the white veil that hid her now. After all, and at last, she had become utterly private.

Often it feels like I am breathing today only because a few years back I had no idea which nerve to cut...

Oh God just look at me now... one night opens words and utters pain... I cannot begin to explain to you... this... I am not here. This is not happening. Oh wait, it is, isn't it? I am a ghost. I am not here, not really. You see skin and cuts and frailty...these are symptoms, you known, of a ghost. An unclear image with unclear thoughts whispering vague things... If I told you what was really in my head, you''d never let me leave this place. And I have no desire to spend time in hell while I'm still, in theory, alive.

Perhaps after all not to have been born is best. How near the human soul must be to nothingness if it can be so tossed.

She didn't mind if she died trying. Suicide was in everything she did now, and everything she thought. Suicide was her home: if she could find nothing else, then suicide would always have her.

Some people are silently struggling with burdens that would break our backs.

So many people want to die when all they need is to start living.

Some people avoid thinking deeply in public, only because they are afraid of coming across as suicidal.