Best 1629 quotes in «suicide quotes» category

The stamp is something left over from an inpatient hospital program. In some other program RELEASED used to mean a client was set free. Now it means a client is dead. Nobody wanted to special-order a stamp that said DEAD. The caseworker told me this a few years ago when the suicides started back up again. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. This is how things get recycled.

The suicide committed by Sampson was partly determined by the craftiness of Delilah and partly decided by the disobedience of Sampson. Satan uses crafty means to set traps for us, but by our obedience of the laws of God, the traps remain functionless.

The suicidal lead shame-drenched lives.

The sun stopped shining for me is all.

The sword connoted an honourable way of dying, and an honourable return to the earth, but the rope left the body hanging between heaven and earth and was therefore an unseemly death.

The terrifying experience and obsession of death, when preserved in consciousness, becomes ruinous. If you talk about death, you save part of yourself. But at the same time, something of your real self dies, because objectified meanings lose the actuality they have in consciousness.

The thick baffling blades of false world customs rip off my views and ideas,like breaking every string of my aesthetic thoughts in disdain and jealousy;pain pain enough your tigrine roars before I die.

The things they say! A truck driver would blush. I would never talk that way to Trevor he walks on water. I want him to think I do too. For a while, he did, or at least he pretended to. I did things with Trevor I wouldn't dare to confess to anyone—things I didn't know anyone did. But he wanted me to, so I did. That's what you do when you love someone, right?

The thought of suicide is a real comfort to me. Sometimes it's the only way I can get through a sleepless night. On such a night - and there were plenty of them - I used to dismantle my Walther automatic pistol and meticulously oil the metal jigsaw of pieces. I'd seen too many misfires for the want of a well-oiled gun, and too many suicides gone badly wrong because a bullet entered a man's skull at an acute angle. I would even unload the tiny staircase that was the single-stack magazine and polish each bullet, lining them up in a rank like neat little brass soldiers before selecting the cleanest and the brightest and the keenest to please to sit on top of the rest. I wanted only the best of them to blast a hole in the wall of the prison cell that was my thick skull, and then bore a tunnel through the grey coils of despond that were my brain.

The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets through many a dark night.

The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of storeys, you might still be alive when you hit bottom.

The truth a fairly important thing to hold on to when you’ve been pulled out of the sea after wanting to drown in it. I could’ve 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’s the loud sound of a siren screaming in your head it doesn’t 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’s why I’d make the decision that involved heading ogg to the pier on my pike in the middle of the night and cycling off it.

The universe does not work in phrases; don’t focus on the commas; just wait for the full stop.

The universe is so arranged that the power to destroy the climate or the ecosystem of your home planet only comes when you also have the wisdom to know that doing so is a fatal mistake. Therefore, any species that does that is suicidal, and will probably not qualify for any kind of help, from the powers of the universe, with fixing that error.

The verdict of the coroner's inquest had been that Adrian Finn (22) had killed himself 'while the balance of his mind was disturbed.' I remember how angry that conventional phrase made me: I would have sworn on oath that Adrian's was the one mind which would never lose its balance. But in the law's view, if you killed yourself you were by definition mad, at least at the time you were committing the act. The law, and society, and religion all said it was impossible to be sane, healthy, and kill yourself. Perhaps those authorities feared that the suicide's reasoning might impugn the nature and value of life as organised by the state which paid the coroner? And then, since you had been declared temporarily mad, your reasons for killing yourself were also assumed to be mad. So I doubt anyone paid much attention to Adrian's argument, with its references to philosophers ancient and modern, about the superiority of the intervening act over the unworthy passivity of merely letting life happen to you.

The uttermost beautiful and glorious feeling is a Trust. It is a breath of love too, even the key to all doors of one's way. Breaking the Trust is a suicide of moral and harmonious values.

The very same person can, at the very same time, seem at peace to some people, and depressed or even suicidal to some.

The water under the bridge looked strangely enticing. For a mortuary, it was oddly breathtaking. I felt in tune with all the beings lying underneath, creatures no different than me, some of them human, lost on their way to heaven, who decided to end it all one day for reasons no one else could comprehend. It pained my heart to think I was in that place.

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?

The world is full of 'friends' of suicide victims thinking 'if I had only made that drive over there, I could have done something.

The wind made me shiver as i pulled my arms into my T-shirt. There I was, cold, isolated and desperate for something I knew I couldn't have. A solution. A remedy. Anything. The silence continued except for my own footsteps. I hated it. Alone and confused was the last place I wanted to be. Somehow I knew I deserved this.

The world isn’t the place we are told to live in. It is another place entirely. We have both more choice, and less, than we are supposed to have.

The writer’s life is frightful. I have experienced deep dispair, mental ill and attempt of suicide.

The worst pain I had to face is the fight with myself. I'm unsure who to rout for, because they both want what’s best for me.

They're not doing much for themselves. I'm sure they'd rather slip away, relax their fingers and float, but they can't. They're not allowed. Effort is so painful; our knuckles are white, yet we keep clinging. The alternative is suicide- and we are too fearful for that.

They came close. Oh they came close. Was all set to put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger. But there was a computer glitch. Isnt that something? A stupid glitch and I had to wait a few days and then I saw the errors of my ways, saw so clearly that I was killing the wrong person. Its not me that needs killing, its them. Funny how things can change in the wink of an eye.

They had killed themselves over the failure to find a love that none of us could ever be.

The young doctor was disappointed: he had never had th eopportunity to study the effects of gold cyanide on a cadaver. Dr. Juvenal Urbino had been surprised that he had not seen him at the Medical School, but he understood in an instant from the young man's blush and Andean accent that he was probably a recent arrival to the city. He said: "There is bound to be someone driven mad by love who will give you the chance one of these days." And only after he said it did he realize that among the countless suicides he could remeber, this was the first with cyanide that had not been caused by the sufferings of love. Then something changed in the tone of his voice. "And when you do find one, observe with care," he said to the intern: "they almost always have crystals in their heart.

They say that if you really want to kill yourself, no one can stop you. There are too many ways to do it. You can jump off a bridge or a building. You can hang yourself. You can crash a car or slit your wrists or swim out really far into the ocean until you drown. Sometimes I wonder why I'm not dead, if I really wanted to kill myself.

They called our arrangement a 'Death Pact' - but, really, that's not a phrase that tells you anything important. It's just the kind of phrase that sells newspapers. For us, it was never about death. It was about life. Knowing that there was a way out, that his suffering was not going to become unendurable (...).

They're simply seeking an interlude from emotional pain and searing mental agony, a sleep from which they'll awaken to discover they're the person they always wanted to be.

They make one journey after another and change spectacle for spectacle. As Lucretius says, 'Thus each man ever flees himself.' But to what end, if he does not escape himself? He pursues and dogs himself as his own most tedious companion. And so we must realize that our difficulty is not the fault of the places but of ourselves. We are weak in enduring anything, and cannot put up with toil or pleasure or ourselves or anything for long. This weakness has driven some men to their deaths; because by frequently changing their aims they kept falling back on the same things and had left themselves no room for novelty. They began to be sick of life and the world itself, and out of their enervating self-indulgence arose the feeling 'How long must I face the same things?

They say that God doesn't give you more than you can handle. Tell that to her.

They tell us that Suicide is the greatest piece of Cowardice... That Suicide is wrong; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in this world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person.

Things like "Everything happens for a reason" and "You'll become a stronger/kinder/more compassionate person because of this" brings out rage in grieving people. Nothing makes a person angrier than when they know they're being insulted but can't figure out how. It's not just erasing your current pain that makes words of comfort land so badly. There's a hidden subtext in those statements about becoming a better, kinder, and more compassionate because of your loss, that often-used phrase about knowing what's "truly important in life" now that you've learned how quickly life can change. The unspoken second half of the sentence in this case says you needed this somehow. It says that you weren't aware of what was important in life before this happened. It says that you weren't kind, compassionate, or aware enough in your life before this happened. That you needed this experience in order to develop or grow, that you needed this lesson in order to step into your "true path" in life. As though loss and hardship were the only ways to grow as a human being. As though pain were the only doorway to a better, deeper life, the only way to be truly compassionate and kind.

This book is a tribute to an extraordinary and celestial man who lived his life in service of loving others but ultimately couldn’t love himself. It is also an attempt to honor the spirit and innate beautify of all the dear loved ones we’ve loved and lost to suicide. Let’s remember their unique humanity – their beauty and light, and also their darkness and flaws. They are neither one nor the other; rather, they encompass all aspects, death and love and every nuance of life in between. And through this simple fact of their humanity, they live on.

Think of the old cliché about “the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.” This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in the head. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.

This book is dedicated to those who have died as a result of mind control and/or ritual abuse, and those who have lived when they would rather have died.

This book is dedicated to all who have been affected by sexual violence.

This is what happens to the brain of those living with mental illnesses (more accurately, "brain illnesses"). The brain does not function as it should; life is out of control. The brain alters our bodies; thoughts are distorted, emotions are unregulated, and behaviors we once thought could never occur happen. One of the most challenging, exhausting, and painful phenomena we do as humans is to live and survive with these changes in our minds. The toll it takes on an individual's body and the people in their lives is, tragically, often too much to bear. -Dr. Daniel J. Reidenberg

This is not the place!

This is not to offer a general recommendation of suicide. Suicide, like death from other causes, makes the lives of those who are bereaved much worse. Rushing into one’s own suicide can have profound negative impact on the lives of those close to one. Although an Epicurean may be committed to not caring about what happens after his death, it is still the case that the bereaved suffer a harm even if the deceased does not. That suicide harms those who are thereby bereaved is part of the tragedy of coming into existence. We find ourselves in a kind of trap. We have already come into existence. To end our existence causes immense pain to those we love and for whom we care. Potential procreators would do well to consider this trap they lay when they produce offspring.

This is what I want so don't be sad.

This life you cry up so much is what I wanted to extinguish by suicide, whereas my dream, my dream—oh, it has revealed to me a great, new, regenerated intensity of life!

This pain is comfort. It is the solace of physicality, like a touch.

This mournful and restless sound was a fit accompaniment to my meditations.

Those that have lost their lives to suicide were good people, who were in deep, deep pain. Keep speaking about mental illness and keep it out of the darkness.

Those drugs were either going to bring me nirvana or they were going to kill me. I was sure of it. And I was comfortable with it.

Those who commit suicide, pensive, lonely, philosophers, are awake in life, which is a serious crime. In life everybody must be asleep.

Those who nurse secrets, nurse a chaotic world of amplified silence.