People who say suicide is an act of cowardice or an act of weakness lack empathy. People who say that suicide is neither an escape nor a solution lack an understanding of the darker sensations experienced by human beings.
Suicide was the spring that released the tension coiled around the Thing devouring him.
Suicide isn’t a solution, it isn’t an escape—it’s more like a painkiller.
People who don’t suffer from suicidal depression can’t understand how thoroughly it devours you.
Hollowness and emptiness, grayness and death, ashes and isolation; nothing feels real yet everything feels hyper-real; everything is bleak and bad, destined only to get worse: these thoughts, these feelings, these emotions consume you until they become you. They soak through every fiber of your being.
Every minute of everyday is a struggle to put off that overwhelming sensation to end it all, and to function. Every action that keeps you functioning is an act of resistance. Every action that keeps you functioning is a skirmish meant to overcome the urge to kill yourself.
A person suffering through this wages the battle on a second-by-second basis. But it takes its toll, and it wears some people out, and they become too exhausted; they can’t resist the overwhelming urge any longer.
We shouldn’t view suicide as cowardly—or ignoble. We should, instead, view it as the tragic culmination of years—sometimes decades—of a seemingly endless battle, the final bugle call screeching over the remains of an internal battlefield.
We shouldn’t pity or condemn him for how he ended his life. Instead, we should praise him for how long he managed to successfully wage his battle.