Opinion: Concerning Suicide

By Bam Barrow

Let us first settle one matter: this essay is but one man’s view on the fraught and delicate topic of suicide. It is neither an endorsement nor a repudiation of such an act, but rather a reflection born of long hours spent pondering its mysteries. To those who seek counsel, solace, or guidance, I urge you to find it in the company of those more qualified to offer aid: in the UK, a 24-hour helpline at 0845 790 9090; in the United States, 1-800-273-8255. As for those who find this topic distasteful, there are gentler pastimes to pursue, far removed from the somber meditation before us. For the curious, however, I invite you to read on.

It is said that a man’s thoughts stray toward lust as frequently as the ticking of a clock. Yet interspersed among these cravings, like dark punctuation, are thoughts of death—equally persistent and no less natural. The human spirit, torn between the impulse to perpetuate itself and the temptation to contemplate its own undoing, reveals its paradox: these twin forces, procreation and destruction, shape our existence. Life’s engines are these two drives—one ensuring survival, the other reminding us of its futility.

The exhortation to "be fruitful and multiply" has borne disastrous fruit. Each birth is celebrated as a triumph, yet each adds to the strain on a planet already groaning beneath the weight of its inhabitants. The forests have receded, the rivers have dwindled, and in their place rise cities—vast, unfeeling monuments to human excess. How strange that this drive, so fundamental to our survival, should also prove so destructive. Each new life further consumes a finite world, forcing us to face the uncomfortable truth that humanity’s unbridled growth is, in its way, a disease upon the earth.

Faced with this dismal reality, some souls, overwhelmed by the absurdity of their own existence, choose to depart this life prematurely. And here, society falters. It condemns their departure, calling it selfish, cowardly, or immoral, while failing to offer them a world worth inhabiting. There is a peculiar contradiction in how we regard death. A soldier who perishes on the battlefield is exalted as a hero, while a solitary soul who ends their life in private is reviled as weak. Yet is not death, regardless of its circumstances, an act of final courage?

What we fear, I think, is not death itself but the uncertainty of its arrival. To be dead is to be nothing; this, perhaps, we can abide. But to die—to endure the pain, the indignity, the terror of dissolution—this we find unbearable. Consider the tragic case of Christine Chubbuck, whose infamous broadcast culminated not in immediate oblivion but in hours of lingering agony. Such tales chill the spirit and remind us that even the escape from life may exact a cruel toll.

Our age is one of posturing, of shallow pursuits masquerading as meaning. We collect "likes" and "shares" as though they were laurels, mistaking fleeting attention for true worth. Strip away these illusions, and what remains? A life so barren, so stripped of purpose, that it seems scarcely worth the name. It is in this void, I suspect, that many find despair. Confronted with the absurdity of existence—the endless cycle of labor, consumption, and distraction—they ask: To what end? If life is but a string of trivialities, surely death offers a nobler alternative.

The living often speak harshly of the dead. Those who take their lives are castigated for their selfishness, as though their pain were less important than the inconvenience it causes others. Yet such judgments reveal more about the critics than the criticized. It is easy to condemn what one does not understand. For those who have never stood at the brink, suicide appears irrational, a betrayal of life’s supposed sanctity. But for those who have peered into the abyss, it can seem an act of clarity. Not all lives are bearable; not all burdens can be borne. To insist otherwise is to impose one’s own perspective on another’s suffering.

The laws that govern our bodies are as capricious as they are oppressive. A terminally ill dog may be granted a peaceful end, yet a human in similar torment is forced to endure. Why? Because morality, that fickle tyrant, decrees it so. We allow suffering in the name of virtue, forgetting that true compassion lies not in prolonging life but in easing pain. To live or to die ought to be the most personal of choices, yet it is one of the most regulated. We speak of "freedom" and "autonomy," yet deny individuals the ultimate exercise of these rights. This hypocrisy, born of fear and tradition, does a disservice to those it claims to protect.

Life, they tell us, is a gift. Yet for many, it is a burden—a weight that grows heavier with each passing year. To those who find meaning and joy, I say: cherish them. But to those who see only darkness, I offer no platitudes. Life is not always a thing to be clung to at all costs. In the end, the choice to stay or to go belongs to each of us alone. It is the one decision that cannot be judged, for it is made in the deepest chambers of the soul. Whether it be an act of despair or defiance, it deserves, if nothing else, our understanding.