Writing about suicide is a difficult thing to do. I can give you philosophical arguments defending it and against it. I can reference research studies and statistics about brain chemistry. I can make a case for it being a public health concern. I can point you to various stories about people who have committed suicide  I'm not talking about "cries for help" or situational depression. I'm also not talking about Death with Dignity. Obviously, those are of concern, but I want to focus on the folks who live with profound clinical depression. Suicide is shocking. We don't understand why someone who seems to have everything can end their life. We don't know why they didn't ask for help. We can't imagine ourselves ever being that that low.

The title of this page, Suicide: Loss in Life, is how I've come to understand suicide. I suspect that the loss of life for one who commits suicide is secondary to the loss that person feels in life. It's the loss of your self, which can feel impossible to separate from the disease. It's the loss the person you would be if you weren't pinned down by darkness. I've been there. I know the shadow that follows you all your life. I know that, sometimes, people just grow too weary to fight it. I can't know if this rings true for everyone. What I can do, however, is share a poem by Jane Kenyon called Having it Out with Melancholy. It's not one of those poems you need a doctorate in literature to understand. It very simply depicts the relentless pull depression has. I really think you should read the poem in its entirety. The final stanza below describes a moment of relief from depression.

High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome

by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.