Depending on what you know and what you've seen, advocating for suicide-by-choice can seem as alien and ridiculous as some sheltered folks see the conclusion that "if we let everyone in the world come here, you won't like it." Because some people, either through dealing with ethnic majorities (U.S.: "minorities") not at all, only in controlled environments, or just desperately wishful thinking about how they have immortal spirits connected to their physical bodies and all those immortal spirits are not alone because they share a kinship with all others which makes them act essentially the same regardless of the genes in the bodies they're using--because of that, some people have certain opinions about, say, race and crime or race and immigration. And contemplating the world from one perspective, your feelings about suicide can be equally, incredibly ignorant. Just as someone who hasn't been inside a Congoid or Siberian majority for a long time often can't understand the difference between those groups and Europeoids, sheltered people are often similarly vastly unprepared to consider suicide as a rational choice, akin to an inability to see the irrationality of sticking a 15 year old heterosexual Congoid male and a gorgeous 22 year old Europeoid female in a panic room for 72 hours and expecting them to emerge discussing the nuances of Proust.
(Tossing in another anecdotal aside, about spending years of time in large and socially dominant groups of what Americans still call "minorities," you should if you're upset consider not just how privileged and innocent and sheltered and racist you are for not having had this experience, but how ignorant. You know how they like to make movies now where the superficially perfect white dude who's big on the high school football team is secretly a rapist who tells his friends enthusiastically about forcing girls who don't want to do it to do it? The non-Europeoid races are actually like that, and not in the funny way where they try to do keg balances while declaring their idiotic fake movie revelations, but sometimes in a chillingly cold way (but with a really responsible biological attitude, ¿que pasa con la raza?) And non-anecdotally through hearsay alone, it's sometimes similar on the porno set, too. And to dress up the example above, if you put a white kid in the panic room with the hottie for 72 hours, he tries to act cool for a while and then ends up asking about her life and trying to listen and think of clever comments and advice, then makes a big deal about finding her a nice place to sleep, makes some show at getting out, and at the end of it all tries to get her e-mail in hopes of having a real relationship with her later, then is sad when she never writes back and always tells his friends and his future wife about the experience and hints that he was a big help to the girl but it was tough on her so they don't talk anymore and all that shit. Congoid just, of course, rapes her a couple times and leaves when the doors are opened. And ultimately, that unpleasant-sounding or "unfair" or "mean" reaction is more biologically sound and objectively sensible. And to say any of it sounds wrong because different organisms all act basically the same is as ridiculous as a person from a planet without predators hearing advice how not to try to swim with crocodiles because they are likely to bite or eat you, which to the predator-ignorant sounds ridiculous because they're sheltered to such ignorance that they can't imagine one creature consuming another instead of just kale.)
Let us, then, try to be more colorful. Imagine you've got some common disease...what is it? The flu? Well, at least once, most people have done that, right? Okay, imagine you have the flu. You want to sleep all day, you try to read a book but everything is weird and hurts and why won't I sleep dammit? And you order some food you like, but you feel so crummy you can't muster the enthusiasm and just pick at it, and you throw up in the morning, and it hurts, and in the afternoon, and it hurts, and you can't go out, and everything sucks, and then that afternoon, what, omigod no, and why the fuck do I have diarrhea today, oh god the side window was open, did the neighbor SEE me in there? And you're shaking your head when you finally make it back to bed, everything hurts, I think I can nap...mmm, I'm sleepy, ow, everything still hurts, what...7:16? I only slept a couple hours? What the hell? Oh god, is anything on TV, oh man, it all sucks, where's my book again, I'll have to get a new one 'cause my nose leaked onto my best copy, god, this SUCKS, when will this be over?
Okay, add new sources of pain to the imagination, then triple them, triple the embarrassment, and take the final and most important step: imagine it's never going to end. Every day is going to be like this. Forever.
The pain is going to get worse. Lots worse. The limited things you are able to do will get more limited. Lots more limited. You won't be able to prop yourself up to read, your friends'll have to install the TV in the ceiling so you could see it, your vision will get so messed up you can't make out what's happening anyway, your sound is gonna kind of dim so you can't really hear what's happening anyway...this slope only leads down. Constantly for the next sixty years.
Now, we should be able to see the clear-headed, intelligent case for suicide. We can modify the pain almost however we like, and we can also add some loved one--spouse, parent, child--who cleans up all your barf and shit and phlegm, and you have to sit there watching them do it and know that you'll always need that help and maybe if you were a billionaire it could be justified but otherwise you entrap that loved one forever to do it, and they'll never admit it but in their heart they've forgotten who you were when you were well and whenever they think of you now it's puke-shit you lying in that bed making everything so hard.
Bring in economics, too. You can't work, but it costs let's be nice and say just five grand a year to feed you, five grand for your insurance, and you add on an extra few hours of necessary labor to avoid you dying in a puddle of your own piss in a couple weeks, so that loved one's job is that much harder, after work and before work and sometimes in emergencies during work Loved One has to attend to you. Economics: okay, there are some doctor's appointments where you hear what you've heard before, and any dream in life is reduced to imagination or saving for years to assemble a team of people who secretly feel like Loved One got the short end of the stick in life while they join him or her in shepherding you through a farce of whatever, and then you're back in bed.
That's the suicide we consider here. Not being generally sad or lackadaisical or angry at stuff or you just got fired or she decided to marry/date/fuck that jerk whatever, but the "trapped in broken body, never possible to fix it" thing, where one knows exactly what one's opportunities are that are being foregone. What surprises might show up? Some celebrity visits you? The Society releases yet another exciting press release that they have a new drug and are now merely six steps away from the cure they've been saying might be coming for the past fifty years? Is it worth twenty years of this hell for them to actually find a cure and suddenly you get out of bed, emaciated and floppy and full of memories of being in bed for twenty years, ready to bore whoever your disgusting self meets? And really, there's been no cure for a hundred years, that's not likely anyway. But just contemplating possibilities.
Who has the right to make those choices? Who should be insulted for making them because oh, of course, you fool, a cure is right around the corner? Says the healthy dude. Says the senior who already lived seventy years of the active, non-sick life. Says the other kid 'cause his dad told him to be nice, to try to say something positive.
Our society refuses to support this facet of life and death, not only not supporting it--which is fine; it should be "private industry" anyway, and could be thriving and job-producing and so, so cheap--but penalizing it and insulting it as only for cowards, when you haven't been trapped in that bed for seven years and you're literally unable to make an informed choice... It could cost ninety cents and a co-pay for some doctor to handle that stuff in a home visit, or let's be decent and just say fifteen bucks by mail order, and it's done.
That's not an insubstantial issue, since lots of people are trapped like that, and even if they made it out thirty years later, or have occasional good times of one or two months in their physical forms imitating going out like it's normal for them, they know where they're headed, and know what the percentages of life will be out and trapped, the specter is always there every second, worse than being trapped itself, it never lets you live because you know it's true and you know it's coming back always and ever until the day you get out of this place, and they can judge for themselves whether the likely percentages and pains, always getting worse because of age, are worth it. That's where suicide comes in. We mock suicide, and the suicidal, like it's because the breeze blew up their skirts during the school assembly, or like Jake is so dreamy but he said I had a big butt oh I'm gonna kill myself, but it's not most often that. Trigger moments, sic, are dramatic ways for later livers to not think about how much the actual reasons frighten them. Naturally, places that charge for treatment or amass a social phenomenon off a disease that gets them donations, are really down on anyone getting out, but barring that, the actual people, if freed from social approbation for considering the idea they're usually too embarrassed to bring up, tell a different story.