
TheVanishingPoint
Student
- May 20, 2025
- 158
The statistic is false, or worse: built on a convenient lie.
Who are the nineteen "suicide attempts" that don't result in death?
They're the ones who sit on a bridge railing for forty minutes in broad daylight, waiting to be noticed.
They're the ones who cut themselves everywhere except where it would actually be fatal.
The ones who take six aspirin and call an ambulance.
The ones who say "I wanted to die" as soon as they arrive at the emergency room, just to get a bed in psychiatry or to give their distress a name.
These are not suicide attempts. They are cries for attention. Symbolic acts, perhaps desperate, but not lethal.
And yet, they're included in the statistics.
Just like every news article that celebrates the "hero police officer" who talks someone down after they've been perched on a bridge with no guardrail for over an hour.
We read about at least six or seven of these "heroes" every day, all over the world. Always the same story, the same phrases, the same staged photo.
Emotional photocopies.
In some countries, the president even publicly congratulates the police for stopping a suicide that, in most cases, would never have happened anyway.
It's applause offered to a performance.
Because if that person really wanted to die, they would have done it already.
Those who truly want to die don't wait. They don't call. They don't expose themselves. They don't let you get close.
Dying is a private act. Final. Solitary.
Everything else is theater.
But the statistics don't distinguish.
So we're told that "most suicide attempts fail," to comfort the living and hand out medals to those who merely interrupted a performance.
I remember once, years ago, I had left the camera on in the living room, half-hidden. My aunt hadn't noticed. She heard a car pulling up she thought it was my uncle and immediately started crying over family issues, religious ones, theatrical ones. But it wasn't my uncle. It was the gardener.
So she wiped her tears, turned on the TV, and waited.
Then the actual car arrived.
I was watching everything with my cousin on the camera: my aunt pulled out the tissue again and resumed "crying," but by then the tears were gone, the emotion dried up, and the whole scene had become a tired farce. She rubbed her eyes, trying desperately to redden them.
And yet... it worked. My uncle felt sorry for her. She got what she wanted I won't say what it was.
But from that day on, I understood that visible suffering is often just a warm-up for applause.
Those who truly know death understand this: when someone really wants to leave, they leave no space for spectators.
Who are the nineteen "suicide attempts" that don't result in death?
They're the ones who sit on a bridge railing for forty minutes in broad daylight, waiting to be noticed.
They're the ones who cut themselves everywhere except where it would actually be fatal.
The ones who take six aspirin and call an ambulance.
The ones who say "I wanted to die" as soon as they arrive at the emergency room, just to get a bed in psychiatry or to give their distress a name.
These are not suicide attempts. They are cries for attention. Symbolic acts, perhaps desperate, but not lethal.
And yet, they're included in the statistics.
Just like every news article that celebrates the "hero police officer" who talks someone down after they've been perched on a bridge with no guardrail for over an hour.
We read about at least six or seven of these "heroes" every day, all over the world. Always the same story, the same phrases, the same staged photo.
Emotional photocopies.
In some countries, the president even publicly congratulates the police for stopping a suicide that, in most cases, would never have happened anyway.
It's applause offered to a performance.
Because if that person really wanted to die, they would have done it already.
Those who truly want to die don't wait. They don't call. They don't expose themselves. They don't let you get close.
Dying is a private act. Final. Solitary.
Everything else is theater.
But the statistics don't distinguish.
So we're told that "most suicide attempts fail," to comfort the living and hand out medals to those who merely interrupted a performance.
I remember once, years ago, I had left the camera on in the living room, half-hidden. My aunt hadn't noticed. She heard a car pulling up she thought it was my uncle and immediately started crying over family issues, religious ones, theatrical ones. But it wasn't my uncle. It was the gardener.
So she wiped her tears, turned on the TV, and waited.
Then the actual car arrived.
I was watching everything with my cousin on the camera: my aunt pulled out the tissue again and resumed "crying," but by then the tears were gone, the emotion dried up, and the whole scene had become a tired farce. She rubbed her eyes, trying desperately to redden them.
And yet... it worked. My uncle felt sorry for her. She got what she wanted I won't say what it was.
But from that day on, I understood that visible suffering is often just a warm-up for applause.
Those who truly know death understand this: when someone really wants to leave, they leave no space for spectators.