Darkover
Archangel
- Jul 29, 2021
- 5,517
This isn't a bitter question — it's a genuine ethical one.
We often speak of free will, of bodily autonomy, of the fundamental right to make choices about our own lives. We say no one should be forced to do anything, that each person owns their body and their path. And yet, somehow, when it comes to the decision not to live, all of that is thrown out.
It seems society has decided — absolutely and without exception — that no matter what a person endures, the one thing they must not do is choose death. We treat death as the worst possible outcome, the single line that must never be crossed.
But is that really true? Isn't it possible that there are things worse than dying?
I can't help but feel that this moral stance — this rigid commandment that "you must live" — originated long ago, perhaps in the Middle Ages, when life was so harsh and miserable that without such a rule, many would have ended it. So religion stepped in, declaring life sacred, suicide sinful, and dignity something conferred upon you — not something you define for yourself.
Fast forward to today, and we claim to honor human rights — including the right to dignity. But if I'm the only one who knows what it's like to be me, to live in this body, with this pain, this loneliness, this meaninglessness — and I feel that my dignity is destroyed by that experience — why does no one listen?
Why do people who've never lived a single moment in my mind, my memories, my skin — feel entitled to override my choice?
If we truly respected autonomy, we would recognize that sometimes, continuing to live is not an act of freedom but of coercion — forced upon people by law, by fear, by culture, and by others' discomfort with death.
And so I ask again:
Why are people allowed to force me to live?
And why is that seen as compassion, when it might be the cruelest thing of all?
Coercion to live isn't always obvious. It doesn't always arrive with handcuffs or locked doors — though it sometimes does. More often, it comes through laws, systems, silence, guilt, and the refusal of society to allow a person to say, "I cannot go on."
Legally, the right to die is almost nonexistent. In most places, suicide is not recognized as a right but as a crisis to be stopped. If someone attempts it and survives, they may be hospitalized against their will, forcibly medicated, and treated not as a person making a decision, but as a malfunctioning system to be repaired. Assisted dying is allowed only in very narrow circumstances, typically for those with terminal physical illnesses — and even then, under intense scrutiny and regulation. The idea that someone might come to a calm, rational conclusion that their suffering outweighs the value of continuing is almost never accepted, especially if that suffering is emotional, existential, or chronic but invisible.
The medical system reinforces this coercion. Doctors and mental health professionals are trained above all else to preserve life. "Do no harm" is interpreted to mean "never let someone die," even when continuing their life might be the most profound harm of all. When someone expresses a desire to die, that wish is often dismissed as a symptom of illness rather than a position to be understood. Treatment is imposed rather than offered. Consent is revoked. And in the name of compassion, autonomy is taken away.
Culturally, the pressure to stay alive is overwhelming. Suicide is stigmatized, wrapped in shame, and spoken of as selfish, immoral, or weak. Those who are suffering are told to think of their families, of how much it would hurt others, of how wrong it would be to "give up." They are asked to stay alive not for themselves, but for everyone else. Pain becomes a private burden that must be carried silently to protect others from discomfort. Religious beliefs further compound this, declaring suicide sinful — a violation of sacred life — even for those who don't share those beliefs. The result is moral isolation: you are not only in pain, but you are made to feel guilty for wanting that pain to end.
Economic and material realities also trap people in life. Many people do not have the means to live in peace or to die with dignity. They may be poor, homeless, or reliant on medical systems that require compliance with treatment to continue receiving support. Even those who qualify for assisted dying often need wealth, legal access, and a supportive network to make that option a reality. Without those things, suffering becomes a sentence. Wanting to die is not enough — society demands that you suffer until your pain is "legitimate" by its standards.
The emotional coercion runs just as deep. People who express a desire to die are often met with anger, fear, or emotional manipulation. Friends or family might say things like, "How could you do this to us?" or "I'd kill myself if you died," binding the person to life through guilt rather than compassion. The expression of suicidal thoughts often leads not to care or understanding, but to withdrawal, threats, or rejection. People are told, "You're not thinking clearly," even if they've spent years wrestling with their pain in silence. Their insight is ignored; their voice is stripped of authority.
Over time, people internalize these pressures. They begin to feel ashamed of how they feel. They convince themselves they are broken, ungrateful, or weak for wanting what might, in truth, be a completely rational escape. They try to suppress their despair not because it has gone away, but because the cost of speaking it aloud is too high. And yet, the suffering remains.
Perhaps the cruelest form of coercion is the absence of alternatives. Many people who want to die don't truly want death — they want relief, peace, safety, dignity. But those things are out of reach. When every door is locked, when there's no way to live without pain, death becomes the only visible exit. And yet, that door too is barred — by laws, by doctors, by social pressure, by fear.
This is the shape of coercion: not always violent, but persistent. It speaks through silence, through law, through kindness that refuses to listen. It insists that you must endure, even when enduring means suffering without end.
So when we ask why someone wants to die, we must also ask: what have we done to make living so inescapable, even when it no longer feels bearable? And who gave us the right to decide that staying alive — no matter the cost — is the only acceptable choice?
We often speak of free will, of bodily autonomy, of the fundamental right to make choices about our own lives. We say no one should be forced to do anything, that each person owns their body and their path. And yet, somehow, when it comes to the decision not to live, all of that is thrown out.
It seems society has decided — absolutely and without exception — that no matter what a person endures, the one thing they must not do is choose death. We treat death as the worst possible outcome, the single line that must never be crossed.
But is that really true? Isn't it possible that there are things worse than dying?
I can't help but feel that this moral stance — this rigid commandment that "you must live" — originated long ago, perhaps in the Middle Ages, when life was so harsh and miserable that without such a rule, many would have ended it. So religion stepped in, declaring life sacred, suicide sinful, and dignity something conferred upon you — not something you define for yourself.
Fast forward to today, and we claim to honor human rights — including the right to dignity. But if I'm the only one who knows what it's like to be me, to live in this body, with this pain, this loneliness, this meaninglessness — and I feel that my dignity is destroyed by that experience — why does no one listen?
Why do people who've never lived a single moment in my mind, my memories, my skin — feel entitled to override my choice?
If we truly respected autonomy, we would recognize that sometimes, continuing to live is not an act of freedom but of coercion — forced upon people by law, by fear, by culture, and by others' discomfort with death.
And so I ask again:
Why are people allowed to force me to live?
And why is that seen as compassion, when it might be the cruelest thing of all?
Coercion to live isn't always obvious. It doesn't always arrive with handcuffs or locked doors — though it sometimes does. More often, it comes through laws, systems, silence, guilt, and the refusal of society to allow a person to say, "I cannot go on."
Legally, the right to die is almost nonexistent. In most places, suicide is not recognized as a right but as a crisis to be stopped. If someone attempts it and survives, they may be hospitalized against their will, forcibly medicated, and treated not as a person making a decision, but as a malfunctioning system to be repaired. Assisted dying is allowed only in very narrow circumstances, typically for those with terminal physical illnesses — and even then, under intense scrutiny and regulation. The idea that someone might come to a calm, rational conclusion that their suffering outweighs the value of continuing is almost never accepted, especially if that suffering is emotional, existential, or chronic but invisible.
The medical system reinforces this coercion. Doctors and mental health professionals are trained above all else to preserve life. "Do no harm" is interpreted to mean "never let someone die," even when continuing their life might be the most profound harm of all. When someone expresses a desire to die, that wish is often dismissed as a symptom of illness rather than a position to be understood. Treatment is imposed rather than offered. Consent is revoked. And in the name of compassion, autonomy is taken away.
Culturally, the pressure to stay alive is overwhelming. Suicide is stigmatized, wrapped in shame, and spoken of as selfish, immoral, or weak. Those who are suffering are told to think of their families, of how much it would hurt others, of how wrong it would be to "give up." They are asked to stay alive not for themselves, but for everyone else. Pain becomes a private burden that must be carried silently to protect others from discomfort. Religious beliefs further compound this, declaring suicide sinful — a violation of sacred life — even for those who don't share those beliefs. The result is moral isolation: you are not only in pain, but you are made to feel guilty for wanting that pain to end.
Economic and material realities also trap people in life. Many people do not have the means to live in peace or to die with dignity. They may be poor, homeless, or reliant on medical systems that require compliance with treatment to continue receiving support. Even those who qualify for assisted dying often need wealth, legal access, and a supportive network to make that option a reality. Without those things, suffering becomes a sentence. Wanting to die is not enough — society demands that you suffer until your pain is "legitimate" by its standards.
The emotional coercion runs just as deep. People who express a desire to die are often met with anger, fear, or emotional manipulation. Friends or family might say things like, "How could you do this to us?" or "I'd kill myself if you died," binding the person to life through guilt rather than compassion. The expression of suicidal thoughts often leads not to care or understanding, but to withdrawal, threats, or rejection. People are told, "You're not thinking clearly," even if they've spent years wrestling with their pain in silence. Their insight is ignored; their voice is stripped of authority.
Over time, people internalize these pressures. They begin to feel ashamed of how they feel. They convince themselves they are broken, ungrateful, or weak for wanting what might, in truth, be a completely rational escape. They try to suppress their despair not because it has gone away, but because the cost of speaking it aloud is too high. And yet, the suffering remains.
Perhaps the cruelest form of coercion is the absence of alternatives. Many people who want to die don't truly want death — they want relief, peace, safety, dignity. But those things are out of reach. When every door is locked, when there's no way to live without pain, death becomes the only visible exit. And yet, that door too is barred — by laws, by doctors, by social pressure, by fear.
This is the shape of coercion: not always violent, but persistent. It speaks through silence, through law, through kindness that refuses to listen. It insists that you must endure, even when enduring means suffering without end.
So when we ask why someone wants to die, we must also ask: what have we done to make living so inescapable, even when it no longer feels bearable? And who gave us the right to decide that staying alive — no matter the cost — is the only acceptable choice?
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