To suppress what culture has called the "instinct for survival," one must first recognize that it is not a sacred impulse, but rather a set of learned behaviors, conditioned reflexes to fear, and bodily preservation, mediated by brain structures like the amygdala, hypothalamus, and prefrontal cortex. This so-called instinct is not unbreakable: it can be deactivated, desensitized, rewritten. The first path is the experience of chronic pain, prolonged despair, recurrent suicidal thoughts: every time an individual contemplates their own death without fleeing from it, every time they approach it, the fear circuit erodes, and with it erodes the automatic reflex that binds flesh to its own heartbeat. Repeated suicide attempts are not merely a symptom: they are a deep restructuring of the brain, a gradual erasure of the panic response. The second method is pharmacological: with medium-high doses of benzodiazepines, for example 10 mg of lorazepam, one achieves such profound sedation that the limbic response is anesthetized, rendering the idea of death neutral, acceptable, without emotional recoil. The mind does not entirely shut down, but it stops defending itself. Where once the body would have panicked, hands shaken, breath quickened, now there is calm, emptiness, a kind of conscious passivity. Another path is extreme dissociation, achieved through dissociative substances or repeated trauma: consciousness detaches from the body and observes from a distance, and in that disconnection the bond between "me" and "survive" vanishes. Finally, there is the total loss of meaning, existential annihilation: when life no longer has any symbolic, social, relational, or spiritual justification, then self-preservation becomes a biological whim that can be canceled like an empty contract. The instinct is not a deity, it is a habit. And every habit can be broken, rewritten, dissolved into nothing. But it must also be said that each psychic organism responds in its own way: what deactivates the survival response in some, amplifies or distorts it in others. Some find in ketamine that dissociative window where reality loses all grip and death appears as a floating option, neither feared nor pursued, but simply available. Others find this suppression of instinct in opioid derivatives, where the sense of pain and time is anesthetized to the point that all attachment dissolves. For some, alcohol creates that free zone in which consciousness no longer resists and the act can occur in the lucid blindness of advanced intoxication. For others still, psychostimulants are necessary, altering the thresholds of inhibitory control and accelerating the move toward the act without passing through hesitation. But there are also those who require no substance at all: in borderline, bipolar, or schizoid disorders, the suppression mechanism can arise from within, from a personality structure that does not perceive danger as absolute or final, but reshapes it into a form that may be attractive, desirable, or indifferent. In borderline disorder, the emotion is so intense that one acts just to make it stop; in bipolar, it is euphoria or manic void that overshadows the fear of death; in the schizoid, it is the radical detachment from emotional reality that blocks any defensive reaction. In all these cases, what fails is not reason, but the connection between reason and impulse. The brain reinterprets survival not as a necessity but as a secondary, superfluous, or even hostile option. No protocol applies to all, because each mind builds its own filters, its own thresholds, its own silences. What extinguishes fear in one may only amplify it in another. The suppression of instinct is an intimate work, not always voluntary, sometimes chemical, sometimes psychic, sometimes ritual. But always, in the end, lucid—like a resignation that has stopped believing in the fairytale of breath.