It took me long enough to realize that it makes absolutely no sense for a philosophical naturalist to commit suicide when his or her life is even slightly bearable, when there is obviously nothing to look forward to after death. Even if you're too irreversibly hideous and utterly socially inept to be able to integrate into normal society, a life of
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Saturday evening was nearly unbearable for me, as I used the last of my pain medication and had NO relief for many sleepless hours. Even if I could drug myself into sleeping, I feel pain even in my dreams, and wake up in utter misery.
I guess I could say that my life is often just one millimeter above bearable at those moments, and while I am terrified of dying when I'm feeling okay, the bad times make me not care quite so much about that!
What do you think about that?
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