...and "Conscience makes cowards of us all," as Shakespeare said.
The afterlife is basically a crapshoot, and you can read all opinions from eternally burning hell to "no problem" if you kill yourself. There is no possible way of knowing for sure.
For that reason, if no other, it makes sense to me to hang on and try to process out the reasons one wants to leave the world, even though I truly believe that the universe is friendly and not against us. But we can be against ourselves and cause ourselves pain that is not punishment, but just effect from our own actions.
And the good news is, there
are ways to process emotions. The book
The Presence Process is good, I think:
Amazon.com: The Presence Process: A Healing Journey into Present Moment Awareness: Books: Michael Brown Quote:
From Hamlet, Second Quarto
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
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'Dude, I hope you are still with us, and I hope that doesn't make me your enemy. As enemies go, I'm not so bad....you could do worse....
Megan