None of the lives I have remembered so far were lost due to suicide. I have one from poisoning, one (presumably) being machine-gunned, and one from neglect to injury (technically).
In this life I’ve come close at times. I haven’t had a happy life in the least, and at times I earnestly believed that there was nothing but emptiness after the final curtain.
Now, I’m not so sure. I still don’t know if I’ve been correct all along about having lived many lives, but I’m more partial to that conclusion than ever before.
So what does suicide mean if we approach it from the arbitrary premise that reincarnation exists?
Supposing you die, and just come back as something or someone else rather than plunging into heaven, hell, or oblivion. Will you know what body you’re coming back in? Could you possibly know what family will raise you, what chances you’ll have, what problems you might face? Death becomes a hard re-boot of everything you are. You start again, with nothing promised, nothing gained.
Supposing you remember past lives later on in this life you’ve been born into. I know several people who remember committing suicide in their previous lives and they generally don’t see the decision favorably. They’re thankful they had another chance and didn’t just get tipped into the fiery furnace down below, sure, but usually they wish they’d kept going.
And why not? It’s easier to keep going. Even if you believe in reincarnation and believe that you can remember past lives, death is probably the most monumental inconvenience you will ever face. You’re almost never ready for it, even if you’re the one pulling the trigger; you lose everything you own and every friend and family member you ever had. If you speak to someone who knew you in your previous life- as I have- odds are they will not believe you.
To give some idea of what it’s like, imagine the Witness Protection Program, but more thorough and with less support to get back on your feet. Sure, you get a new home, new name, new IDs and everything, but you also lose years of skills, all your connections, all your money and status, and most of your memories of having been anyone but who you are.
Although I didn’t commit suicide, I did die in part due to neglect to injury. I was told to get to a hospital and I didn’t listen. I lost a lot in the way of wealth and status the last time I left a body behind and I’ve been basically trying to claw my way back up the same slippery slope as a writer, out of yet another genre fiction ghetto.
There are better ways to start with a clean slate and not lose yourself so completely. If your life is really so terrible that you want to end it all, just blow whatever money you’ve got on a Greyhound ticket and go as far as you can go. Keep yourself alive, but find a new place to do it. At least that way, if you regret leaving everything behind, at least you’ve still got the same face and name and you can try to go back to what you had.
In a word, dying sucks. You’re better off putting it off until nature takes over.