For me, thinking of suicide isn’t a bad thing. It’s knowing where the exit is, just in case I need it. It’s reassuring to look over my shoulder and glimpse the green glow of escape. If I see there’s a clear path out, I can calm down and look for ways to get to other, more intriguing doors. Suicide has my back.
Reality isn’t a thing. Well, it’s not something we interact with. It’s just a story we tell ourselves. Other people make things up and tell us stories. I like the one where there is this immortal being going around helping people throughout the universe by trying to restore justice and kindness. I don’t accept it as my reality, but I REALLY enjoy my deliberate suspension of disbelief.
Maybe one day a time lord named The Doctor will drag me into crazy adventures in a big blue box and surprise the heck out of my version of actual reality. That would be awesome. I think… maybe. Also how could I tell if it was really happening or if my mind were tricking me? Would I want to be able to tell?
There’s a large fandom that enjoys this same suspension of disbelief. We collectively, for the most part, tell ourselves and each other the story of how these stories are unreal.
As a species we’ve learned to cross check our beliefs by finding out what other people believe. Especially people like scientists or religious leaders that other people also believe in. Our own experiences usually have more weight than others’, though. The stories we tell ourselves of those experiences even more so.