I'm part of the majority. I never gave the s-word much of a thought until depression, stress and anxiety came knocking on my door.
As a child, I was fascinated by the supernatural. When I was eleven years old, I was introduced to the idea of suicide from a paranormal documentary TV series. The very first episode I watched—the memory of which is still vivid to me today—featured the stereotypical example of a Spiteful Suicide. That of a scorned wife who returned from the grave to wreak vengeance on her unfaithful husband, his mistress, and their young son.
Malicious intent aside, I also became aware that suicide may be used as a means of escape from negative life events and unfavourable circumstances. However, even though I was intrigued at that time, such interest was quelled by the prospect of hellish punishments in the afterlife. Hell is, in my father's own perversion of religious doctrine, "too good" for the suicide.
With that being said, such thoughts would remain within the deep recesses of my mind. That is, until I faced my first real challenge in the form of my Final Year Project in Polytechnic.