In what seems like another life, I was a medical student in the mid-80s. The New Romantic movement had only just begun its steep decline, along with my spiked-up straw-dyed hair. Around then, one of my clinical tutors died from Aids. Fellow students whispered that he was gay and "promiscuous". So then, otherwise caring people were implying that he deserved to die from HIV.
Based on medieval attitudes towards suicide which persisted until recently, using the word 'commit' does nothing to recognise the pain that an individual was going through before they took their own lives. Instead, suicide remains a taboo issue and the connotation of illegality and shamefulness adds to the stigma and grief felt by the deceased's family and friends.
In love? No one else approves? Clearly, suicide is the solution - but not until you've taken out your wife's cousin then her other cousin - who is also, somehow, her fiancé. No, it's not something the Mormons dreamed up, it's what kids are learning in a school near you, in shameless Shakespeare's rogue tragedy Romeo and Juliet.
Stories about men as toxic, as bad boys, are so much part of the cultural lexicon, that when I lecture, audiences are sometimes perplexed by the idea of providing specific services for vulnerable men. This is despite explaining that thousands of men commit suicide every year in the UK, 4552 in 2011, three times the rate of women.