Hamlet said, "But that the dread of something after death, the undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveler 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."
For me it is not so much that I fear what might happen after death. It is more that I cannot bring myself to end my own life. This is partially because I am filled with a certain kind of morbid curiosity. What myriad tragedies will I encounter? What assortment of ill fortunes will befall me? How deeply will I come to understand the veracity of the old chestnut "life is suffering?"
And furthermore, no matter how I struggle, I will inevitably die one day - and why hasten to this day? Why rush to oblivion? If I am, perhaps, being punished, then do I not deserve to live out this wretchedness I call my life?
Suicide is too easy. It is ignoble. It is an act the dog might consider if the dog could become aware of his own existence in any meaningful sort of way.
It is nobler to suffer.