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I am a coward.

Some people say that it’s a kind of cowardice to commit suicide. You’re unable to face your problems, so you end it. Coward. I know better. Ending a life is crazy – ending your own life takes crazy courage.

I am a coward.

I can’t do it. And by now, I know for sure that I won’t. But – pun intended – it’s killing me that I can’t. Over the past couple of years, quite a few times I’ve really wanted to just get it over with. Many times apparently unloved, underappreciated, and overworked, and to top it all off quite obviously a nuisance to all the people I care about, I’ve not only once thought: ‘Fuck it – they’d be better off without me.’
I’ve never even made it to the edge of the bridge though. I travel by train on a daily basis, and while many a morning I think of stepping off the platform in front of the train instead of into the train, I never will do it. I simply can’t.

I am a coward.

A little background is in place here, but I won’t give you too many details. It’s not fair on the people around me for starters. But this diary is also merely a reflection of my darkest musings. It may very well be far removed from the objective truth – it is surely very far removed from the subjective truth as seen by the people around me. I – like most – don’t see myself as an asshole, yet it is very possible that I am. It is bordering on certainty that these suicidal wishes are my own fault.
But I’m deviating from the background. So in short:
I have a few people around me in my life. There’s my wife A, me B (I would’ve put myself first, but Ben happens to not start with A), there are my two children C and D who love me dearly. C is the eldest, there’s five years and a week between them. The youngest is – at the start of this diary – too young to make any sense when speaking. Then there’s my dog – Dog – and cat – Cat who live with us. A circle wider are my parents F and M – F being my mom, M my dad, based on their gender not their names. They live next door. A little further away lives my brother J, with his wife H and two children. I do have a sister too, but for reasons I won’t elaborate here, I doubt she will feature in this diary. Then I have two close friends in my country – R and T – and a good friend whom I don’t see often enough to become close friends with, but I feel I could if given the chance J. Rounding up the friendships, there are three more people whom I consider close friends, but they live ten thousand kilometers away (give or take 7%) whom I became close to in a previous life – in between migratory movements. If they ever feature in this diary, I will give them a character then. And of course there are people at work, at my university (I study part time), and my in-laws, but also they live a long way away.
Looking at my inner circle, my first life, I have everything to live for. Right? And yet…

I am a coward.

I am a fucking coward with a death wish. But I can’t do it – and I don’t want someone else to come and do it to me – just because I won’t do it first and foremost to C and D, and secondly I won’t do it to A. But recently F has made it really hard not to do it, for she’s come to us – me and A – on quite a number of occasions to tell us that how we treat the children is wrong. We are bad parents. We have to do things differently, or else… We will probably ruin our children for life.
We quite obviously disagree; our way of parenting is different from hers; look at what fucked up boy she raised. I will try not to do that to my children, but of course I will fuck them up just like most parents do. All parents make mistakes, and do things according to their own insights. I for one have fairly solid reasons for doing things different – less harmonious (but most definitely not violent!) than F. But there’s no stopping the stream of ‘as-advice-wrapped-insults’. Despite this severe parental pressure…

I am a coward.

I know all of this is rather vague. For now I intend to keep it that way. I plan to post in this diary almost every Sunday. For two reasons – first, like it says on my Dutch language writer’s site: for your entertainment, and for my own. And secondly, because writing helps me to calm down. There’s a fat chance that keeping this diary will result in more peace between M, F and me. And perhaps also between M, F and A. 

While writing this blog, the blog was called “diary of a suicide”.