Jesus

Tags

coincidence, fire, jesus, life, religion

Jesus has helped me heat my home.

I heat my home in a rather medieval way – with a wood-fire in a metal container. It’s a rather sophisticated metal container that heats the house more efficiently than just any random box. It even has a window through which you can see the fire consuming the wood. This has made for many a romantic evening, but that’s beside the point.

This morning, I attempted to make a fire. It’s December, which is the cold season where I live, so making a fire is part of my morning routine – complete with getting dressed and making breakfast, and consuming the latter.

For the first time in quite a while, the first attempt failed. The match ignited the newspaper in the stove, but somehow the subsequently lit cardboard box failed to ignite the wood I’d stacked on top of it. So, somewhat annoyed with myself, I tried a second time. I didn’t wait around to see what would happen. Mornings can be busy, you know. I went to do something else, planning to come back in a minute to add wood to the new fire.

A few minutes passed, and I went back to the stove, only to find a dark window – not the fire I expected. The window was so dark that I knew the whole thing to be filled with smoke. I muttered to myself:

“Jesus, still nothing?”

At that moment, something sparked inside and all the smoke went up in flames, before going out of the chimney. And that finally ignited the wood; so I put some more in. I’m now typing this in a comfortable room…

God is everywhere, and Jesus has helped me heat my home. Thank heavens; if I were so inclined, I’d be religious now. Unfortunately for the church, I do believe in coincidence. Do you?

Missed me?

Tags

depression, life, live, suicide

I couldn’t do it.

Did you think I’d gone out and do it? I skipped a week; did you think I’d not kept my promise of the first week that I was too much of a coward to kill myself? If you did, you had a great way of not letting me know. No tweet from anonymous, no police at my door – not even a call from a random shrink.

I couldn’t do it.

Or perhaps you trusted me to tell the truth. You perhaps thought I am a coward, and figured I wouldn’t do it anyway. Did you think I got sick of blogging too – like I’m sick of pretty much everything in my life? No, you should know better than that. I’ve proven the ability to finish what I start a couple of times before. And I didn’t play out any fantasies involving big rivers, cold waters, boats, or trains and bridges. No, I’m still alive, still fucked up in my head, and still thinking it would be a blessing to be dead.
On a side note, I must admit though that I did have some genuine fun this week. It has been a while since I’ve felt that kind of exhilaration; it did me some good to go into town with only my eldest son. But that’s not the reason why

I couldn’t do it.

I didn’t miss last week’s blogpost because I’d attempted to kill myself – nothing of the sort. I’m not in hospital with stitches in my wrists. Hell, that would not be the way to go for me. Too much pain. If I’d die, I’d rather die sudden. If I’d throw myself off a building I’d do it backwards. Enjoy the view of the sky and not know when I’d hit the floor. But I didn’t do that either.
I just had another week at work, and another week at uni, and another week where commuting was a torture. When you’re in my state, you don’t want to be anywhere. You don’t want to be at work (not because of the co-workers or the job; that’s all fine), but you don’t want to be home either. And you don’t want to go anywhere else either. There’s no point in the commute. The only way to either get to work, or get home, is on autopilot. Otherwise you’ll just stop and sit there. In my case, I’d lie there – on a recumbent bicycle – waiting for nothing, wanting for nothing. Looking longingly left or right at whatever may be able to kill you. And that was kind of the highlight of my week.
My autopilot continued to work though, and got me to work on time, and home in time for me not to be missed too much. And the ones closest to me have stopped suspecting that I’d rather be six foot under. But I didn’t get there, and that is not the reason I missed a week’s blog-post.

I couldn’t do it.

As a matter of fact, last week was really close to F’s birthday. And despite our differences, she’s still my mum. I’m not sure if she reads this blog – I don’t think she does. Still, I couldn’t ruing anyone’s mood while we were celebrating the fact that my mum managed to make it through another year. I was working too hard thinking happy thoughts so I could smile and wish her well. Blogging about misery of course won’t help with that. So now you know why

I just couldn’t do it.

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

Rien…

Tags

depression, life, live, suicide

I am confused.

Wouldn’t Paris have been a perfect holiday for me this week? Get a couple of days away from my misery, see the beautiful city of love, kill a couple of faithless morons associated with Daesh, and die a hero. My loved ones would be taken care of by several grateful governments, and I would rest easy – away from my fucked up mind.

I am confused.

On July 14, 1789, Louis XVI of France wrote in his diary ‘Rien’ (nothing). Research suggests it meant that no animals were killed that day, not that nothing happened. Given the horrific events in Paris this week, I thought the reference fitting as the leaders of Paris probably didn’t go hunting for game either. But as it turns out, I was positively shocked by the events – and I felt true sorrow for those who lost their lives. I am not scared – of death or Daesh – and I am certain that – looking at the way the world operates these days – we are only at the beginning. More of these beastly acts are to come. And I want to stay far away from them.

I am confused.

I am hurting. This week even physically. On Friday I developed an ear-ache, which continued into Saturday together with a headache, and today all day my whole body ached too. But I am hurting mentally too. I am a coward, I am stupid, I am a cunt, I am an idiot. I have so much to live for, yet I can find so many reasons to die. But hearing about other people being brutally murdered, my survival instinct kicks in and sends me running. Well, I’m actually not close enough to Paris to need to run, but you get the message. I do not want to have anything to do with it. I am in no way tempted to join a group that is hell-bent on killing innocent people; have no worries. If I’d have the strength to die, I’d be the only one who does. But the flip side is, that if I encounter people who are going to kill innocents, I most certainly don’t want to be held hostage by them. I most certainly do not want to be in the team facing them, or amongst the innocents who get shot. So now you’re probably ready to understand why

I am confused.

I can not find a reason inside myself to continue living – all the reasons for me being alive are external; the people who care about me need me. But I don’t enjoy it in the least. I’d rather be dead. This lack of care should make me the ideal person to be among the innocent bystanders, for I wouldn’t care if I’d get shot, and I would probably lunge at them to try and peel their heads off with a potato knife. So why do I not want these beasts to shoot me? Why does this shit instil an unexpected fear in me? Does this mean that death isn’t as appealing as it most often seems? Do I really want to die? Or is there still some surprisingly good reason for me to live deep down inside of me? Or is it just animal nature that gets scared? I haven’t figured it out. That’s why

I am confused.

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

So now…

Tags

depression, life, live, suicide

I am an insufferable cunt.

My miserable thoughts about killing myself, and the inherent depressed state I tend to be in, has turned me into this asshole your friends warn you about before you meet me. There’s good inside of me, but it’s struggling to come out. My shite thoughts about myself all too often turn into nasty remarks to the people I care about.

I am an insufferable cunt.

The most recent example of me being a complete piece of shit, who is undeserving of anyone’s friendship, was R. He is a great friend, and though I appreciate that he sticks around (even cunts need to be tickled sometimes) I feel that my vile remarks in the past week may very well have cost me a friend.
He is happy; he is in a great moment of joy in his life right now, and he deserves his happiness – like anyone does. He shares his happiness too, with anyone who wants to hear it, and of course especially with his friends. But then, when he asks me to comment, the first thing that bubbles up inside of me is bile. Instead of swallowing it, or spitting it out before replying, I give him all the bile I’ve got. And why? Well, I want to kill myself, but he doesn’t deserve to feel that way! There is no good reason to give him shit, yet I did.
If he visits me again I should get on my knees and thank him for doing so. He is a good friend, he is a great man, and he’s the best human who can stand being around me. I know I won’t get on my knees for him though. Because…

I am an insufferable cunt.

Over the past couple of years, my unrestrained tongue has killed more friendships. I won’t go into detail. It’s never to late to make things worse, yet nobody deserves the shitstorm I pour over them and repeating it anywhere won’t just make it worse, it’ll make it drag. And wounds that drag are infected; all I’m trying to do with all that’s in me is disinfect myself, and hope my misery isn’t contagious.
It’s not just my unrestrained tongue though, that gets me into trouble with people I care about. It is also my untrained tongue. Over the past few years I’ve allowed myself to be dragged into conversations out of which there’s no good way. My replies to certain inquiries have cut me in half, have made me regret being alive, have made me regret the moment I joined the company, for the inquiries were out of genuine concern, yet my replies showed no tactical or political skill whatsoever. I seem to be unable to bite my tongue and breathe before giving the politically correct answer; I go straight for my own harsh perspective; my fucked up, twisted, subjective version of a perceived truth. There’s no way I can make everything right I’ve said in the past years, and it hurts every day again.
In a nutshell, there you have it. Don’t ask me questions others may not like the answer to. Because I’m on a perpetual crash-course to ruin my friendships for no good reason. So better yet, don’t ask me anything at all, for…

I am an insufferable cunt.

This is perhaps the reason why I haven’t made an appointment with W yet; the tea may not get cold before I say something nasty. Like I’ve said before, I’m a coward – and I’ve become afraid to speak, for I am likely to say something nasty. All as a result of some depth of a depression.
On Facebook I found a quote on a picture of an out-of-focus seagull. Credit where credit is due; the picture and the quote are by Liz Young. I don’t know Liz Young, but Facebook has a way of getting quotes around the world. Liz must be quite crafty with words, as I need over six hundred words, for what she says in twelve.
“Depression is numbing.
Depression is evil.
Depression is cunning,
baffling, powerful,
deceitful.”
And that’s why

I am an insufferable cunt.

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

And so…

Tags

depression, life, live, suicide

I am stupid.

I’ve got so much to live for. There are quite a few things in my life that many others envy – not in the least my past. I have two gorgeous children, an even more beautiful wife, a safe place to live and enough to eat every month. Who in his right mind would want to kill himself?

I am stupid.

I am not right in my head. Why would I possibly hang my dirty laundry out for everybody to read? I’m going to regret this, probably. And that adds one more drop to the buckets of burden my mind keeps telling me I’m carrying. Because that’s exactly it: my mind plays a fucked up trick in making me believe it’s all burden and no joy.
I have not experienced any form of exhilaration outside my bedroom for so long, that there is nothing anymore that gets me excited before it happens. Perhaps I should use some substance to get me going again.

I am stupid.

I am dumb enough not to have the insurance to go see a shrink; neither the mind-molding, nor the drug peddling version. Every month again I prefer to feed and clothe my kids and make it possible for them to have a good time during holidays. That has – for me at least – the obvious preference. But on the good days, where I don’t look at every train as a possible out, or check every rope to see if it would be strong enough, I realise it is a dumb idea to not go and see a shrink: what good am I to them if I can’t hold my own shit together?
But thankfully there’s Facebook. First I received the expected responses to last week’s post from unexpected corners. There was a friend, W, who very to the point read between the lines where some of the issues lie, and who invited me for a cup of tea – some time. But there are also others who advise me not to blog about this; I wonder why. Is it because of Buddy Kane’s motto: ‘one must always portray an image of success’, and they advise me to do so too? Or are there other reasons. Are they afraid I will alienate myself – from them?
Whatever it is, this blog is here to stay; better get used to it. I know I’m fucked up to the core, and it’s a risk writing this blog.

I am stupid.

For continuing this blog. But also for having tried substance: alcohol. I downed a bottle of liquor in a week, and I’d be doing a bottle a day by now if I hadn’t rigorously stopped myself. It was just too good to be healthy. It is true what they say – the down after alcohol is deeper than the high with alcohol. And I have so much to live for, and so many depending on me, it is unfair to go that way and tell everybody to go fuck themselves.
This is the reason I gave J when I declined his offer to visit him with a bottle of booze and talk it over, last week. And I didn’t respond when he said it was meant metaphorically – a good talk, to put my misery in perspective. Let me tell you, down here, there are shades of black, and hundreds of shades of grey (it’s bullshit that there are only fifty), but there’s only one perspective: me. Nobody else’s misery, nor your own possible pleasures matter when you’ve been as far down the well as I have. I feel like the snail climbing out of the well – during the day I climb up two meters, but at night I slide back down. Some nights I slide only a few feet, but there are moments where I am thrown back down all the way to the bottom. A brain with a short circuit has a habit of doing that.

I am stupid.

And yet…

Tags

depression, life, live, suicide, write

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”.