I've always had reasonably good instincts, but unfortunately coupled with an inability to trust my own judgement and if you believe in such things, then being an indecisive Pisces hasn’t helped either and so I’ve invariably made the wrong choices in life. It would have been nice if I could find something to pin the blame on other than myself – my upbringing, my environment, my genes but it all comes up short.
The way in which I was brought up is to be cherished, as from my earliest memories as a child, I was loved. Although, we were hardly wealthy, we were never left wanting and as the only girl with two brothers I suppose to an extent I was cosseted. Admittedly my Father did leave us when I was nine years old, nevertheless, my proud, beautiful Mother managed to keep her fears hidden and an open heart for her three young children.
I don’t believe any of us really felt as if we missed out on anything. And partly as a result, I carried a ferocious, childlike love for her with me into adulthood. My Mother would probably describe me as wilful on a good day and stubborn on the not so good ones. And although I was close to my brothers in the shared bond of childhood, we have grown apart in the years since. Perhaps that is only natural that we should see less of each other as we figure out our own lives, but most of the time it feels like both my brothers found their paths in life with ease while I stumbled along mine.
As for my genes, my Mother is a force to be reckoned with and I can only wish to have taken after her in that respect. And well, I can't really remark on my Father, as I only remember the unconditional love a child can feel for a parent which makes it difficult to now judge him objectively.
I know very little of my Father’s background before he met my Mother, other than that he is Italian and my first name is a nod to his family heritage along with my dark hair and eyes. My older brother was named after my Mother’s godfather Matthew, and my youngest brother Joshua was let off the hook.
Although my Mother now uses her maiden name Isobel Delmar, my siblings and I still have our Father's surname, perhaps as a reminder that he is still part of us, albeit an estranged part. She kept his name for a long time after he left, we were too young to think of such things and now she rarely speaks of anything related to our Father.
I’m not sure if she was hoping he would return one day, or if she only kept it so she had the same name as her children, but whatever significance it held, as soon as the last of her children became a teenager, she changed it back.
The only Grandparent I have truly known, I loved dearly and unreservedly from the first time I can consciously remember her wrapping me up in a hug as a young child. It wasn’t until I was older that I realised how tiny she really was, and yet I always looked up to her even when the days came that I had to lean down to hug her back.
She was known to her many friends as Eliza but her name was Elizabeth Grace Delmar, and I've always been glad that we shared the same middle name. I earnestly wish I had also inherited my Grandmother’s gracefulness - my Mother got all her strength and elegance from her, but it definitely diluted down the line by the time it got to me.
I’m told that my Grandfather was a gentle, quiet man and passed away during the five years between Matthew’s birth and mine. My Grandmother still wears her wedding ring, although she rarely speaks of him. I’d like to think it’s because she finds it too hard to speak of the man she loved all her years, but I could never be sure.
As children my brothers and I spent most weekends visiting our Grandmother and as different as I am from her, and as much as it saddens me to compare myself to such a great woman I treasure those childhood memories. Grandchildren so often forget that life went on long before they are born but my Grandmother was never one to bring up on her own past. She and I would spend hours together when I was younger discussing the great big questions in life.
In recent years I am ashamed to admit I spent less and less time with her. Perhaps it is because I’ve always felt I am more akin to her than anyone in my family and if she had asked I might have told her everything. And this scares me, not because she would have judged me as I know she wouldn’t but I would never have wanted her to think I was anything less than content and happy. I would rather she believed the lie like everyone else.
We were lucky not to have to share her love as aside from the three of us she had no other grandchildren to dote upon. My Mother is an only child and aside from receiving cards on special occasions, my Father’s family is even more remote from our lives than he is. It might sound fairly idyllic, so anyone would understand my unwillingness to blame my genes or upbringing for how I’ve become what I am.
I wonder would it be easier to sympathise with me if I had grown up in the worst of circumstances - poverty stricken with a prostitute mother and an abusive father. I know not all scars are visible and having a near perfect childhood doesn't guarantee anyone an easy path in life. So I can only conclude that whilst I had a good start in life and the opportunities to have a successful one, it was I who fucked up spectacularly.
I seem to have developed a phobia for commitment to almost everything in life and with no follow through in anything I’ve faltered through life with no particular reason or purpose. And so to date I have lived a fairly meaningless life, have contributed very little to the world and as far as I’m aware, bear little or no significance to most people I’ve come to know.
I know of course I’m not the only one who has had to bear the consequences of their bad decisions. I of all people understand how well pain and regret can be hidden behind a show of contentment. However, there are times when it seems like no one could understand and I feel alone. It's almost impossible not to compare myself to my strong, confident siblings. Matthew is in a healthy relationship with a girl I genuinely like and always speaks optimistically about his career.
Joshua, my angelic, baby brother wanders albeit as aimlessly as I do through life, and yet he does it with such enviable charm and enthusiasm that nothing in life seems to phase him. And my Mother, even after being abandoned by the love of her life is not only a success in her work life, and now that her children are grown up is at least open to the idea of love again. I think I will burn out like a tiny flame - barely noticeable in a room full of brightly burning lights.
Compared to some I guess I've had more than the average number of relationships. I've never been dumped. I’m not bragging, simply stating a fact. Very few people have ever gotten close enough to me to be in an actual, functioning relationship and even then there was always a perfectly valid reason why it should end. I’ve come to realise – or at least believe - love is not the be all and end all in life. Whatever the meaning of life is supposed to be, this time around I think it’s too late for me. I keep thinking of the lyrics in a song I once heard. "I'll be perfect in my next life...” I hope so. Because quite frankly, I think I have truly screwed this one up.
Over the years I’ve had many friends who I've just let drift through my life. And then there are those who were more than friends. I wouldn't really use the term 'relationships' since very few of them could fall into that category, but I guess it will have to do for the sake of describing the times I spent with certain people. Some were brief with unkept promises of keeping in touch and others who were in my life for varying periods of time but all eventually coming to an inevitable end.
I know my need to keep people at arm’s length has made it difficult to be friends or have a relationship with me. I push people out of my life - all except those bonded by blood or the very few who haven't given up yet. Or at least I think that's the reason people don't stay in my life, but I could be wrong.
The varying amount of time I spent in each relationship did not necessarily negate whether they became lovers or not. By today’s standards, I wouldn't be considered a slut, nevertheless, you could hardly class the ones I've been intimate with as serious affairs – that would suggest being in an actual relationship and I’ve never been very good at those.
My little black book read more like every gir
l’s ‘what not to do’ when it comes to love and friendship. You would probably imagine names scored out and pages almost ripped from the spine.
If this was a diary belonging to a normal girl there would be little happy stars intertwined with broken hearts and words from sappy songs alongside various cheerless lyrics from heartbreaking ones. Only I'm not writing this as a teenage girl and I already know that none of them worked out. I'm sitting at the age of twenty-five on the floor of my bedroom, in my flat and I already know how it's going to end.
There is no one, simple reason why this came about. I wish it was easy as saying "I have to do this because..." and finishing off with a dramatic "Goodbye cruel world" or some other cliché. But life is never simple or straightforward. I guess the main reason would be my heart can't take any more scars and if I don’t do this, I doubt it would last much longer anyway. Rather by my own hand than from the pain I’ve permitted others to cause or the shame I’ve brought upon myself.
When I read that back it all sounds a bit dramatic, like a scene from one of the theatrical productions I used to see. This isn't for the sake of love or even the lack of it. I just can’t seem to make the right choices in life and I no longer see the point in trying.
The ones I'm going to write about are not to blame for what's going to happen - as I’ve said I have no one to blame - the fault lies with me. I’ve become a burden on those I love and although I know they may hurt in the beginning, the grief can't compare to the suffering I already cause them. I have time before I can go ahead with my theatrical ‘end scene’ so I want to write my story.
In school I was not what you would call popular but neither was I disliked. I guess I have always been by nature a bit of a loner. Although I mixed with a large group of friends, I never felt the pull towards one or another that I would have called a best friend. It was easier to lose myself in a crowd and thankfully no one really seemed to notice or at least acknowledge my lack of participation.
I revelled in my anonymity whilst watching others compete for the limelight. It wasn’t that I was particularly shy and thankfully my Mother instilled in me enough confidence that allowed me to never feel the need to give into peer pressure to do anything that would draw attention to me.
The first time any focus fell on me was to do with a boy, it happened just before my seventeenth birthday when things began to get messy.
Conor
I was sixteen years old when I lost my virginity. I was young - too young I think - it happened and I wish I could say it was in the spirit of youthful love, but I would be lying and I want to be truthful writing this. It was several months before my seventeenth birthday and while it might be a common age by today’s standards for a girl to succumb to the delights of the body, I was young even for my age and I had lived a fairly sheltered life. It wasn't the special event it should have been and we'd known each other only a short while. But it was consensual, so I at least I was luckier than some.
I met Conor on a Saturday afternoon; he was cute, funny and for some inexplicable reason he seemed interested in me. Attention from boys was not something I was at all used to at this point. I don't remember everything from our time together - not because it was insignificant or so long ago that I've forgotten, but so much has happened since then.
I told myself he was only speaking to me so his best friend could be alone with one of my friends. The first time he spoke to me I swear I stood dumbstruck; remarkably - he told me later - he thought I was playing it cool with him and looked a little awkward before finding his stride and breaking into a mostly one sided conversation. For once being uncomfortable around boys seemed to work in my favour. I declined to tell him that rather than being too cool to respond to his jokes, I apparently had lost all control of my tongue. He made adolescent attempts at flirting and I blushed my way through our conversations.
“You know, before today I didn’t really get the whole skating thing. I mean it’s freezing and unless you can do it properly you just go round and round circles trying not to fall over. But actually it’s kinda fun.” He said.
I nodded as if to agree since I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Eh, I’m Conor.” He was actually trying to angle his body towards me to shake hands in the middle of an ice rink and I stared at him in horror.
“Maybe we should save the hand shaking ‘til we’re on dry land.” I said.
“Oh yeah, thanks. It’s been a long time since I tried to stand up on ice. I guess I’m no Torrie and Dean.” he replied.
“Aha, I think you mean Torvill and Dean – it’s their surnames. And you’re doing okay.” I said and gestured to another guy who had just slid into the wall on the other side of the rink. We laughed together and I relaxed just a little.
“I’m Nina.” I said after a pause.
“Nice to meet you Nina. My friend said I should talk to you." he said.
My acting abilities had yet to kick in at this age, so I know my face fell when he said this.
"I mean he didn't like order me to, I wanted to talk to you, I just wasn't sure you would." he said.
I smiled at his digging; not really convinced by his words.
"Do you think you could show me how you do that gliding thing with your feet?” he asked. His smile did a fairly good job of concealing the fear in his eyes. I was glad for the change in subject and began showing him what I had learned in my lessons.
“You’re a really good skater.” He spoke while staring at his skates, which suited me fine since he couldn't see the nerves in my face.
I managed to make a sort of noise in response and tried to focus on keeping my skate-encased feet away from his unsteady ones. When he looked up, his eyes were questioning as if my 'mhm' hadn't been enough of a reply: it seemed actual words were required.
“Eh thanks, I skated a lot as a kid.” I finally replied.
One of the perks of not sticking anything in life is that you tend to jump from one thing to the next so I knew the basics for rather a lot of pointless stuff. In the years between then and now, I met a girl called Kara who slowly but determinedly became a friend and commented that I was ‘a jack of all trades.’ I had yet to meet Kara at this point in my life. I wonder if I would have turned out any different if I’d known her as at this age. But there is much in between this point and my first meeting with one of the few people I came to consider a real friend.
After about half an hour of unsuccessfully trying to pass on my limited skating skills, one of my friends came over and pulled me away to dissect and analyse every word Conor’s friend had said to her. When she had spent a good hour or so over lunch deciding whether or not he was potential boyfriend material we left for home.
From then on, my friends and I regularly spent Saturday afternoons on and around the skating rink. And after that first meeting I subtly looked out for Conor as soon as we arrived. On our third meeting he took my hand in his just before we set onto the ice and I almost toppled in shock. He kept hold of my gloved hand as we skated in a loop around the rink while I convinced myself he was merely using me for balance.
And that was how it went on each Saturday for weeks, we skated around and around and chatted about nothing and everything. Or at least I skated and he slid forward rather precariously. I wasn’t sure if I was more nervous that he was holding my hand or that he might fall and pull me down with him. Ironically, this is what I came to fear in the years to come - if I let anyone get too close they would be pulled down with me.
Every visit to the ice rink I watched as Conor arrived with a group of loud, boisterous, teenage boys. And yet there was something different about him - he was hesitant, and there was a sadness in his eyes. I couldn’t find reason for it in what he had told me of his life and I couldn’t dare to ask. He would be smiling along with his friends but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. I didn't understand the misery he seemed to keep almost - but not quite - under the surface.
After skating we began to group together in a café for fa
st food and slush puppies. Conor would always sit beside me, sometimes in companionable silence listening to the others chat excitedly about a movie or some gossip in one of our schools. Other times the two of us would talk quietly between us. Mid-week passed slowly and the weekends flew in as they tend to do.
Back then we didn’t all have mobile phones and social networking was still in its infancy. When you wanted to tell someone you liked them you had to say it to their face and I wasn’t brave enough to say the words. I was too afraid of the rejection.
“I like you.” he said, so simply, I almost didn’t realise what he had said.
I tried to figure out from the look on his face if he was joking or not, but he carried on speaking before I could say a word.
“You’re not like the other girls. They’re a bit too confident and forward. It makes me kinda nervous to be honest. And they laugh like a bunch of hyenas.”
I laughed at this. Anything to avoid actually responding to his admission.
At first, Alex had felt absurdly jealous of this sixteen year old boy, but now he felt something akin to him. Conor had noticed one of the many things that made Nina stand out from other girls. She had drawn Conor to her like she did to Alex much later in life. He saw the vulnerability in her at sixteen that showed when Alex first met her in her mid twenties, but it was more innocent back then. Alex hoped it was just the nervousness of a young girl still finding her way in the world. But for whatever reason, it was a vulnerability that had remained later in life.
One afternoon, as I was saying goodbye, Conor opened his mouth as if to say something else but hesitated before saying a word. I think he wanted to talk to me about something but I knew it wasn’t the right place for a personal conversation.
The Suicide Diary Page 2