The Suicide Diary Read Free Page A

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