A translation of one the most heartbreaking diary entries in Tiziano’s first book.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Yesterday, in a pub, an Irish guy chatted me up. I had a beer in hand, he a vodka and coke. The man’s on a business trip. We watched TV while sitting at the bar while he alternated between sipping his cocktail and telling stories of his life in Ireland: his wife, three growing children that play in the soccer team that he coaches, some of his friends, lots of beer.
After a while, he asked me to follow him to his hotel. I didn’t accept, I was afraid.
Or at least that’s how it felt then and there, but now I know that what stopped me was the sadness.
To see a married man with his double life reopened the gate of insecurity, of a sense of guilt and inadequacy that I thought with time had at least parked itself elsewhere.
While enduring the aftermath of the awful relationship with myself, drowned in too many beers and in food, I realized that I was still very backward, very sad. I thought seriously of suicide.
Back home, I pulled out all the antidepressants given to me in advance, I deleted files from the computer, tidied the place up a bit and, after having estimated approximately the right dose to at least fall in a coma, I was ready.
I think I had never come so close as in that moment.
The bad thing is that I wasn’t even drunk. My mind was lucid, and luckily because of that clarity I became strong. The instinct lost for once and I’m proud of it. I threw the pills in the toilet, all of them. With one hand I threw them in, while with the other I flushed. Just in case I would reconsider.
I slept, I slept a lot without feeling guilty about unmet commitments.
This morning, two pills were still there. I watched while they stubbornly resisted the night of madness, while they floated on the water, half dissolved and ugly. I had the impression that they were only there to remind me of the horror of the gesture that I was about to commit. It seemed that they were looking at me to tell me of my stupidity, it annoyed me to see them.
Then I flushed quickly, hoping that they wouldn’t come back up anymore, neither they, nor my thoughts.
I don’t want to do this again. Never again.
I want to talk. I want to share this and any other problem with the world, I live too badly to continue like this… and it’s not fair.
Wednesday I see the psychologist. Then I want to talk to my father.
Like this I can’t go forward.
I find it absurd, at 29 years and with everything that I have, to think of killing myself, passing the days harboring hatred and resentment towards myself.
But what have I done wrong?
On Tuesday we record the TV program with Laura.
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