And then one day, all of my unhappiness and anxiety and regret began taking over me. What was I doing anymore? I had made it big, but where was there to go from here? Down? Hell no, I wasn’t going down. I came to a brick wall and had no idea what I would become. I looked at Frances, so beautiful, so innocent; I never wanted for her to end up like me; a self-destructive, miserable death rocker. I would do everything I could to protect her.

Then on the other hand is my b**** of wife, Courtney. Did I do this to her? Did I obliviously manipulate her into a sociopath? I saw so much of Courtney’s beauty in Frances and it tore me apart knowing that if my parenting skills went wrong she could potentially end up like her lunatic mother.

I was working toward getting noticed, making music to heal people, to entertain people. And I made it. Nirvana had finally made it out of the streets of Seattle. Now what? Do I lie to everyone and pretend to love performing? Because I don’t. I hate it. I feel so much guilt for making everyone believe that I love what I do. They classify me a punk rocker and I hate it. Punk rock? They’re telling me what genre of music I’m making? What the hell is going on.

“I’ll kill you Kurt! Am I not good enough for you?! After all, I am the reason for Frances. You’re lucky that you’re her father!” Does she ever stop her b****ing? I have a constant headache from her. At home it’s like Satan himself is speaking to me. During these times I just look into Frances’ eyes and worry for her future. This can’t be healthy. A passive aggressive father, and an over-aggressive potentially violent mother.

The thing is, that potentially violent, lunatic of a b**** is the woman I love. She birthed my daughter, and I don’t have enough hatred toward her to leave. And if I left, she would find some way to take Frances from me indefinitely. So you see my dilemma? I’m stuck and only want to be happy, and want my daughter to be happy. I don’t enjoy what I do but I’ve already made it this big so there’s no turning back now. I’m not trying to be the next Elvis, some prick who overdoses, because that is so cliché. But I also don’t want to be known as Kurt Cobain, the one who quit.

Making music used to be my escape and now it’s not. I can’t turn to Courtney for comfort because she is the devil. Frances is too young to understand even a complex sentence. I have no one. My family is messed up and they wouldn’t understand anyways.

I fantasize about how great it would be to be dead. No more responsibility, no more feelings of guiltiness. No longer unhappy with my loveless marriage. It would all just be done. But am I gonna be the next Elvis and OD, take the easy way out? No. I go about things like a man and leave a note.

S***, violent suicide. Why has my life come to this? I’m crying thinking about how screwed up everything is turning out to be for me. I want to be around to provide for Courtney and Frances. I want to help Courtney change her psychotic ways, but I can’t. Whenever I try to get close enough to encourage change she flips. Threatens me. Says she’ll hire a hit man to do her dirty work, she’s crazy man. I don’t know what I got myself into. I sit here thinking and contemplating what I am to do, while shooting up. I know this is bad but man does it take my pain away. The pain in my stomach and heart and brain all alleviate, and I get this nice high feeling off of it. One time, Courtney tried teaching me a lesson by slipping some narcs into my drink after I had shot up, but I’m still alive, unfortunately.

Seven days ago was when I had last seen Frances and I thought it would be better this way. Courtney, that b****, hasn’t even stopped by once. Our marriage is just a piece of paper now. I cry listening to all my recorded Nirvana shows on tape. The fans all believed I was happy and they were happy because of it. I sit looking around my big house in Seattle and remember the times I had slept on sidewalks and under bridges, clutching cassette tapes, hoping something would come through. I had it all, but I didn’t. The thoughts aren’t stopping and the pain is increasing. My shotgun seems to be beckoning for me to come closer.

I’m now sitting in the loft upstairs with a pad of paper and a pen. I tell of my struggle and my misery and explain how this is the only option left. I make sure Courtney knows that this will be best for Frances. I title it to Boddah, my childhood (imaginary) friend. Boddah needs to know why I’m choosing to do this as well.

Leaning against the wall, I’m crying thinking of Frances and Nirvana. I’ve loaded my shotgun and it’s in my hands. I’m yelling and crying because the things I loved more than myself can’t save me now. I’m thinking of my mother, my father, my aunt. Thinking of the day when me and Courtney got married and I wore pajamas because I was too lazy for a tux. Thinking of Dave and how he has such talent, and how I’m ruining his drumming career by doing this. The pain is taking over, my head is pounding, hands are shaking as they are lifting up the shotgun to my head. I open my mouth with one last cry and lay the shotgun inside. I think of Frances and….