I closed my laptop, put on a jacket, and looked at myself in the mirror for a few moments before I left. The mirror was a “cold shower”, only I used the remedy before I did something sinister, rather than after.
It was night and pushing close to 12 when I left. My lane was darker than usual; not many people left their porch lights on, and so I relied on the glow of the stars to illuminate my path. When I got to the hill descending down to the highway, the trees blotted out the stars, and so I used the occasional passing car to light the way. I tried remembering the sidewalk ahead when it was revealed by headlights, seeing where the bumps and cracks were so as not to trip and look like an idiot in front of myself. I was surely judging myself that night.
At the base of the hill, I crossed the street and made my way toward the ramp of highway. I had lived my whole life in this neighborhood, but it looked so bizarre at night, along with my screwy mindset. Turning right and up the incline, I felt scared, knowing that what I was doing; how I was walking, and where I was going, was an obvious red flag to any passerby. I continued up the ramp, my breath growing weaker and pace slowing. It wasn’t so much the physicality of walking up a slope, but the circumstance that I foresaw ahead of me that caused exhaustion.
Once reaching the crest of the exit, now level with the highway that stretched ahead, my walking sped up a little. It made me think of nature vs. nurture, and due to that overanalyzation, the pace slowed and I grew weak again. It was this kind of constant thinking and rationalizing that was making me weak. Further I tread on however, pushing aside ideas that would heal my heart and mind. With each step, I pushed away the answers I really needed. If light showed, I overlooked it - for my pain existed for a reason…everything needed a reason back then.
My reason for that night was… well I had to see what this whole suicide thing was about.
When I got to the bridge that loomed over the Merrimack River, I had only walked a few hundred feet on the highway. It seemed however to be a length without an end, and I had been walking for an eternity. I was so relieved to be atop the bridge. It was my destination reached, and a prospective last home. And so I felt at home, like I had a reason, like I had business to do.
So right on the center of the bridge I stood, swaying back and forth with every car that stirred past me. Some horns blew, but I disregarded them. It wasn’t any of their business. I watched them as they drove past however, seeing them as warning signs that came and went in the blink of an eye, much like the good thoughts that coalesced but for only a second in my mind before I ditched them for wallowing. Those good thoughts required action that was so much more difficult than resting in my little dark space, the room in my mind. In that room I could be as I wanted, and as said on The Rifleman, “a small room can be very big and very empty."I filled that space with memories that were tangible- almost. I loved to touch those thoughts, be close to them and feel comforted.
That was the reason for suicide. My present life didn’t give me what I wanted, yet the ideas and thoughts in my head entertained me and loved me still. If what I was living for was only conceptual, then why not be in a place where I’d be free from the physical world and all of its challenges? If anything, ditching this planet would give me a 50/50 chance at a sanctuary. Either there’d be something, or there wouldn’t be. Life had become too difficult, and to risk my “life” for there to be asylum — well — it was a risk I was willing to take.
Looking down at the waters below; swirling with flux and a nether-like appeal, it truly did seem like my portal to another world. The moon’s reflection in the water was the bull’s-eye, and hitting it would mean entering through the portal. It looked so nice.
That was the only charm however.
The sound of the current below, the water slamming against the pillars of the bridge, made this deafening roar. The vortex of wind created by the bridge’s hull added to the thunder. In fact, from all directions came drumfire. The traffic behind me was loud with the occasional horn. All together, the sound wasn’t normal. The world I had stepped into had neither rhyme nor reason, and that existence was not one I wanted to dive in headfirst.
I made my way back down the highway and off the exit, bitter and sore. That night I found out I had to live in this world.
(A painting I had done around that time)
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