Just Say No to Bridges

"Get down now!  Get on the ground!  Do not resist me!"

I am at the top of a bridge, high over the Genesee River, my leg caught in a railing, with a police officer dragging at me and screaming at me to get on the ground.  I want to tell him I cannot because my leg is caught, but my voice doesn't seem to be working, and the harder he pulls the more it hurts.  Plus, I am now hanging awkwardly upside down, and despite the unbearable pain in my leg I think, I hope my pants don't get dragged off.  Eventually, when I feel certain my leg will break, I manage to squeak out that I really would love to comply but cannot.  By then more cops have arrived, and they ease me loose, where I am then handcuffed and led to the back of a police car with several giant bruises.

This is not a chapter in my criminal history, but a different sort of history, and one I never foresaw.  When I run into people I know, and they ask, "So, what are you up to?" my brain goes into panic mode.  I am not good at giving generalities, and if pressed for any more details, I crack like an egg and spill the goods.  However, I do try to mop up the mess a bit, because the hard truth might go something like this;

"Funny you should ask!  I first overdosed over the weekend in February 2011, but that was no big deal.  I had to drink some nasty charcoal, they sent me home, and I went back to work Monday.  Then in October, I was feeling keen on hanging myself, and called Lifeline.  The overly enthusiastic local cops arrived in a half dozen pack threatening to kick my door in, and I was whisked off to the hospital in an ambulance and admitted.  Since then, it has been almost non-stop overdoses, trips to the top of bridges, mental hygiene arrests, and hospital stays.  I can't pay the bills, or keep a job, and my marriage ended partly due to my mental illness.  Oh, and I live with Mom and Dad now."

There is an identifier I never imagined using for myself.  Mentally ill.  Icky and yucky.  The title has all kinds of negative connotations, and scares a lot of people.  Frankly, it frightens me.  When I was pounding away at my college papers, this was not part of the future plan.  I didn't take exams about how to survive weeks in the psyche ward, or maybe more importantly, how to survive real life after being discharged.  They did not lecture on how to navigate confusing diagnosis with fancy names, like Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and Borderline Personality Disorder, or the plethora of pills the doctors hand out with these diagnosis.  I never had Plan B For Financial, Mental, Emotional, and Marital Ruin.  There are a lot of things that have brought me here that I won't get into, but after one hospitalization for depression and being suicidal at the age of 16, I thought of that as something in the past that I could leave behind me if I worked hard enough at school, my jobs, and my marriage.

"Just go jump off a bridge," we used to say as kids.  When did that become a joke?  When you are standing at the top of a bridge staring far below and weighing your options, it doesn't seem terrible funny.  Maybe there is some subtle strain of humor I missed out on-

"So, Bobby jumped off a bridge last week."

"Bobby from accounting?"

"The one and only.  They still didn't find the bastard's body!" and everyone shakes their heads and chuckles.

Most people won't understand what drives someone to that extreme, or feel that it is a position they can easily relate to.  They will never be admitted to a psyche ward in their life, and will maybe never even know someone who has, or at least someone who admits to it.  I can't say exactly what my number of hospitalizations is, because I lost count back around 12.  I am not bragging to sound like the craziest fool out there, but because after just getting discharged a few days ago, and being determined to close the pages on this chapter of my life, I am wondering what comes next, how someone like me, with my tract record, best keeps from failing again.

I never intended to be a "someone like me."  Someone like mes are mentally insane, serial killers, arsonists, people with terrible diseases, etc. (On a side note, I don't really believe in someone like mes anymore, because I believe people fundamentally all have issues and are flawed in some way).  I spent all of my life trying very hard to be a "someone like everyone else" to blend in and stay invisible, because I was so insecure, afraid, and ashamed.  Now instead of blending in (which clearly I am not very successful at any more) or hiding, I want to discover who I am, and not be driven to the top of any more bridges along the way.  I appreciate the services of the law enforcement officers, paramedics, nurses, doctors, and techs who have kept me safe while I was too distraught to even want to live, but I don't want to go back to those dark places.

I usually leave the hospital with a lot of oomph, determination, and hopeful optimism.  All the hospital staff cheers you on and claps you on the back as they gently herd you out of the locked doors and into the surprisingly bright and noisy world outside.  All of the people who have not fled in terror out of your life or burned out like candles against a bonfire also join in that "we believe in you!" spirit (although it gets more lackluster around time ten).  After lack of success a couple of dozen times, while I recognize this as a journey, and one I need God to gain the victory over, I also see that in part, to kick this thing's butt,  I need to learn to say no to pills, say no to razors, say no to homemade gallows, and of course, bridges.

So nothing against you bridges; in theory you are still beautiful and I may one day again enjoy you safely, but for now I am saying No to Bridges.