On Friday, I found myself driving to the Colorado Street bridge- otherwise known as “Suicide Bridge.” I don’t know what exactly prompted my flight, but I had a panic attack at work and got into my car. I didn’t plan on going to the bridge; I just somehow ended up there. Once I parked the car, I was somehow comforted by the view, despite my fear of bridges.
It was cool out. The wind was crisp against my skin, but the sun felt warm. As I walked to the pedestrian entranced, I was greeted by this sign:
I was overwhelmed by some communal feeling. I kept walking, tears in my eyes, lump in my throat. As I walked, I peered over the edge, quietly talking to those that had taken the plunge years, months, weeks, days before me.
Lined along the fencing were yellow ribbons for suicide awareness.
I was feeling better, somehow. I had cried it out. I walked beside the fencing and began to tie the loose ribbons into bows. A man walked by me and asked me what I was tying. I told him.
Then, I went back to work, as if nothing had happened. I came back to my desk, clocked in. Moments before I was towering over concrete, purging my heart in the car. No one would ever know.