Day 219 after you died and I am remembering how when I wrote to you two years and one month ago, we hadn’t spoken in awhile.
I was in a bad place, having recently lost my income and a longtime friend all in one fell swoop. I was already wobbly before these losses and the fresh losses decided me. I didn’t want to live anymore was a thought I’d had before but now I was ready to act on it.
I watched the documentary The Bridge seven times. I can see it from my window - the bridge, not the documentary. I planned to walk all the way to the bridge and see if I’d be brave enough to jump off. It was not a good plan because I am afraid of heights but because of the documentary I knew it could be done and that was the point, not being able to take it back or be rescued was the point.
Only one person has ever survived jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge. I tried to ignore the fact when asked if he regretted it his answer was “Of course - immediately and every day”. So he *did* have time for thoughts on the way down, was what I took away from that interview. It was discouraging.
I was afraid of pain but even more afraid of second thoughts.
Then I remembered - I’d already solved the problem of how - starting up the car in the garage and falling asleep in the front seat. No mess - or at least a limited one, a mess with no blood. It would be bad if the neighbors found me and not my husband - it would be bad if my husband found me too of course but I wasn’t thinking clearly, I just felt that if I didn’t leave a bloody mess it would all somehow be okay. I figured my husband would be too mad and disappointed in me to feel grief (that’s probably wrong). I didn’t even think about my friends, or the dog, or even my sister. I was lost in darkness.
Of all the people in the world I could have chosen to write to, I wrote to you. My guilt over our divorce was still severe, a pain I have always felt I deserved. Selfish to the end I was looking not for absolution but just to let you know that I wasn’t all bad - that I was at least sorry. That I changed, improved, and it was because of you. That I appreciated you.
We’d fallen out of touch over a minor falling out when we sold the house. You made what was for me an unforgettable remark. I thought you were seriously angry with me and no longer wanted to know me which was totally wrong but I was in a state of dysfunction and not thinking rationally. I was hurt, not sure to what degree you had meant that remark (or even remembered it). When I wrote my condolences regarding your dad and grandma, your reply was stilted, brief, and did not cross the line from politeness to warmth. This felt like proof you didn’t like me; of course it never crossed my mind to wonder how your business was going, and your marriage. I know R. suffered one miscarriage, maybe there were more, or family issues.
And you, not knowing I was in crisis, not knowing I expected to be dead before you replied, you answered my letter with generosity and kindness. You praised our life together and told me I was and would always be an important part of your life.
I will never know for sure if you had your diagnosis already - if not, it was just days away.
I never told anyone of the desperation of that night. The shame so great at being too weak to face my difficulties. The darkness that felt so impenetrable. Your generous response broke through like a pencil thin beam of light. We didn’t mention it the next time we saw each other - it was on my mind, of course, but your mind was full of the news you didn’t know how to reveal. And months later, after you had told me of the diagnosis, watching you fight so hard to live just another few years, I knew I would never again hold my own life so loosely. I am grateful every day to you for this. I will do my best to forgive myself, as I know you would want me to, and create joy wherever and whenever I can, for every day I live.