I Used to Walk to the Manhattan Bridge and Think About Jumping Off

In my twenties I used to go for long Sunday walks in Brooklyn.

I'd wake up late, maybe hungover, maybe not, look at my bank account to make sure I could afford breakfast and go get a bagel and coffee. Afterwards, I'd start walking.

I'd go past the brownstones and past brunch spots, couples eating together, sometimes intertwined with each other, kissing over eggs benedict, or sipping coffee together. Past a group of friends laughing at brunch.

Why don't I have brunch friends? I'd ask myself. What's wrong with me?

I was lonely, had a job I didn't like, too much credit card debt. I felt stuck, as if my feet were in cement.

I'd walk the hour to the bridge. When I got to the middle of the bridge, I'd look down at the dark water. Thinking of jumping off, I could pretend like I was free, like I had a choice in my future.

I never had a specific plan to jump, it was only ideation. I just wanted that thrill of power knowing that while could end my life, I chose not to. I'd walk over the bridge, find a cozy bar, order a beer, and smile and tell myself I'd just saved my life.