I started listening to the birds that surrounded my house. I started listening to God, myself, your radio station. I started listening to breezes even though there was a layer of mania to wade through. Lean in, Cat. It’s not that I wanted to be dramatic. Let go, Cat. Its that I was by nature. Jump off the bridge, Cat. A bit theatrical.
I should have been an actress or a dancer. A performer. More than a mannequin, a mover. Now, I am eight weeks into a very psychotic manic episode calmly trying to stop myself from committing suicide daily. Jump off the bridge, Cat. You should know I am trying not to talk to you about it at the same time. You should know if I ever killed myself, I would always leap from something to conquer my fear of heights. You can fly, Cat.
I assumed this was purgatory.You’re in purgatory, Cat. I remember staring at the oval mirror and watching my face sort of melt and thinking, this is it. They are all in on the joke and I am the last one to know I am already dead. To jump off the bridge was to win. To show them I got it. I got the joke. I was trying not to text you something that said
I know I am dead now. We don’t have to pretend.
Every day I walked across the bridge. Bold, I would lean over letting the cold wind hit my face or on my more infantile days, sort of scurry in and out of the bike lane as far from the railing as possible. It was cold. I took the gloves on and off and kept the straw tucked into my palm. At all times, I had to have the straw near.
“I’m gonna do it one day,” I let plumes of crystal linger in the air.
Lean over, Cat.
My hair was covered by a knit hat.
“One day I will do it.”
My fingers exposed and cracking. I brush the fingertip of a strange man.
Good girl, Cat!
“One day, I am gonna run into you again and jump off the bridge just to spite you.”
I began my way through the small center city crowd, going nowhere and freezing.