This will sound like a wreck, like I am a wreck, or a ‘hot mess’ like my old girlfriend would say. At least I don’t make things harder than they need to be.
I have crossed this bridge many times, literally and figuratively. It passes from bland suburbia into the narrow strip of woodland, but we make the best of it. The bridge stands high over the creek and overlooks this relatively peaceful place. Not too many people walk over the bridge but the traffic runs all the time during the day.
Often enough I think of carrying out the clothesline still package-sealed in the basement, noose on one end and some kind of short post on the other. Then this hypothetical me box knots it around the bridge railing. The post would be there so I could drag myself up if the rope didn’t snap my neck. I have not looked up any formula for determining rope length.
I write all this, however, because of the positive spin I can take on all this bullshit.
For instance, I carried several loads of bamboo and milkweed across that bridge, walked over it countless times for hikes, rode over it in cars and on bikes. It was built the year after my birth. It’s like hypothetical me’s gone to die in one of the few places that brought some joy. My other plans follow a similar pattern.
I can’t say this is any sort of answer. Often I still think I’ll die alone on the streets if I don’t end it myself … but whatever, just trying.