I remember crying on a bridge when I was a young woman—it was a beautiful bridge, very romantic-looking. The bridge had ornate lamps that lighted the surrounding with its glamour. Why was I crying? I wanted to kill myself. I know what you may think—that I was heartbroken—but no, I was not heartbroken but just “broke.” I was living in a moldy basement and was juggling part-time jobs to make ends meet. There is something significant about bridges that one cannot quite grasp; they carry some sort of a magical attraction when someone is desperate and in need to die.

The bridge’s allure is especially great during twilight, on a warm summer evening, when the lamps are lit. As I looked at the crimson sky, my sordid existence felt unreal and detached from the world that appeared too beautiful. I must have looked romantically tragic as I stood looking down the bridge with tears streaming down my face (I can be so theatrical). I don’t know how long I cried but was rather preoccupied with crying and almost savoring it. The more I calculated the distance to the ground from the bridge, the more I cried. It felt so sad to think of ending my life that was too pathetic. Thinking of jumping the bridge at such a young age felt sorrowful. Somehow, the glamour of the bridge must have instilled the tragic thoughts into my head: it desired me to take the leap—to my death. Dying was never so easy for all I had to do was jump and death would happen. I was lured by its seduction and wished for my demise. The idea of the end of all things was so appealing, but suicide is not so simple to carry out. I was willing but did not have the courage (plus, I suffered vertigo which didn’t help).

Unexpectedly, like an angel, a stranger asked me if I was all right. I was not all right but his question jolted me back to reality. I became embarrassed that someone noticed me crying (I must have looked a mess). Obviously, I was not too keen about dying if I was worried about my appearance. Shyly, I thanked the man and hurried off, fearful that the man might call the “suicide squad” (in case such a thing existed).

When I walked away from the bridge feeling foolish that I acted so theatrically, I wondered if I would think of killing myself again some other romantic evenings. In one moment, the bridge called out to me to die, the next moment I was more embarrassed than wanting to die. If I had a good meal before I walked across that bridge, I may not have thought of death even if I was darn “broke.” Since one lives to eat—at least for me—a good piece of steak would have been encouraging.