Page 49 - The Bridge Vol 17_pgs

VOLume 17

I remember so vividly the way he looked away from me for a moment and said, “I almost…” his lips
puckering out and his fingers straightening until his fingertips touched the tip of his chin, forming a
gun. That wasn’t even how he planned to do it, but any gesture was easier to make than telling your
girlfriend, “I almost killed myself.”

* * *
Walk towards the window.
Tend to the plants and take in the sunshine.
Remember what else the book says and open the window to let out negative energy.
Spot the tree straight ahead in the backyard, notice how pale and dead it is. The way its dull gray
twigs paint the January sky with spiderwebs.

* * *
The tree inspires the memory of last January when I hit the worst point in my depression, which
entailed a heavy marijuana dependency, a habit of always crying when I found myself alone, and a
constant sense of existential dread. And even at that point I wasn’t at that point—the point of suicide.
Suicide, suicide… the word buries itself deep in my mind as if there are more unwanted memories to dig
up, but I don’t know why because I have dug them all up and I can’t think of what other terrible things
I have left to process until I remember the conversation I had with my mom during that really bad
point when she asked me if I wanted to and I told her no and that was true but I admitted to her that
sometimes I wondered if people would care if I did. I remember the sudden paleness of her face, the
trembling of her lips, the pain in her glossed-over eyes. I recognize the same pain now in her texts when
she sees me share something about mental health on Facebook and it still worries her even though
I’ve been doing so much better so she asks me if I’m okay and I’m glad she cares but I feel so guilty for
giving her that pain in the first place.

* * *
It hurts, it all hurts to remember, but I let it.
And when my eyes start to brim over with tears of pride for my growth and for our growth, I close
them and smile. When I open them again, my view is no longer just wooden spiderwebs in the sky.
Now, my view is painted scarlet by a cardinal perched on a branch of the bare tree.
And after a moment of confusion, I remember reading somewhere that cardinals are not migratory
birds. They don’t escape winter—they survive and triumph through the desolate cold.

“It hurts,

it all hurts to remember,
but I let it.” 47