Tag: mental health

A Desperate Plea to Future Mental Health Professionals from an Adult-Diagnosed Autistic

There is a tsunami of adult autistic trauma out there. We need your help.

I was just diagnosed with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) in December of 2022, a few weeks before my 58th birthday. I wrote about what caused me to seek this diagnosis here. I’m rather new at this stuff, and I’ll be blogging quite a bit about various aspects of it as I go along, reading and learning and wondering what this means for me, as I suspect that quite a few other people are experiencing a similar thing.

Check out my autism category for a list of relevant blog posts, and never forget that 1) I’m just one person, writing about my personal experiences with a thing I only just learned I had. 2) No two people on the spectrum are alike. 3) I am not a medical or mental health professional. 4) I’m not attempting to write a one size fits all autism advice column.

Recently discovering that I have been walking around for nearly 6 decades with autism has given me a completely different perspective on my past, present and future. At first, my ASD diagnosis had me feeling euphoric. Finally! Answers! Vindication!

But the more I learn about my condition, the more reality is setting in for me. I don’t think I realized how profoundly everything in my life would be impacted by this new understanding. I wish I had more support, but services for adult autistics are very thin on the ground.

That really surprises me, because there are an estimated 5.4 million autistic adults in America alone. Despite searching online for hours, I couldn’t find a breakdown as to how many of those were diagnosed as children, how many were diagnosed as an adult, how many suspect but aren’t pursuing a diagnosis, and how many of us are wandering around feeling broken and confused and clueless about autism, like I was a month ago.

Naturally, I feel for that last group the most. Not understanding the why of things can be really isolating and upsetting. Having answers is such a relief, but it’s a bit of a double-edged sword. The majority of us who have managed to fly under the radar this long are most likely highly intelligent and relatively functional, so it would be easy for mental health professionals to assume we don’t need help. But I’m here to tell you that I really, really need help. Here are some of the issues that I’m dealing with.

I’m finding the acceptance process to be similar to that of mourning. I have good days and bad days. There is anger and depression for sure. I haven’t exactly experienced denial or bargaining, but I have no idea how I’m going to feel from one moment to the next.

Sometimes I feel joy because I’m finally finding my tribe, and the more I read about autism, the more I understand about myself. Other times I feel the harsh reality of the prejudices people have about autism, and how those prejudices affect me on a daily basis. One loved one no longer speaks to me, and I’m guessing that’s because she is not willing to discard the drama queen lens through which she has always viewed me. It’s a shame, because she’s the only person left who might be able to give me answers about things that I’m wondering about from my childhood. So in that way, it really does feel like I’m mourning someone I love.

It also feels like I’m meeting myself for the first time. I’m not sure who my authentic self is anymore. After a lifetime of masking my symptoms in an unconscious attempt to fit in, I’m no longer sure what is real. All of that is a lot to unpack, and I am mostly having to do it all alone.

Dear Husband has been extremely supportive and willing to listen, though. In that I’m extremely lucky. He has read quite a bit on the subject, too. But this is essentially one of those you-had-to-be-there scenarios, and I’m happy to say that he’s never had to be there before. I’m having to deal with a lot of guilt because of the extra burden this places on him, too, although he’s never said so. He’s willing to go there with me, but I’m sure it wasn’t in his original 5 year plan.

Looking back at my childhood through the lens of autism is clearing up a lot of confusion for me. The extreme effort my mother put into trying to get me to make friends felt like torture to me at the time, and ultimately it didn’t work, but I can understand why a mother would want her daughter to be more “normal”. To be clear, she never made me feel like I was weird. Society needed no assistance on that score. I just wish she had been able to talk to me honestly about how atypical I was, because then the “what’s wrong with me” battle that raged within me wouldn’t have felt quite as lonely, and maybe I wouldn’t have felt like such a failure at life. But little was known about autism back then, and I’m sure she did the best she could.

Services for autistic adults are, as I said, practically non-existent. I was on a waiting list for 6 months before I was finally evaluated, and now I’m on yet another waiting list to get help from the University of Washington’s Adult Autism Clinic. They told me it would probably take a year. Meanwhile, I’m barely sleeping because wave upon wave of new perspectives about my past keep crashing over me, and I feel like I’m having to tread water.

The need for these services are not going to go away. As autistic children “age out” of the services they now receive, what then? Do they get to fall into this crack with the rest of us? And the more adults get diagnosed, the more they’ll talk to others, many of whom will attempt to seek a diagnosis as well. You might say that adult autism is a growth industry.

From a capitalist perspective, it stuns me that there is such a potentially lucrative unmet need out there, and no one appears to be making an effort to fill it. Hence my desperate plea to future mental health professionals. We need you so badly.

I’ve seen so many therapists who did not spot my autism and sent me on wild goose chases that did not result in any healing or answers. I am trying to find a counselor who takes my insurance and has experience with autism. But so far they’re either not accepting new patients, or they don’t take insurance and want to charge anywhere from $150 to $250 per session, which makes them well out of reach to the majority of us. I’ve also looked for support groups, and they are, indeed, out there. For an equally high fee.

I know I’ll get hooked into the system, however flimsy it may be, eventually. But I’m struggling right now, and crashing into brick walls at every turn. Advocating for myself is stressful and exhausting. I cannot imagine how someone who is even less functional would be able to handle it. I’m sure many give up in despair.

There is a tsunami of adult autistic trauma out there. If you don’t believe me, check out this YouTube video by Orion Kelly about Autism and Self Hatred. It’s heartbreaking to hear this man suffering so profoundly. He does videos about autism on a regular basis, and they’re raw and vulnerable and honest and enlightening. But this one, in particular, is gut-wrenching.

Even if you don’t have time to watch his video, I urge you to scroll down on its page and read some of the 1,442 comments that it has garnered at the time of this writing. Being autistic can come with a lot of baggage. Spending so much time trying to be something you’re not while trying so hard not to be a burden is stressful and exhausting. That in turn causes health issues.

So much pain and loneliness, frustration and anger, confusion and depression is out there. We as a society shouldn’t be wait-listing all this trauma. If we want our communities to be mentally healthy, we need to meet these needs.

Speaking only for myself, I wouldn’t want to be cured even if I could be (and by the way, I can’t). What I want is coping skills and support. I want to feel less alone and more capable. I believe I can achieve that and still be me. But I need help.

I have this fantasy that someday there will be a clinic without a waiting list. This clinic will provide counseling, even to those who are self-diagnosed, and especially to those who cannot afford it. This clinic would provide prompt evaluations and teach life skills to those who need them. It would provide and/or host support groups, and, since we’re dreaming, here, it would even have a quiet, warmly lit café/library to hang out in when you’re feeling misunderstood and overwhelmed. Perhaps it should be called an adult autism community center, which leaves room for all sorts of services and opportunities.

Those of us who find ourselves in the lost generation of adult autistics have been neglected our entire lives. On the whole, this neglect was unintentional. Nevertheless, it happened. Imagine how devastating it is to discover that, even after a diagnosis, that neglect will continue.

We need you. Please don’t forget us yet again. We still have a lot of living to do. Most people, whether they’re on the spectrum or not, just want to live their best lives.

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It Doesn’t Take Much to Feel Fulfilled

Life satisfaction is closer than one might think.

I once told someone who seemed to be very unhappy that she needed to get something that was “just for her.” She thought I was telling her to get a job which she didn’t financially need, or that she should buy something. She felt resentful that I didn’t think the money earned by her partner was also hers.

When I realized the confusion, I rushed to clarify. I wasn’t referring to money. Who cares about money, as long as you have food, clothing, and shelter? Money really doesn’t bring you happiness. I know a lot of very unhappy rich people.

No, I was referring to having something that she could do to bring her fulfillment. Something she could take pride in. Something that would give her satisfaction. It doesn’t have to do with money or things, necessarily. It just should be something that was hers.

And it turns out, according to this article, that work is strongly linked with mental health, but I would define work a little more broadly than this author does. I’d include volunteering as work. I’d also include having a project that matters to you.

Most of us in America work 40 hours a week. That is thanks to unions. Before that, many people were forced to work nearly every waking moment of their lives. Needless to say, this led to burnout and did not provide any sort of life satisfaction.

While I’m grateful for unions for some employment respite, I have no idea how they arrived at that particular number of hours per week. But because of that, we’ve kind of gotten into the habit of thinking that anything less than that is not a “real” job. That, to me, is a shame.

According to this article, there is a premise that as technology increases, there will be fewer work opportunities for the average person. Therefore, a study was conducted to determine what the minimum amount of hours should be per week in order to get the mental health boost one receives from working. This boost comes in the form of emotional fulfillment, a routine, social interaction, shared goals, variety, and identity.

The fascinating conclusion that the researchers reached was that we only really need to work 8 hours a week for mental health. From 9 hours to 48, the emotional boost doesn’t increase, nor does it decrease. After 48 hours, mental health drops off precipitously, as it does for those who do no work at all by my definition.

So, yeah, I could see myself working 8 hours a week. Of course I’d need some sort of basic income to supplement that, but as we begin to realize that capitalism isn’t the perfect philosophy it has been trumped up to be, we’re considering basic income as a possible solution, too. Sign me up!

Whatever plans the world implements, I strongly suspect that I wouldn’t recognize the society we create 50 years from now. And that excites me, even though I won’t be around to experience it. I genuinely do not believe that humans were put on this earth to be cogs in an industrial wheel, and I foresee creativity and art and imagination blooming when we’re given time to stretch those wings.

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Spring Fever in the COVID Era

It’s more about the Fever and less about the Spring this year.

I just watched two people get into a shoving match on the sidewalk of my bridge. Apparently the masked one felt that the unmasked one had gotten too close. But now the cautious one just touched the incautious one with his hands. That was probably not the best idea.

I’ve also seen two women get into a shouting match over the last bag of flour at the grocery store. I thought they were going to throw down right on the spot. I beat a hasty retreat before the flour had a chance to fly.

I’ve had several absurd misunderstandings with friends on social media this past week. Some were a matter of me losing patience with ignorance that I’d normally let slide. In some cases I suspect alcohol was involved, and there’s no reasoning with that. Still others were the result of me shooting off my mouth and having to apologize afterward. It’s as if everyone’s nerves are on the surface of their skin.

This year’s spring fever is more about the fever and less about the spring. The usual excitement this time of year has turned into restlessness and frustration. Social distancing is turning into emotional distancing. People are really starting to lose the plot. I don’t know about you, but there’s only so much I can take.

We have to remember that we’re all afraid. Some of us fear for our lives, others fear for their livelihood. Many fear for both.

Many of us realize that the scary statistics only relate to confirmed cases, and not very many of us have been tested. Have you? I sure haven’t. That, and a lot of countries are under-reporting because they feel that the truth would make them look bad. And a lot of people are dying at home, and the health care system simply can’t keep track. No one really has a clue as to how flat the curve actually is.

No matter where you stand on the issue, one thing is certain: we all want this to be over. If only wishing could make it so. If only declarations from our so-called leaders would make COVID disappear. But there’s no happily ever after in our immediate future. This will not be a sprint or even a marathon. It will be a long, heavy slog.

We’re just going to have to make an extra effort to be patient with one another. We’re going to have to avoid shoving matches and flour fights. We need to engage in radical self-care. We need to realize that there’s no force on earth that will make the deniers do the same, so we’ll just have to give them a wide berth and hope that the fittest will survive.

And for those of us who feel we’re not coping by intestinal fortitude alone, there are resources out there, and I strongly urge you to take advantage of them. A longtime reader of this blog (Hi Lyn!) sent me a very useful link entitled COVID-19 and Your Mental Health, and it’s full of a ton of helpful advice and lists of organizations that are waiting to assist you. Please don’t hesitate to reach out.

We can do this. It may not be pretty and it definitely won’t be fun, but we can do this. I promise.

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Dissociation

It was an effective coping mechanism for me, as things go.

I remember very little from ages 11 through 13. I had been through a lot up to that point. Raised by a single mother, never knowing my father, never seeing one penny of child support, and relying on welfare, I always felt the financial stress radiating off of the head of my household in large, turbulent waves. The earth never felt quite stable beneath my feet. It was as if we could all be washed away at any moment.

Then, when I was 7, she married my stepfather, mostly as a financial hail Mary, and it worked for a time. I was uprooted from my life in the projects, a known quantity at the very least, and transported to mansions and vacations and rooms full of presents. It was all very disconcerting, especially while being an outside observer of a mutually beneficial yet loveless marriage.

Then at age 10, they lost everything. And by that I mean everything. My stepfather lost his job, and everything came tumbling down like a house of cards.

We wound up camping our way down the east coast, and going to Florida, where we hoped to find a better life. This was a culture I didn’t understand. I was taken away from everything I knew, everything that made sense to me. We continued to “camp” for 7 excruciating years.

During my whole childhood, I buried myself in books. Books were my shield against the instability going on around me. A recent meme that I saw on Facebook really hit home. It said, “Reading is just staring at a dead tree and hallucinating. This happens to be my favorite hobby.”

Books were my safe place in an unpredictable world. I carried one everywhere I went. Disappearing into a book was good practice for what was to come.

At age 11, the sexual abuse started. I was unable to cope with having my stepfather, an adult who I was taught would always know best and do what’s best for me, do this. So I went away. It wasn’t a conscious decision on my part. It’s just what I did.

Oh, I was still there, physically. Unfortunately. But “I” was gone. I had crawled deep inside myself, where no one could touch me or hurt me. I hibernated deep within my mind. I checked out. For two years.

And the funny thing is, no one around me seemed to notice. In fairness, my whole family had a lot to deal with at the time, but from an adult perspective, I find it exceedingly strange that no one saw that I was just going through the motions that entire time.

During that period, apparently, I was learning how to multiply fractions in school. To this day, I can’t do it. People have taught me over the years, and what they say makes sense, and I get it, for about a half hour. Then it’s gone again. Fortunately it is a skill I’ve managed to live without.

I remember “waking up”. Suddenly, one day, I became aware of what was going on around me. It was a very abrupt transition. It was like having the lights turned on and realizing, whoa, there are things happening outside of myself.

I think it had to do with the fact that at age 13 I threatened to kill my stepfather if he ever touched me again, and he looked at me and realized I wasn’t joking. I’d have done it.

And just like that, the abuse stopped. (And yes, I told my mother. She told me I was making too much of it, and she stuck to that opinion and carried it to her grave.)

My stepfather and I maintained an uneasy, awkward, uncomfortable and distant relationship until my mother finally wised up and divorced him when I was about 23. They both died within a month of each other three years later. I kind of expected that to be liberating. It wasn’t, really.

To this day, when things get too much for me, I go away. Usually for short periods. Often it’s just a few minutes, so that I can gather myself. Mainly it manifests in the desperate need to be left alone and the desire to pull the sheets up over my head to take a nap. Sometimes it’s just escaping into a game app.

I also attribute my continuing love of books and sleep, my healthy imagination, and my need for travel and all other escapist pursuits to a minor form of dissociation. So is the fact that I thrive while working alone on my drawbridge. I don’t think that’s particularly unhealthy or destructive. No one gets hurt. The bills get paid. For the most part I’m really happy now, which is very unexpected and never ceases to feel like a miracle. I’ll never take that for granted.

As a psychologist once said to me, I was born 30 yards deep in my own end zone, so the fact that I’m playing on the field at all is pretty darned impressive. Dissociation was an effective coping mechanism for me, as such things go. I survived. I doubt I could give up this lifetime habit at this late date.

Dissociation comes in many forms. At the extreme end, you have multiple personality disorder. I’m fairly positive I never went that far. At the opposite end of the spectrum, you call in sick from work, stay in your jammies, and binge watch Game of Thrones for several hours. That’s not so bad, is it?

Now, if I could just shake the feeling that I’m much weirder and more out of touch than the average person. That would be nice. That would be heavenly.

Dissociation.jpg

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Hostile Poetry

Don’t just bare your soul and leave it out there, exposed to the elements…

I will be the first to admit that writing can be very therapeutic. I have vented my spleen enough in this blog to be able to attest to this firsthand. And I highly recommend journaling or expressing yourself creatively when you are trying to work through your feelings. It can go a long way toward helping you communicate assertively with the person or persons who stirred up these emotions within you.

That’s the healthy scenario.

And then there are those who write bitter diatribes instead of communicating. They sit on those feelings for a decade or more, and let them fester and eat away at their souls. They can’t grow up or move on, like 13-year-olds trapped in aging bodies.

I got to read one such poem the other day, in which the author stated that he’d get a vicarious thrill in watching someone else get hurt. It really made me sad about his arrested development and his inability to communicate and get past his pain.

That this person chose to post this in a public forum makes me question his mental health. It’s a cry for help, but it’s an impotent one. It puts the focus on the pain instead of on the healing. The only thing it achieves is making others feel sorry for him.

Yes, there’s no guarantee that the instigator of your pain is going to understand or apologize or make you feel better if you try to talk to him or her. That person may not even be in your life anymore. But vomiting out your emotions for the world to see will only cause you to be pitied.

Write and then communicate. Or write to educate. Or just write. Or just communicate. Or seek therapy.

But don’t wear your wounds on your forehead for the world to wince at and then do absolutely nothing to treat them. It’s not a good look. And it sure as hell isn’t healthy.

Just a little head wound

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Weird Travel Syndromes

As an avid traveler, I’m not unaware of the inherent dangers of going to countries that aren’t your own. Getting caught up in political tensions. Breaking laws or making a cultural faux pas due to your own ignorance. Getting lost. The inability to communicate. Losing one’s passport. Misunderstandings. Being considered vulnerable and therefore getting targeted by criminals. I even knew someone once who got into a car accident in a third world country and wound up getting hepatitis from an unclean blood transfusion. Years later, she died as a result.

Travel is not for sissies. Do your homework. Take precautions.

But until today I didn’t realize that there were also mental health risks. The fear of losing one’s luggage is scary. But actually becoming psychotic? Yikes.

I heard someone mention Paris Syndrome this morning. It intrigued me, so I looked it up in the Font of All Human Knowledge, also known as Wikipedia. Now, be advised that none of the syndromes I mention in this post can be found in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. But it fascinates me that they crop up enough to have actual names.

It seems that Paris Syndrome can occur when one visits that fair city and experiences extreme shock when it does not live up to expectations. I do remember that on my first visit, I was disappointed that all the food was not phenomenal, and surprised that most people on the streets were not wearing haute couture. But I got over it.

Not everyone does. Some people experience delusions, hallucinations, dizziness, tachycardia, and perspiration, among other things. It’s like culture shock, writ large. For some reason, it seems to happen to Japanese tourists more than any other group. I have no idea why.

From there, as often happens when surfing Wikipedia, I was led to an article about Jerusalem Syndrome. This one occurs when someone visits Jerusalem and experiences religious delusions. It used to be called “Jerusalem squabble poison”, and it has been occurring since the Middle Ages. Tour guides are trained to look out for it, in the hopes that they can nip it in the bud before the sufferer steals the hotel bed sheets, wraps himself up in them, and then delivers a nonsensical sermon at one of the holy places in the city. Good grief.

And then there’s Stendhal Syndrome. This one happens in Florence, Italy. It’s named after the first known victim, a writer from the early 1800’s. With this syndrome, one is apparently so overcome by the art of Florence, and the presence of the graves of notables such as Machiavelli, Michelangelo, and Galileo, that one experiences ecstasy, dizziness, and disorientation.

For the most part, these syndromes seem to resolve themselves when the tourist leaves the cities in question, but area hospitals are used to admitting patients with these symptoms. It’s enough to make you want to stay home.

Well, no it isn’t. But it certainly makes you think.

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Again

Our children are dying. 18 school shootings so far this year. (But it must be noted that this number is controversial, and depends on one’s definition of a school shooting. Still, I think we can agree that even one is too many.) We are not even through February. What’s the magic number? How many have to die, how many have to cower in closets, terrified, before we do more than think and pray?

How many funerals must be held before we decide that there is absolutely no reason for anyone outside of the military to own a semi-automatic weapon? What’s the tipping point when shame will overtake greed and force politicians to act? When will mental health care (and health care in general, for that matter) become a priority in this country?

We need to put the NRA, President Trump, and the US Congress on notice. Every shooting, every single one, is blood on their hands. They are responsible. They need to be held accountable. Their inaction is criminal and should be prosecuted accordingly. Because of them, people are dying.

Oh, and by the way, fuck you and your right to bear arms.

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Reach Out

I used to love to sit on my porch swing when I owned a house in Jacksonville, Florida. I could look out on the park across the street and take in a game of softball or lacrosse, or watch people come and go from the public library. I especially enjoyed seeing the various neighborhood dogs as they walked their humans. For such a big city, my neighborhood had a rather bucolic vibe.

One day I was drinking lemonade and lazily swinging back and forth, trying to kick up enough of a breeze to beat the stifling humidity, when this woman came down the sidewalk looking so shell-shocked that I had to ask her if she was okay. She looked at me for a second, and then pointed over her shoulder and said, “A guy… he just hung himself from a tree.” And then she walked away.

Wait. What??? I immediately jumped up. I remember hearing the porch swing chains clank. (It’s funny what you remember at times like those.)

And sure enough, when I looked down the street, about a dozen police cars were descending on a house about a block away. They had to cut his body down. I was never able to pass that tree again without thinking about it.

I didn’t know the guy. That house was a rental, and no one ever seemed to stay very long. But I kind of felt as though we had let each other down.

Clearly, someone within hollering distance of me had been in deep despair. Obviously, he wanted help or he wouldn’t have chosen to hang himself in his front yard across the street from a public library. I wish I had known.

If you need help, you have to ask for it. That was his responsibility. Mine was to keep my eyes open and my heart open to being a force for good. You speak. I listen. It takes two.

I wish he had spoken up. I don’t know what I could have done. I don’t pretend to be anyone’s savior. But maybe he could have sat with me on my porch swing. We could have talked about inconsequential things. Maybe that tiny bit of routine could have made just enough of a difference. Maybe I could have told him about the sliding-scale mental health clinic within walking distance. We’ll never know, now.

I’m not saying what happened was my fault. But it still makes me sad to think I was relaxing on my swing and sipping lemonade while he was throwing a noose over a tree branch less than a hundred yards from me. What a tragedy. What a waste.

Porch Swing

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Pick on Someone Your Own Size

Of all the collateral damage caused by our Grand Poobah, I have to say I feel the most sorry for Barron Trump. If he’s not being criticized about being sleepy at 3 in the morning, he’s being called “Poor Little Rich Boy” or being accused of mental health issues.

Childhood is hard enough without being bullied by the internet trolls and the comedians of this world. We all have scars from the cruelties we experienced growing up, but there’s absolutely no excuse for this. Give the kid a break. There are some lines that no one should ever cross.

Barron Trump did not ask for any of this. He didn’t choose his parents or the paths they decided to take in life. He had absolutely no say in the matter. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be him. He will never experience the luxury of a normal life. His father is fair game, but he isn’t.

Satire is fine. Criticism is often necessary. Opinions have a right to be expressed. You don’t have to agree with me. I don’t have to agree with you. But direct your slings and arrows at the adults of this world. Pick on someone your own size.

Say what you will, but at the end of the day, this is just a 10 year old boy. And he’s a 10 year old boy who gets to look forward to experiencing puberty under public scrutiny. Can you imagine?

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The Perfectly Wrong Thing

Without a doubt, the absolute worst part about being a bridgetender is the jumpers. When I see someone attempting suicide, it leaves me feeling sick at heart. I truly believe that life is precious, and that no matter how awful it can sometimes be, the pendulum is bound to swing back the other way sooner or later.

But you can’t work on a drawbridge without seeing someone standing on a railing at some point. I have a theory that people who choose manned drawbridges as their place to end it all are doing so as a cry for help. After all, there are plenty of fixed and unoccupied bridges out there, and they’re usually higher. Why choose one that comes with a bridgetender?

This happens a lot more often than the public realizes. Fortunately, in the vast majority of cases, help arrives in time and they’re able to talk the person out of making this final, irreversible decision. Because the first thing I do, of course, is dial 911.

You see, I’m not a trained first responder. I’m not a mental health professional. And even though I have given it a great deal of thought, and have even written a post about what I’d say to a jumper, it’s the most important moment in that person’s life. Here’s someone who has decided that he or she feels completely out of control, and the only power left is to choose to stop living. That’s the last person on earth who needs to hear my ham-handed opinions.

So generally I call 911 and then gaze out the window, saying “Don’t do it… don’t do it… don’t do it” under my breath, like a prayer. I leave it to the professionals, and hope for a happy ending. And then I feel sick and jumpy until the end of my shift, and often vomit out the adrenaline when I get home. Talk about a bad day at the office.

But there was this one time. A time when I did everything wrong. I still have very mixed emotions about that incident.

I had been having a really bad day. I mean, one for the record books. I can’t even remember what the situation was, but I was kind of at the end of my rope myself. And then I looked out and saw a guy on the railing. Great. Just great.

And all of a sudden I got really, really angry. I guess it all became too much. And I thought of someone I loved who had died recently, and I know if he had been given a chance to live he’d have grabbed it with both hands and never let go. And yet here was this guy on the railing, about to throw it all away.

The last thing you should do when someone is contemplating suicide is yell at them. But I was seeing red. My ears were ringing. And before I even knew what I was doing, I threw open the window and shouted, “Do I need to call 911, or are you going to get your ASS off my RAILING???”

This could have ended very, very badly. This could have turned into something I would regret for the rest of my life. This was an extremely stupid thing for me to do. I still can’t believe I did it.

But just like that, he looked at me, meekly said, “Yes, ma’am,” hopped back down to the sidewalk and left. (When did I become a ma’am?)

All’s well that ends well, I suppose. But I guarantee you I will never, ever do something like that again. It was the wrong thing to do. It just happened to turn out all right that time. The bridge gods must have been watching over both of us.

I hope he got the help he needed.

long-way-down

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