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I spent my evenings sitting on a bench behind luxurious apartments that were only a stone throw from my sardine can. From there, I had a priceless view of the George Washington Bridge. I would gaze at it every night, and many times, I had visualized jumping calmly from this architectural masterpiece. As my world caved in, I swayed between staying and departing in this way. Finally, late one afternoon, I found myself down to my last dollar-fifty. That fact brought reality starkly into focus. Life needed to stop for me. I walked clumsily towards the bridge, crying, laughing, trying to hide my avalanche of pain. The sun beat on my back. I could feel perspiration trickling down my spine. The blasting of horns and the noisy traffic stopped. Everything slowed, like a giant hand had reached down and hit a switch, and my life unraveled across an imaginary screen. The giant steel beams blocked my vision - I looked down at the Hudson and could not make out a single ripple. But all I had to do was fall; I didn't even need to jump. I just had to fall and falling was something I was good at. I closed my burning eyes and visualized my plunge and poetically felt justice in ending my life. It felt magical and ethereal, as though it was my destiny.