I can hear the water moving below. It must be moving fast for me to hear the rapids from this distance. The sound of the wind blowing through the ponderosa pines dominates the area. The gray sandstone outcropping I’m sitting on has been windblown smooth, clean of the small loose rocks common in the area—a perfect place to sit and take in the view. My feet dangle over the edge; I’m fixated on the rushing water below. I can barely see it; however, it peeks out between the trees and curves of the canyon. The distinctive white torrent of rapids in a shallow mountain stream—it must be a 1,000-foot drop, but it’s peaceful.
I’ve always been at home in the mountains, sure-footed and safe, like it’s where I was meant to be. I can hear my dad faintly telling me, “Be careful on that ledge, boy.” I’m far too happy on the edge to care, and I ignore his concern. This is where I’m at home: staring into the void, knowing it’s either get it right or never get another try. There’s freedom in that thin line; there is power there, and it’s where I’ve always been happiest. I must have been twelve when this happened. This was the last time I lived in North Idaho. My mind wanders to this memory frequently, and I’m not sure why.
It’s dawn on a Midwest winter day. The sky is its familiar gray that reminds you of seasonal depression commercials. I look to the east; it’s something I do every time I’m above the tree line early in the morning. I’m fascinated with the pink hue that litters the gray sky. Sunrise is the only chance to see the sun here sometimes, and I’m always grateful to be up early enough to see it. As the sun makes its way above the horizon, for a moment, it paints the sky a brighter shade of pale. I turn back to the west, and the reminder of where I am hits me; the prevailing winds bite my skin. Why do people live in a place where the wind hurts—where the wind hurts and there are no mountains?
This is a thought that plagues me all winter. Then the peace of where I am settles in. I’m on my mountaintop; I can see above the trees, a view of the Midwest that most never see. There is serenity here; there is absolute peace in the silence. This is not my normal view. Normally I’m on a tower. The edge, the horizon, the empty space below me is all in my field of view, always. This is a rooftop, however—only 90 feet—but it’s on a ridge and the view of the valley is amazing. I’m drawn to the edge; it’s a ritual with me that’s never lost its appeal. I need to walk to the very edge; I need to look over the side and stare into the void, the empty space between me and the ground, and center myself.
But today is different. Today I can’t go. I’m frozen in place, paralyzed with fear of what happens if I look down. I know that if I look down today, today I’m going to jump.
Then I wake up.
It was just a dream, but the fear was real. The resolve, however—the resolve once I’m awake to follow through—is very real. That sense of power has returned, standing on the edge. The thought of “knowing it’s either get it right or never get another try”—there’s power there, there’s a needed sense of control, and I realize this is what I’m lacking.
My life has seemed largely out of my hands for so long now; I’ve often referred to myself as a passive observer in my own existence. I’ve made decisions and taken actions and have clearly played a role; however, the role has always felt powerless. A lack of power is still my dilemma.
Faintly in the back of my mind, I hear another voice, a voice saying the same thing as my dad: “Be careful on that ledge, boy.” Only it’s not my dad, and his words are different. He’s telling me that “the thought of suicide is the thought that my life as I now know it has to end.” He’s telling me to be careful on that ledge—that the feeling of control, that feeling of knowing that I hold the power of life and death, is an illusion. He’s telling me that physical death is not the answer, but the need for an emotional death, a spiritual death, is.
And I know he’s right.
The Existential Diatribe 