I Left My House Intending To Jump To My Death. These Are The Words I Needed To Hear Back Then.

On a beautiful sunny morning in February 2021, I left my house with the intention of hiking to my favorite spot along an oceanfront trail — and jumping to my death.

Or diving.

I hadn’t decided.

I remember wondering, h ow long will it take to hit the ground? Three seconds? Four? Beyond that, I hadn’t given a great deal of thought to the logistics. All I knew was that I wanted the pain of my existence to end. I wanted to spare my family from having to deal with me any longer. I wanted to stop it all. To feel nothing. To be nothing.

“Did you have a plan?” a triage nurse would ask me later that day. “Yes,” I would respond, though by then, my thinking had cleared enough to recognize that it hadn’t been a well-thought-out one. I did not mention this to the nurse, nor did I mention the other plans I’d considered — driving into a cement pylon along the highway or waiting until night fell to take an overdose of sleeping pills with a glass of gin.

Of course, in retrospect, I realize my thinking was illogical that day: There was no guarantee that I’d die hitting the pylon, surviving a car accident would likely lead me to be a greater burden to my family, and when you are trying to die, you don’t need to wait until nighttime to take sleeping pills.

As I arrived at the location I’d chosen for the jump, my illogical thinking was interrupted by a flash of clarity. My children and I often hiked together to this spot — a sandy patch atop a sandstone cliff blessed with 180-degree views of the coastline, the waves rolling to shore, the vast ocean meeting the sky at the horizon. It was where I insisted we stop for “a moment of Zen” — standing, eyes closed, for a minute, just listening before opening our eyes and reflecting on how big