I had a bottle of pills, hovering over the median of the Coronado Bridge when I begged an officer to help, my body shaking, tears streaming down my face. “We have a life to save,” he said, turning his back to me as he walked away to join the dozens of other officers helping a man who was threatening to jump.
For three hours, on Saturday, April 6, I was stuck on the bridge staring at a man threatening to take his life, as I feared in silence I was about to lose mine.
It took me ten years to be able to drive over the Coronado bridge — with an anxiety and panic disorder it was too much of a mental risk. What would happen if I got stuck? I wondered. I would die. I believed. The panic so painful, to get out of a situation, your mind is held hostage and tells you, to do whatever you need to, to get out of the situation.
Twenty minutes before I was stuck on the bridge, I said goodbye to my husband and three young children Saturday morning, heading out early to present at the San Diego Writers Festival. My husband laughed as I scooped up a little bag of chocolate chips to snack on. “In case of an emergency,” I giggled.
Shortly thereafter, I was no longer laughing, the chocolate chips taunting me as I watched three police cars pull up in front of me, to barricade the bridge, a man saddled the edge of the bridge throwing personal belongings over.
I understand his pain, unfortunately maybe too well. I know it’s not logical, and it isn’t even necessarily what he wanted to do. The internal pain so great, a force stronger than yourself wants to relinquish it.
Two years prior, I sat in a circle at Sharp Memorial outpatient psychiatric facility receiving treatment, surrounded by others who suffered and feared for their own lives on a daily basis. As a professional, I wonder if it’s hard for people to believe or understand I too might have the feeling I’m about to die — as a professor at San Diego State University, dressed in a business jacket, I look like a high-functioning adult (whatever that means).
I am knowledgeable, sensible, and compassionate. I can speak to hundreds of students in my classes on Sustainability, Cross-Cultural Communication, or Writing, and yet I might crumble and fear death on the ten-minute drive home. My logical self knows, living with a mental illness, the thoughts are illogical and unrealistic, yet in the moments of panic, there is no control of the mind, it takes over and your body is a shell of itself, taken on a rollercoaster of torture suffering a pain invisible to the naked eye.
On Saturday, as the Coronado Bridge swayed, I struggled to keep myself steady. I was still hovering over the median when shots broke out, and I had to duck for cover, not knowing where they were coming from. The jumper was safe, and taken into custody to receive the medical care he needed, and after the scene was assessed, the crowds of people who stood outside of their vehicles for the three hours, were allowed off the bridge to continue with their day, as if nothing had happened.
I’m grateful we live in a society that values and prioritizes a life at stake. My concern is that we are cognizant of the people we turn our backs to when resources are deployed in tunnel vision.
While I missed my opportunity to speak at the San Diego Writers Festival, it was the least of my concerns. Ironically though, my book Saying Inshallah With Chutzpah is a memoir of what it looks like to consider the perspective of others.
Jessica Keith is a professor of cross-cultural communication at San Diego State University. She has worked for two foreign governments at the Embassy of Spain and The Consulate of Kuwait. Her memoir, Saying Inshallah With Chutzpah, is a gefilte fish out of water story that shines light on her experience as a Jewish woman working for a Muslim government. She has been published in the New York Times, Kveller, McSweeney’s, The Nosher, Scary Mommy, Uptown News, Sammiches & Psych Meds, PJ Library, Medium, and BLUNTmoms.
