That Day on the Bridge

IN May or June of 1948, I stood on the side of a viaduct in western Oregon and played host to a legion of morbid thoughts. A fast freight train rushed towards the tracks directly below. Since I had become the victim of suicidal thoughts whenever standing near a high place or close to the passing of a railroad locomotive, I now rehearsed the easy manner in which I could end it all by flinging myself from the bridge into the path of the oncoming train. Of course I knew I would not really do it--but I was troubled by a compulsive preoccupation with suicide, especially when the means were close at hand. I worried about it and secretly feared that it might be a possible sign of insanity. But I told nobody.