\u201cDoing something\u201d meant reminding her of all the reasons it was worth staying alive \u2013 how good we had it, how much our families loved us, how much there was to look forward to. It almost became a script, a choreographed dance: she told me she felt suicidal; I tried to overwhelm her feelings with why she shouldn\u2019t feel that way. It never convinced her of anything. But on that afternoon, exhaustion had beaten me down into shutting up. I sat quietly and held her hand.<\/p>\n
She looked at me in surprise. Cautiously, she ventured with another thought. \u201cI hate myself so much, and I want to die,\u201d she said, and I said nothing.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wish I had never been born,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
More silence.<\/p>\n
She continued through her tortured feelings. I listened, and hated what I heard, but I knew that at this moment she was safe. We weren\u2019t actually there on the bridge railing. We were at home, together, and there was no way she could act upon her pain. These were just words.<\/p>\n