This was the moment. https://twitter.com/benjancewicz/status/562102039140773888

It took me a while to find it.

But after seeing a Survivor’s TikTok about how long it had been, I started looking.

I sifted through local AirBnB receipts and shellshocked emails to my parents and broken-hearted blog posts, and I finally found it.

February 1, 2015.

I knew there was art.

Art is literally the last lifeline I have, it’s the one last anchor that holds on when everything else breaks and let’s go.

And when I looked for the art, I found it.
This photo.

And a poem.

My whole world had been ending.

I was holding the threads of a marriage that was being shredded.

I had found out about the cheating in a dream, and with her clawing at me, I’d left.

I wasn’t wanted anymore.

Everything I’d worked so hard to save was dying in my arms.

I drove aimlessly in the dark.
Left her back at the house.
Told her nothing.

I was angry, it was spiteful.
She had hidden everything from me, so I hid everything from her.
I turned off the date so she couldn’t track me.
And drove.

Snow came down thick, in quiet blankets that covered everything.

I turned off the headlights, turned off the windshield wipers, slowly pressed the accelerator further and further to the floor.

Hot tears filled my eyes, and I could no longer see.

I prayed for a crash.

It never came.

The road straight and smooth, empty of every soul. No plows came to clear it, no drivers out but me.

My knuckles white against the steering wheel, I had to pry them off to yank the emergency brake.

The tires lifted their grip, and the car pirouetted to a stop.

I was in front of Middle Branch Park, dark snakes twisting behind me on the road, showing how I’d narrowly missed a telephone pole.

I eased the sputtering car into the parking lot, and turned off the engine.

The windshield rapidly turned white in the onslaught, and I got out.

No footprints or treads but my own, it was as if the entire universe held its breath waiting to see what I’d do.

My boots didn’t even make a sound. Everything was muffled except the screaming pain in my head of loss and anger and sadness.

I snapped the photo.

Walked to the end of the pier where the railings were broken, and sat.

I wrote the poem.

I scheduled both of them to be published the following day, then turned my data back off.

The was steady, straight down. Heavy fat flakes that disappeared into the inky blackness of the silent harbour, not even a ripple on its surface.

A true L’appel du vide.

I would be one of those snow stars, sinking to the bottom.

I knew what would happen.
The water was cold enough.

I’d slip beneath the surface, letting my head go into shock. My heavy coat weighing me down, boots dragging me under, scarf expanding and tightening around my neck.

It would be so easy.
It would be over.
It would be done.

I sat their for hours leaning slightly forward, my feet dancing at the surface. The water inviting me, the city silent, the snow caking heavily on my hat.

The slowly, I leaned back.
Lay down on the snowy pier, staring up into the flakes that dusted my lashes.

I didn’t want to die.
I wanted to live.
I wanted to be happy.
I wanted things to change.

I lay there for a long time, hot tears flowing down my cheeks and melting the snow.

I slowly rose, turned my data back on, and found an AirBnB close by.

It was an automatic book, I paid for it and was given access in seconds with a special code to open the door.

When I got there, the house was sparse and old smelling, but very warm and very dry.

I curled up on the tiny bed, shelves above me lined with self held books and cheap paperback novels, and I exhaustedly went to sleep.

I was still hurting.
But o had survived.

All that was 6 years ago.

My kids have doubled in age.
After a couple years of trying to save the marriage but being the only one making the effort, I let it go and filed for divorce.

I am not without trauma.

But I survived.
And I’m growing.
And I’m alive.

I.
Am.
Still.
Here.