The Joy of Life

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My therapist is getting on my nerves. She's always saying, "That must have been really hard for you."

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There are times in your life when you notice things. Like after someone dies. Or sometimes coming out of a movie.

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What is it that we need in an ending? Tied up plot lines, evidence of some meaning behind the story, a moral, a punch line, a suicide?

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There are times in your life when you notice things, when you're acutely aware of the world around you. Like after someone dies. Or sometimes coming out of a movie.

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Living in San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge for me is a ubiquitous reminder of what's best and worst in this world. On the one hand it stands as a triumph of engineering and spectacular art deco design. On the other hand it's a terrifying, almost apocalyptic structure - a man-made steel cliff that serves as a virtual end of the earth for the desperate souls wanting to leave this world with a flourish. Or as Jack Kerouac more poetically phrases it, "ole' Frisco with end of land sadness."

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There have been many philosophical and poetic speculations about the unique lure of the Golden Gate Bridge as a suicide spot. Most evoke the image of the bridge as a stepping off point for disillusioned individuals who came West to California looking for something they never found. There are endless attempts to analyze statistics, identify trends, draw conclusions. Everyone wants to understand, explain, find a reason, dwell on the gruesome details. The most gruesome detail of all is that more than 1300 people have ended their lives by jumping off this monumental structure. My friend Mark was one of them. In the decade since Mark's death I have alternately avoided the bridge and felt compelled to discover more about it.

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It appears that all these people in couples are having a far more successful experience than I am in my attempts to achieve intimacy. I watch them with envy and adoration. They seem so happy, so connected, all madly in love and moving in together.

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What I want most in the world is for people to like me. This sounds harmless enough but creates profound complications in my intimate relationships.

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I arrange to meet this girl Grace at the bookstore. She finds me with All Quiet on the Western Front in my hand and I explain that I'll buy it because I like the last page, where it says: 'The years will pass by and in the end we shall fall into ruin.'

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Always the pessimist, I know my advances will be welcomed or rejected and either way I'll still be profoundly lonely. Even if she says yes, the girl only wants me for my charming fa?ade and illusory butch strength.

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It's not a date, just coffee but she looks stunning as she walks in the door-with her delicious smile and bright laugh that makes me fall a little bit in love. She's so healthy, lean, boyish in her girly way. Brown curls, brown eyes; I forgot about her eyes. I'm so not over her. I'm nervous but then I'm fine. I feel smart and charming and like I can understand what she once saw in me. She tells me all about her new boyfriend. I pretend to be interested.