For all that the Bear Mountain Bridge is historical and important, it played an unexpected role in the dismemberment of my sanity. This bridge was built in 1924 and connects Bear Mountain State Park, NY with Cortlandt, NY. It spans the Hudson River allowing residents from two large counties in New York State, Orange on the western side and Westchester on the eastern side, easier access to one another.
As a resident of the Capital District of New York, I was used to traveling throughout New York and New England by the time I was a young adult. Since the area where I grew up was influenced by the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers, I was used to crossing the variety of bridges in the area. There was never any fear involved. It was a means of getting from Point A to Point B.
It all changed for me on one fateful night in the winter of 1982. Everything changed for me, and within me, at that time in my life. If you knew me prior to this point in time, I’m glad. If you’ve only known me since that time, all I can say is I’m sorry you didn’t get to experience me as I was before that time. And, trust me, I miss who I was before that time. Try as I might, despite a lifelong travail through therapy and medications, I’ve never recaptured the core construct of my personality. When you’re twenty two years old, it’s hard to envision such a profound transformation could be imminent.
The night I traversed the Bear Mountain Bridge, the one and only time, began happily. I was on semester break from graduate school and visiting a boyfriend who lived downstate in Monroe, NY. The previous evening he had treated me to dinner at a magical Japanese restaurant. This night we’d dined at home with his parents, a very pleasant occasion. We were then off to meet his best friend and his fiancée for some fun bowling.
It should have been an omen to me that my boyfriend changed his shirt to match mine in color. I do remember thinking it was a bit odd to see us in matching pink. And bowling was something I did not do on any sort of regular basis. The third warning flag was the constant chatter from my boyfriend about the size of the friend’s fiancée’s engagement ring. He told me mine would be larger. Whoa, Nellie! We’d only been dating a few months and marriage was not part of my thinking at the time.
But as a perennial people-pleaser, I wanted to make a good impression and off we went. I was not geographically familiar with that area in the least. He mentioned traveling across a bridge to get to our destination. That wasn’t an issue for me as I did it all the time at home. In fact, much of my life has been constructed to make others happy. “The times they are a’changing…”
Here’s the rest of the recipe for this disaster…in third grade I was in a bad car accident during a snowstorm. Relax, I wasn’t driving. But the three of us in the car were each seriously injured. This created fear for me as a car passenger (still), especially when dark and the weather iffy. Add the increasing anxiety and depression since my female surgery eighteen months prior.
On our way to the bowling alley, my boyfriend took the most direct route which meant driving over the Bear Mountain Bridge. I’d never seen this in the daylight, so I couldn’t visualize it (a coping mechanism for me). Then the weather turned and sleet started to pelt us. We arrived safely but my insides felt like liquid.
When it came time to go back, the sleet and snow persisted and I begged to return to his house a different way. It meant going a different and longer route but the bridge wasn’t a few hundred feet in the air. Luckily the boyfriend complied.
That would turn out to be one of my milder anxiety/panic attacks. I had no idea what was happening inside of me and why I was so unwell. I’ve sailed these waters for the past forty-four years. Through lots of work and med changes, I found a medication balance about twenty years ago. It’s not perfect. I’m still prone to cyclical depression and anxiety is very much a part of my daily life, but it’s far more manageable. The downside is the meds cause weight issues and my anxiety drives me to overeat. As I said, it isn’t perfect. It’s allowed me to exist.
I’ve given up on many things I’ve wanted to do in my life. But as life grows shorter I have promised myself to do things I’ve wanted to do and are within my capacity to achieve. My first book is written, published, and well-received. Last fall, I took an Amtrak sleeper car to Spokane, WA., and back, to meet some of my first cousins from the paternal side of my biological family (I’m adopted). I made the trip by myself. My cousins were welcoming and I’m so glad I made the journey.
I’ve done a few other things I’ve wanted to do for a while and I’m still pondering learning a musical instrument. In the spring I plan to drive over the Bear Mountain Bridge, in the daylight, so I can thumb my nose at it for its role in my earlier life. Wait, who am I kidding? It deserves a double bird flip. And that it shall have.
Stories Are For Eternity 