The Fall I Fell
trigger warning: suicide, drug use, trauma
Three years ago, in October 2021, I jumped off a 40-foot cliff. The reason? My boyfriend broke up with me.
We became friends during my first year of college at UC Santa Cruz. The number of people on campus was minimal because of Covid restrictions, so practically everyone who had the privilege of moving out of their parents’ home knew each other. And then I met him. He was a long-haired painter who also happened to be a talented cello player, witty, smart, and kind; I was completely smitten upon the first moment I met him. We remained close friends for the rest of the year, spending almost every day together.
I loved him from afar while he dated a girl and broke up with her, and continued loving him even as he rejected me and began seeing one of our mutual friends. Finally, after months on the sidelines, he decided to give me a chance. We began dating, and that only increased the degree to which I was completely obsessed with him. I let my grades fall behind, I let friendships go unnoticed, I rarely spoke to my family, I called out of work frequently, and I moved in with him, all so I could spend every waking hour devoted to him.
My mental state was getting worse by the day. My grades—which were also getting worse by the day—were seriously taking a toll on my self-worth. I had picked up a habit of spending any time I wasn’t with my boyfriend strategically planning parties in the middle of the redwoods for students on campus. As a result, I had also picked up a pretty bad drug habit.
Why would I worry about my grades, my job or my interpersonal connections? I had some powders to snort later waiting for me, a hot boyfriend who frequently painted my nude body by memory, and I could drop a pair of coordinates on my Instagram story and get the whole campus to go to this exact spot for the best party of their lives. By the eased touch of my finger. And I got to pick the music. Right when I got to a point where I had just begun to feel less guilt in throwing away my potential to simply catch a vibe, everything went to shit.
My boyfriend and I were at a beach bonfire with a group of our closest friends. As per usual, everyone was shamelessly indulging in heinous substances. That night, I was drinking, smoking weed, had taken a Xanax earlier in the night, did some coke, and tried a mysterious bottle my friend had brought with a label of “Liquid Cocaine”. My boyfriend and I got back to his house—which I had been living in for the past several months—at about 5 a.m. that morning. The minute we walked through the front door, he told me that he wanted me to leave. He then tells me that he never wants to see me again.
I start freaking out. I’m sleep-deprived, I’m drugged out, and I’m yelling. His roommates enter the living room to express their frustration in being woken up by shouting at an ungodly hour. When I turn my anger towards them, one of his roommates begins a rant, saying that my staying in the house has been a huge burden and that I’m constantly a disruption to their living arrangement. This is the first that I’ve heard of this. My boyfriend then tells me that an Uber is waiting for me outside with a route to my friend’s apartment on campus.
So I leave. I walk outside the front door. I walk right past the Uber waiting for me outside. I take a few more steps. I walk towards the scenic cliff located in front of my boyfriend’s house. I climb over the fence. And I jump.
I woke up strapped down to a hospital bed with a doctor looming over me with a clipboard. I could smell my blood. The doctor sees that I’m finally awake, and without missing a beat tells me, “Your tests came back positive for alcohol, weed, cocaine, Xanax, and fentanyl.”
A helicopter had taken me from the beach to the hospital. A woman going for her morning run on the beach found me unconscious at about 7 a.m.
My most prominent memory of my first few days in the ER is the sight of myself in the mirror, the few times I was able to get a nurse to bring me to the bathroom instead of giving me a bedpan. My face was mangled beyond recognition. I truly couldn’t see myself anymore. Both of my legs were incredibly injured, one of them requiring the installation of a metal femur. I was in a wheelchair for months. I needed stitches all over my face, all over my body, and several fake teeth. It took me about a year and a half to fully walk normally again. It was about the same amount of time for my face to heal and return to the way I looked before. My scars are still very noticeable. They likely always will be.
But I survived. Not only did I eventually make a full recovery physically, but I made a significant effort to self-reflect, take accountability, and do internal work to make sure that I never end up in a similar position again. After leaving Santa Cruz and taking a few years to focus on recovery, it seems that I’m back on my feet again. I live in San Francisco now. I live a healthier lifestyle, I’m enrolled back in college, I have a big support system of friends here, I have my family just a train ride away, and I play shows and gigs often around SF. I can walk again. I can dance. I can even play pick-up soccer.
And honestly, I’m just happy to be here.