To the Bridge

by Nancy Rommelmann

She saw her as a broken person, someone who did not believe anybody loved her; someone who threw everything she loved off the bridge in order to punish herself, to punish her soon-to-be ex-husband, to punish life.

But Tiffany vividly remembered who Amanda had once been: a young woman who, at least for a time, had not been easily torn down; a woman who had a baby by a guy who committed suicide and still walked with joy in her step, and who found a good family for that baby. Tiffany at the time had asked her, was it so painful? And Amanda had said, my tragedy is someone else’s treasure.

Having people believe you are a victim is a form of control; it elicits sympathy and concern.

“But she’s not like that. She’s never been like that. She’s not a depressed person. She’s always been happy, and so, what made her that way?”

There is no such thing as an immutable truth, much as our hearts might yearn for it and our justice systems demand it; there are only the stories we tell ourselves.