Why did she do it?

"Broke Back Mountain."

That's my new name since I deliberately jumped off a second-story balcony at my company Christmas party. For some reason, eight glasses of white Zinfandel (give or take a few) screw up my depth perception.

At the time of impact I heard the nauseating "crack." After an ambulance ride and the rude cutting off of my clothes, I was told by the doctor that I had suffered a vertebral compression fracture. Suffer? When? The morphine masked the pain. I wasn't paralyzed and I was lucky.

The nurses were excruciatingly kind, and I wanted to stay there. The doctors, though, were different. I was asked if I was a suicidal alcoholic by three different doctors, but thankfully instead of rehab I was released after four days.

I did not leave without prizes. "Tell her what she's won, Bob!" I won a bottle of Percocet and a hand-made brace, which meant no surgery. By the way, it is very hard to sleep in. A lot of people had visited me in the hospital and I got flowers and stuffed animals. I thank them for that.

Everyone asked the same questions: 'What happened? Why did you do it?'

I asked myself those very same questions. But I remember, musing to myself, hand rubbing chin, peering over the side, while I held a lit cigarette, 'I can make this.' I start to argue with a person I care deeply for, about whether or not I can make this jump. I'm not afraid, and I truly believe in myself for one moment.

Beginning to redden from the alcohol, I pick up my purse and throw random objects such as a deck of patriotic cards and those squishy, yummy gum cubes. They fall soundlessly into the dark, and I almost resent myself for throwing the cards.

I'm yelling that "things" do not matter, that every once in awhile you just have to "jump." He's trying to calm me down, this rock star of mine. He says he is going to get the car and leaves.

Flicking the cigarette, I look over the railing again, then proceed to zip down my knee-high boots, and I hear a wet "plop" after I toss them and the free company button-up shirts on the ground below. No one is around, and finally in one fluid motion I leap, free from the worry of consequences as if curiously a subconscious "me" already knew.

I may be "Broke Back Mountain" right now, but I am going to get better. I don't regret this. You want to know what happened; I happened. I did this. I did this because sometimes, you just have to jump.

Sarah Baker isn't recommending you jump off a second floor balcony. She was speaking metaphorically.