I have thought about this all day, and I have come to a conclusion. I have long held a personal theory that we are all fucked up in some way; mine started on April 20, 1999. Before then, my life was charmed. Tragedy stayed away from me, my immediate family, and my home.
And on April 20, 1999, the carnage and death that would mark the next decade of my life began. After that, carnage or death--or both--stabbed their way into my life at regular, one or two-year intervals.
Some of them you know (9/11).
Some of them you probably don't (March 4, 2002).
I turned 15 on April 12, 1999. Life was perfect. I didn't know anything about anything then. Bad things happened, sure, but usually on the other side of the Atlantic (Princess Di, 1997). Eight days later my world exploded for the first time and it has never been the same. Eight days later I learned that my sphere of existence was not safe--and that was the beginning of the journey that took me to, for example, that bridge in the middle of January.
And within the time it took to type this post, I have decided that I'm entitled to as many breakdowns as I require.