My friends, old and new, dear and distant, I just want to say one thing to you today, and that is that I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for all the times I scared the ever-living **** out of you by dancing on ice or sitting on the edge of a cliff. Without you there to hold me up, I know I would have fallen. But when I took your hand, I could feel it shaking, your whole body tense, your face full of fear, and it was all because of me. I should have thought things through, I should have listened to you, but I couldn’t hear your warnings in the cacophony of my disaster. I apologize for the fear I instilled in you.
I’m sorry for all the times I broke your heart by speaking of death with such longing in my voice, as if I loved the idea of leaving more than I loved you. I wish I had not been so absorbed in my own darkness that I could not see your light. I wish I had realized sooner that I had to put up a fight. I wish I had taken up your offers to call you in the middle of the night, but I stayed silent. I married you all the moment we met, and yet I was lured into this scandalous affair with sadness. She wasn’t even that attractive, but she took me away from you, and I apologize for the heartbreak I caused.
I’m sorry for all the times I tried to thank you but utterly failed. How do you thank someone for keeping you alive? For holding you when you cry? For having faith when yours has run dry? You can’t. You just hope that your friends are getting something out of all of this and maybe it will be enough and maybe it won’t but by the way you all love me the way I never deserved it, it looks like it’s good enough for you. I just wish you knew that you are miracles to me. I apologize for the weakness of my gratitude.
I’m sorry for all the times when I broke, no, shattered, and you had to pick up the pieces.
I’m sorry for all the times I ****** thousand-pound weights into your arms without prior notice.
I’m sorry for apologizing.
But I have to, because depression never did.

Tuesdays are the worst.
I ******* hate Tuesdays.
Tuesdays make me want to demolish a building with my bare hands,
see, on Tuesday, I walked around with my bare feet.
I do that to feel better, but only when I feel like nothing will ever be good again.
I've been running towards recovery all summer, but I have fallen down on the Yellow Brick Road. The other me broke free from its cage, turned around, and started running towards the ruins.
When you collapse to the floor of your one-room apartment, and don't give a **** that screaming intermittently is socially unacceptable, and it feels like you are on a roller coaster that just won't stop, all the life force leaves your body, all the hope leaves your heart.
That's the one time you look at yourself and understand why they all see you as less than human.
A mess, a freak, irredeemable.
It's the reason why you haven't felt the warmth of another person's body in weeks. You've been keeping yourself sane with a checklist of expectations to meet. A calendar with no blank spaces. A radio that never turns off.
So when I walked around on Tuesday evening, unable to hold back all the tears, I left my flip-flops at home.
I came back to my roots and felt the grass between my toes. Let the concrete absorb the sadness, and I didn't feel so sick anymore. The earth reminds me that I belong here, and that even when I hit rock bottom again, at least I'll be walking on solid ground.