Sorry that I told you to fuck off in 2017.
Sorry that I told you to go to hell.
Sorry that I told you that you were a good-for-nothing idiot, that you were not even worth my while listening to, and that I told you all that and more out of my own twisted frustration with myself.
Sorry for not being able to see the good in you or anybody. And sorry for playing stone, never emotional enough for you to realize that my fucked-up obsession with perfection goes even harder on myself, that this faulty walnut of a brain turns inward too often to only see the flaws of its own proprietor in exhaustive detail to the point where I can’t bear but hurt myself and would more than thank whatever merciful being would come and put an end to this flawed existence.
Sorry that I would rather bear the hatred, the rejection of every living being than the self-hatred of my one self. And I’m sorry to be willing to go to great lengths to be hurtfully honest at least once in a while in order to please my own perverse obsession, almost sadistic, and be sometimes so honest that my bluntness has hurt you. And I’m sorry that at the heart of all this bullshit lies the fact that I, the true, depressed Sukanya, must emerge at least once every so often from underneath the leaden, suffocating mask of the eternally sarcastically jovial Suk to breathe in order to not asphyxiate and perish forever, forgotten as a mere punctuation mark in the history of me.
Sorry, mother, for being such a bitch to you. Sorry for not having been a better daughter, sorry for pissing you off, sorry for not acknowledging often enough the sacrifices you make without which I would not be here today…
Sorry, father, for not having forgiven you sooner. Sorry for not having realized that you are human too, and that yes you fuck up, and that yes you have emotions too.
And I’m sorry to the empty void in my chest that people would call a heart. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, for dragging you over whatever jagged rocks I could find just so that I could feel something for once. And yes, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry for not having realized sooner that I was just dragging over rugged terrain an airy cavity whose leaden contents had so long ago been emptied out over the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
And I’m sorry to my empty tear ducts. I remember in my eternal numbness having used you once, maybe twice, this entire past year.
And I’m sorry to my body. I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you instead of taking care of you as I should.
And I’m sorry to all of my readers for not being able to be more positive, not being able to share happy stories of butterflies and unicorns or even deeply revitalizing ones of human redemption. I’m sorry that reading my writing has depressed you and probably made you question your existence.
And I’m trying to change in 2018, but I’ve tried so hard to constantly change and reinvent myself over the past year that I’m tired, fatigued that my efforts have borne no fruit, exhausted at faking a smile, a laugh, a pointless conversation when my true mind is twenty thousand miles away in Hades.
And I will keep trying, I will keep torturing myself through false extraversion and my cursed mask of jovialness just out of self-defense, just so that people don’t think I’m as socially inept and antisocial as I truly am.
And so I shall trudge on, on, on, with every year deeper into the mired, incomprehensible labyrinth that is life, farther into my self-inflicted torture, farther, farther, farther…