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November 16, 2002
I wanted to jump that day, I think, but I was a coward.

Generally, I’m unsympathetic to people with depression, believing mental weaknesses lead to suicide -- nature’s way of paring down its herd. I’ve always believed depression was made-up, more a personal weakness than a genuine pathology.

I stood on the Charles River Bridge that day rethinking those beliefs. Rethinking them to accommodate the overwhelming sense within me that I was a potential former herd member. Wondering internally whether or not I could shoulder the load, or whether my pseudo-pathology would better me (in every sense of the word).