Dear Sir Charles, Stephen A., Cris and other interested parties,

Thank you for your recent outpouring of concern about my well being. In what has been a difficult time for my family, friends and fans, you — and those like you — have taken it upon yourselves to express just how much you care about me and my future. For that, I am truly appreciative.

The thing is, though, you don’t even know me.

Chuck, you have never so much as shook my hand, let alone exchanged a single word with me. Few of you have, to be honest. Respectfully, your worry over my “problems” with substance abuse and my twisting descent into darkness and, apparently, my impending death, is misplaced — mostly because you have very little idea what you are talking about. None of you do, even those of you who seem curiously obsessed with the goings-on in my life:

You’re done with me, Stephen A.? That presumes we ever actually got started. How, exactly, can you be “done” with someone you have never had a meaningful conversation with beyond a quick First Take spot? Regardless, I am relieved that you no longer need to harbor sympathy for me — mostly because I never asked for it, never wanted it, and certainly never needed it. I am not a victim here; I never claimed to be one, either.

And Cris, your level of interest in my life is even more puzzling, especially considering we have never met, either.

In addition to being concerned about me — like when you publicly called for the Browns cut me so I could learn the same lessons you learned — you also stated as fact that “we are dealing with addiction here.” Know this: We are not dealing with anything, Cris. We are not the same. Not at all.

So, in the interest of lifting the heavy burden of my welfare off your collective consciences, I’d like to set the record straight about a few things.

First, words cannot express the remorse and regret I feel over this latest incident. I acknowledge that the repeated transgressions that have led up to this point have damaged my credibility, and for that, the only person to blame is me.

I have let down many in Cleveland — my Browns teammates, our hard-working coaching staff, the team’s ownership, and the loyal fan base that wants nothing more than to win. Playing there is different than in many other cities. We feel the fans’ pain. We know how important this is to them.

Also, I have disappointed the family and close friends who have always stood by me — no matter how tough things have been at certain points in my life. Believe me, there have been more dark days than I care to remember.

Most importantly, I have failed myself. Again.

I failed myself when started using marijuana regularly as a young teenager. I failed myself when I ruined a once-in-a-lifetime chance to be Robert Griffin III’s running mate during his Heisman Trophy-winning season at Baylor. I failed myself when I didn’t check with the league office to ensure that my doctor-prescribed, codeine-based medicine was allowed under NFL guidelines. I failed myself when I was arrested for driving a motor vehicle with a blood-alcohol level over the legal limit. I failed myself when I missed a team walkthrough late in the season and was suspended for the final game of the year.

But you know what, Charles, Stephen A., Cris and everyone else? I also have succeeded.

I succeeded by escaping a youth riddled with poverty, gang violence and very little in the way of guidance or support. I succeeded by narrowly avoiding a life of crime that managed to sink its clutches into almost all of my childhood friends. I succeeded by working tremendously hard on my craft and my body to even have a chance to play professional football for a living. And, contrary to popular belief, I succeeded by overcoming my longstanding relationship with weed — because I knew I was risking my future over it.

Truth is, I have not smoked marijuana since before I was drafted by the Browns in 2012 — and there are years’ worth of drug tests to prove it.

So, then how did I get here, you ask? That’s easy. I messed up. But to even begin to understand why I messed up, you need to know the Josh Gordon that existed before the NFL.