I Forgive Me

Fifteen years together. Seven years since the moment I lost control. I've carried it ever since— not just the guilt, but the version of me that others chose to remember. I've been called violent. I've been misunderstood. But I know who I am. I know what I've endured. And I know what I've tried to repair. I've lost my temper. I've said things I regret. I've hurt someone I cared for. And I've felt the weight of that in every quiet moment since. But I also stayed. Not to control. Not to punish. But to protect— our children, our home, the fragile peace we all needed. I forgive myself. Not because I was perfect, but because I kept showing up when it would've been easier to disappear. Healing doesn't wait for permission. And I won't wait to be whole.