I’m Sorry, Yeah, Me Too

Journal Entry – February 24, 2025

Today, I read it. A message—327 words long—laid out as if it were some kind of confession, some attempt at clarity. It excused everything: the manipulation, the emotional tug-of-war, the endless games. Every slight I’d felt, every quiet moment of self-doubt I’d carried, every ounce of fear that maybe I was overreacting—it was all rationalized, justified, turned back on me. And at the very end, after all the twisting and the excuses, there it was: “I’m sorry.” A single, feeble phrase dangling like a weak apology, completely inadequate for the weight of everything else.

Reading it, I felt something strange: a mix of disbelief and clarity. That part of me you’d held hostage for months—the part that doubted herself, that questioned every instinct, that bent and twisted to fit into the life you wanted—she’s finally free. She’s seen, recognized, and untangled. You fooled so many people for so long, spinning webs of complicated lies built on threads of simple truths. But the truth, the part that couldn’t be manipulated, has begun to breathe again.

And that line, the one you used like a shield: “My place in your life felt threatened.” Yes. Of course. You were threatened. You always were. Because near the end, you finally realized I would no longer be controlled. I no longer danced on the strings you pulled. I refused to be “fun” for you on your terms. I refused to let you dictate my worth, my energy, my attention. And that scared you.

For the first time, I stood up to you—not with anger, not with malice, but with demand. I demanded an apology. I demanded recognition for the ways I’d been manipulated, for the ways you twisted reality until I questioned my own sanity. And of course, it never came. You didn’t have it in you. You showed me, once again, that acknowledgment of harm is foreign to you. That accountability is a concept you admire in theory but refuse to embody.

Even as I read your message, I felt the weight of every hour, every moment spent doubting myself, every interaction that left me drained, anxious, and hollowed out. And yet, beneath that weight, I felt something new, something I haven’t allowed myself in months: relief. Not triumph, not gloating, not satisfaction—but relief. The chains you wrapped so tightly around my mind and heart are loosening. Your words, long as they were, failed to trap me. I see through the excuses now. I see through the smirk, the self-justification, the attempt to rewrite history to make yourself the victim.

I am free.

I can feel it: a cautious, tentative freedom that I’ve been aching for without knowing it. I am reclaiming my sense of self, my boundaries, my clarity. And more than that, I am learning to recognize what I will never accept again. I will never accept manipulation dressed as explanation. I will never excuse cruelty disguised as concern. And I will never allow anyone—least of all you—to hold hostage the part of me that knows its own worth.

This isn’t anger, exactly. It’s something quieter but more potent: understanding. I understand the danger of letting someone define your reality, of letting someone else’s lies twist your self-perception. I understand now that some apologies are too little, too late, and that some people are incapable of giving what you truly deserve.

And I am finally done waiting for them to try.