The Weight of Accountability

The Conflict

It’s a strange thing — to want to hold someone accountable for the harm they caused and to feel guilty for it at the same time.

It reminds me of when I first started unlayering the abuse I went through — how even then, I felt guilty for looking at it. For seeing it. For calling it what it was. That guilt still lives somewhere deep in my bones.

Logically, I know it doesn’t belong to me. I know it’s not mine to carry. But knowing something and feeling it are never the same thing.

The Strength Beneath the Guilt

The part of me that can’t bear the thought of someone else being treated the way I was — that part is stronger than the one that wants to curl up and hide away. Because yes, I still feel ashamed that I was treated that way. Ashamed that I was blamed. Ashamed that I dare to name what it cost me — emotionally and humanly — to not be met with the care I should have been met with.

To both know someone’s potential and their actions — that’s a painful kind of clarity.

The Scrutiny

It’s not easy, speaking up. Especially publicly.

I know the magnifying glass I’ve placed over myself.

I know the eyes that will misunderstand — the ones who see loyalty as the only lens that matters.

But I can’t move on, not really, until I know it won’t happen to anyone else.

The Contradiction of Anger

What surprises me most is how much contradiction lives inside my anger.

I imagine her forgiving herself for what she did — if she even admits it — and it pisses me off.

The idea of her finding peace while I’m still sorting through the wreckage feels unbearable.

And yet, I know what it’s like to mess up.

I know what it means to sit with your own mistakes and try to find a way to forgive yourself.

But somehow, that understanding doesn’t make room for compassion right now.

The anger makes it impossible to hold her in that light. It burns too hot, too close to the surface.

The Truth I Carry

And if I’m being honest — yes, I want an apology.

Not because I need validation, but because I’m tired.

Tired of being hurt and left to gather the pieces on my own.

Tired of carrying shame that doesn’t fucking belong to me.

But the truth is, it’s too late for an apology.

The actions — or the absence of them — have already spoken so loudly that they’ve burst my eardrums.

The part of me that still wants an apology is the kid who never got one.

The kid who had to endure in silence.

The kid who was always told they were to blame for the way they were treated.

Other parts of me… they wouldn’t believe an apology anyway — not after everything that unfolded. Some doors, once closed that hard, never open again.