I Forgive Myself

Content Warning:

This story is portrayed as a journal entry that explores heavy, vulnerable themes surrounding the journey of self-forgiveness and emotional healing. The narrative includes references to sexual violence and honest discussions of mental health struggles due to traumas and deep emotional distress. Please prioritize your emotional well-being, take care while reading, and feel free to engage with this piece at your own pace. Thank you for reading.

Saturday — 11:51 AM

Corner table at the bakery. Cup of terrible iced coffee sweating through the countless napkins I had wrapped around the base…

Hey, It’s Tawny. I have been struggling a lot recently, and so much is on my mind that if I don’t share it with you, I am going to spill over…

When I was twenty-six, I wasn't really living—I was just existing on government assistance, spending days on end anchored to the safety of my bed. Beneath the worn weight of my comforter, I hid from a world that had grown far too heavy. My green eyes—once bright and full of life—had turned dull under the relentless fog of depression. While I knew a few people were trying to reach out, the darkness had swallowed my voice entirely. I couldn't find the words to explain just how much help I truly needed. Deep down, I secretly hoped someone would love and care for me with the same fierce intensity I poured into everyone else.

My untreated pain often spilled over into blips of mania—erratic impulses that dragged me into chaotic, reckless situations. I was physically present during those moments, yet completely detached, watching my life unravel. I felt like a bystander watching from a distance, yet I still carried the crushing guilt of my choices.

Desperate to feel anything other than numbness, I reached out to an old acquaintance, hoping to find someone who could understand my hurt. Even as I arranged to meet him, I knew it was a betrayal of the committed relationship I was in; the emotional infidelity weighed heavily on my conscience, but the urge to escape took over. I agreed to meet him late at night in a quiet, dark park—a setting that should have set off every alarm in my head. I was taken advantage of. I was held down, assaulted, and left alone in a mess I couldn't comprehend. I mustered the last bit of energy I had to make it back to my car, fumbling with the keys as my hands shook. I collapsed into the driver's seat and completely dissociated, my thoughts spiraling into freefall. What have I done? I sat in the dark for a long time, staring blankly at the steering wheel, before I finally forced myself to drive home.

I snuck past my partner and slipped into the bathroom. The sound of water hitting the shower floor had always been familiar, but that night, the silence felt deafening. Standing under the spray, my tears merged with the water as I fruitlessly tried to scrub away a feeling of violation that refused to leave. I felt dirty. It was baked into my skin, clinging to me no matter how hard I scrubbed. Terrified of the strain I had already placed on our relationship, I kept the assault a secret, letting my guilt bury the truth.

Weeks later, a positive pregnancy test shattered that silence. Having to tell my partner severed what little stability remained, shrinking my entire world in an instant. Unable to speak the full horror of that night, I allowed him to believe it was simply another act of unfaithfulness. I took the entire blame onto my own shoulders, desperately trying to convince myself that my poor choices were the sole cause, even though the violence belonged entirely to the man I had once called a friend. All I knew was that I had broken the one person I never wanted to hurt, and I was just as broken.

Yet, he stayed. In a gesture of heartbreaking devotion, he chose to stand by me through the wreckage. He drove me to the clinic himself, parked outside, and promised to wait until I walked back out.

I stepped toward the clinic doors with my chest caving in under waves of panic. But the second I reached the front desk and the receptionist spoke, every thought vanished into stark, absolute silence.

After what felt like an eternity filling out forms, I was finally called back to the examination room.

I sat in the cold exam chair wearing a thin hospital gown, feet in the stirrups, waiting for the doctor to begin the procedure. In that room, I felt completely numb. Every ounce of panic, grief, and terror had already poured out of me on the drive over; the moment I crossed the clinic's threshold, my brain shut down to protect itself from trauma it could not bear to process.

"Do you want to know the gender?" the nurse whispered gently.

I shook my head, my voice barely a quiver: "No."

Looking back, I recognize that familiar silence. Whenever my life fractures, my mind goes quiet and buries the painful steps leading up to the wound. As the years pass, my early life feels like a faded, distorted photograph.

A few years later, I became a mother. I gave birth to the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. Even though she meant the absolute world to me, postpartum depression hollowed me out, and the support around me fell short of what I needed to survive. People tried in whatever small ways they could, but the truth is, I carried the burden alone—just as I had been doing for over a decade with all the difficult choices I had made.

Yet, somehow, I reached the other side. It feels as if I hiked a massive mountain and finally made the long descent down. Even with a fragmented memory and depression that still lingers in the background, I have built myself into someone resilient, grounded, and whole. The old wounds and destructive habits still bang on the door sometimes, begging to be let back in, but I quiet them. I have fought too hard and grown too much to let old poison taint my present.

Sitting here right now, I glance over at a pair of older women nearby, laughing and sharing an easy conversation. Across the table, a good friend is vigorously at work, surrounded by fellow writers quietly pursuing their own craft. I look down at this screen, watching the blinking cursor, and decide: I choose grace.

I forgive myself. No more beating myself up or being my own worst enemy. I forgive myself so I can continue growing into the woman I aspire to be. Besides, I have little eyes looking up at me now—watching every move and hearing every word I speak.

I carry the weight of my past mistakes: moments of betrayal, selfishness, and choosing the wrong paths for the wrong reasons. I drowned myself in loud music, alcohol, and reckless impulsivity. I remember the explosive anger I carried, the things I broke with my own hands, and the terror of being completely unmoored by my own emotions.

I am still healing, but I have rebuilt my life from the ground up. I have developed deep empathy for how agonizing mental illness can be, and how desperately we all need grace. Most importantly, I have built a stable, loving foundation for my daughter. I will always meet her struggles with patience, warmth, and an unwavering presence. No matter what storms she faces, she will always have a grounding shelter in me.

Living with chronic depression and anxiety has meant navigating countless medications, therapy sessions, and hospital stays. I will never stop fighting for my well-being, but this long road has also taught me how to truly understand and love who I am.

I forgive the girl I used to be. I do it for my daughter, but above all, I do it for myself.

So, here is to me- a quiet toast to the girl staring back at me in the reflection of my screen.

I am proud of you.