The Fear of Forgiveness

I think I've been my own executioner.

Sure, it seems dramatic when you say it out loud.

For a long time, I believed people left me. It was an easy story to accept. People move on. People stop caring. People disappear.

But I'm starting to wonder if the story was ever that simple.

Sometimes, I'm the one who leaves.

I just slowly fade away. Replies take longer. Plans turn into "maybe next week." Our conversations become memories before we realize they are fading.

Every time I've done this, I've told myself I was protecting them.

I bottled up so much anger, hurt, and confusion that one day it all exploded. I said things I shouldn't have said. I placed emotions on someone that they never asked to carry. I nearly ruined something important.

Since then, staying away has felt safer. Safer for them. At least that's what I tell myself. If I disappear now, I can't hurt them again. If I stay away, they find peace.

It sounds kind. Almost noble.

But I'm beginning to question whether that's really true.

I know what it feels like when someone disappears. I know the confusion. The endless replaying of conversations. The wondering if you did something wrong. Whether you should reach out or if reaching out would just make things worse.

I know exactly how that feels.

And I've done that to someone else.

They never told me to leave. They never said I was too much. They never claimed I ruined their peace.

I decided all of that for them.

I decided what they needed. I decided how they felt. I decided forgiveness wasn't possible before they had a chance to respond.

Maybe that's what guilt does. It starts speaking for others. It tells you they deserve better. It tells you your absence is a gift. It tells you that leaving is kinder than staying.

Maybe sometimes it's right.

Or maybe it's just fear pretending to be kindness. Maybe it's some twisted sense of self-preservation masquerading as guilt, trying to convince me to walk away from things before they get too close to me.

I honestly don't know.

What I do know is that I've spent years thinking abandonment was something that happened to me. Like I was always the one getting left behind.

I never considered how many times I had chosen it myself. Not out of anger. Not out of indifference. I did it because I truly believed I was protecting someone I cared about.

Maybe I was protecting them. Maybe I wasn't. Maybe this is what I was doing all along.

I don't know if reaching out is the right choice. I don't know if enough time has passed. I don't know if they would even want to hear from me.

But it scares me to decide what's best for someone without asking them. There is something deeply wrong with deciding for someone that things would be better for them if I just disappeared one day. With deciding for them what is best without asking them for anything at all.

Maybe that's what I've been doing all along. Not giving them the chance to stay. Not giving them the chance to forgive. Not even giving them the chance to choose.

For years, I thought the worst pain someone could experience was abandonment.

I never imagined I would be the one doing it. I tell myself it's because I still care. I tell myself it's because they still matter. But somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that leaving was the kindest thing I could do. And I tell myself it is for their own good.

I'm still not sure if that's love...

or just fear disguising itself.