But I am starting to realize something.
I never really cried for the me that died that night. I never really mourned.
I never really grieved.
I feel like I am in the process of doing that.
Mourning for the me that died.
And in listening to my self speak the words that tell what he did to me, I can hear the hurt, the pain that he caused me.
Maybe hearing my own voice, my own words, as I speak of that night, will help me to finally be able to truly treat my self kindly, gently, and with compassion.
Maybe one day.