I've Told My Story Before. This is the Part Where I Was Wrong...

This week was emotional. There. I said it. It’s officially out in the universe.

There was crying. There were a couple angry tantrums. There was enough anxiety to power a small city. And apparently there is still some left over, because I’m sitting here writing this with that weird anxious feeling in my chest even though the thing I was anxious about is literally over.

Three years later, it’s over.

This week I went to court for something I did three years ago. I ultimately pled guilty to a lesser charge than I had originally been facing, and I received time served.

That’s the very boring legal version.

The emotional version is a little more complicated. For three years, this case has just kind of… existed in the background of my life. Even when I wasn’t actively thinking about it, it was there. There were restrictions. Lawyers. Money. Court dates. Questions about what would eventually happen. Every once in a while, it would pop back up and remind me, “Hey bitch, remember me?” Unfortunately, yes. I did.

This week, I finally had to sit in a courtroom and deal with the last physical piece of a version of my life that I really don’t like looking at anymore. I’m not going to dress it up or give you some beautifully packaged explanation for what happened three years ago. I participated in something I should not have participated in. Someone got hurt because of actions I was involved in. That is something I have to own. I can explain the person I was back then. I can explain what was happening in my life, what I was thinking, who I was trying to impress, what I thought love looked like, and about seventeen other things I’ve spent three years dissecting.

But explaining something and excusing it are two very different things. So, no. This isn’t the part where I convince everybody that I was secretly the good guy.

I fucked up. Ta-da. That’s actually much easier than typing up a big, long paragraph of bullshit.

Sitting in court was a strange experience though. I already had a pretty good idea of what was supposed to happen with my case, but anxiety does not give a single shit about logic.

My brain kept going: “They’re going to change their minds.” “You’re going to the back.”

“The judge is going to make you serve more time.” Meanwhile, my lawyer is standing behind me watching me physically shake in my heels like a baby deer learning how legs work. Very intimidating criminal behavior happening over here, right? Scaredy cat..

At one point while I was waiting, I heard someone nearby ask where victims were supposed to sit. And that word hit me differently than I expected it to.

"Victim". I had one of those.

Obviously, I knew that. I knew what my case was about. I knew someone had been hurt. However, hearing the word out loud while sitting there made it feel different. For the first time in a while, I wasn’t thinking about what this case had cost me. I wasn’t thinking about the restrictions. The money. The stress. The negative reputation. The years of having this hanging over my head.

I just thought: "Jesus H. Christ. My actions made somebody a victim."

That’s a shitty thing to admit about yourself. Honestly, I think that was probably the hardest part of this week. Because I can tell you all day long that I’m not the same person I was three years ago. I know that. The people closest to me know that. My life looks completely different now. But changing doesn’t mean the old version of you suddenly never existed.

She did. And I fucking hate her.

Three years ago, I was living like being aggressive meant being strong. I thought loyalty meant proving yourself no matter how stupid the situation was. I thought loving somebody meant going to war for them, even when nobody should have been at war in the first place. I wanted so badly to be loved, chosen and considered “enough” that I put myself in situations that Current Me looks back on and thinks: “Girl. What the actual fuck were we doing?” And there really isn’t a prettier answer…

I was immature.

I made bad decisions.

I hurt people.

I hurt myself.

Eventually I learned that destroying your own life to prove your loyalty to somebody, isn’t loyalty. It’s just literally destroying your own life. Stupid Kaitlyn. When it was finally my turn to stand in front of the judge, I was terrified. Even knowing what was expected to happen, there is something deeply unsettling about standing there knowing another human being has the authority to make a decision that could completely change what happens when you walk out of that room. But then it happened. I entered my plea. The judge accepted it. Time served. Done. After three years of this thing following me around, I walked out of Courtroom D and immediately had the strangest thought of: “Okay… what now?” Seriously though...

What the fuck do you do when something has been hanging over your head for three years and suddenly it isn’t there anymore? I expected this huge feeling of relief. There was some relief, obviously. I got to leave. I got to go home to my babies. I got to return to the life I’ve spent the last three years building. But there was also this weird sadness. Because a court case being finished doesn’t erase what caused the court case. A judge can close a case. Paperwork can be signed. Restrictions can end. Everybody can go home…. but you still have to live with yourself afterward. And maybe that’s the part I’ve been struggling with this week.

For three years, I’ve been so focused on getting to the end of this that I never really thought about what the end would feel like. Turns out, it mostly feels… quiet. There’s nothing left to fight. Nothing left to wait on. Nothing left to prove about what happened three years ago.

It happened. I was part of it. I was wrong. And now it’s over.

I don't know if everything I've experienced over the last three years somehow equals what happened that day though. I don't think life works like that. There isn't some universal calculator where you plug in every consequence and eventually it spits out “DEBT PAID”. Maybe that's why asking myself, “Was it enough?” keeps getting me nowhere. Enough for who?

I can't answer for anybody else involved. I definitely can't answer for the person who was hurt, and I don't think it's my place to. I can only answer for myself. For me, these three years changed a lot. I learned that I can have a voice without screaming. I learned that walking away doesn't make me weak. I learned that loving somebody doesn't require proving how far I'm willing to go for them. I learned that there are very few situations in life improved by acting like an unhinged WWE wrestler. Most importantly, I learned that taking accountability for something doesn't require hating yourself forever.

I can look back at who I was and say, “Yo, you were fucking wrong chick.” I can also look at who I am now and know I don't have to stay her. Both things can be true.

There are things about what happened years ago that I will always regret. There is a person out there who experienced the consequences of decisions I participated in, and I am genuinely sorry for my part in that. They don't owe me forgiveness. They don't owe me a conversation. They don't owe me the opportunity to explain how much I've changed. And TBH, they certainly don't owe me a place in their life or their thoughts at all. That's theirs. This part is mine.

I made a decision that became part of my story. This week, the legal part of that story finally ended. I walked into that courtroom carrying a lot of shame about the person I used to be. I walked out realizing I don't need to pretend she never existed. I just need to make damn sure she doesn't get to make my decisions anymore. So… goodbye to that chapter. You dumb bitch.. I won't miss you.

Its not because I've magically redeemed myself. Not because everything is forgiven and wrapped up with a cute little bow. Just because it's finished.

For the first time in years, I get to figure out what life looks like without waiting for the next court date. That feels really fucking weird... but hey, who else is going to talk about the weird shit but little ol me?