It takes everything in me to remember grace — to not let anger harden me. Hate only rusts the heart, but tonight I saw a version of Clay that I don’t recognize, and it cut deep.
He was mean — truly mean — and not just to me. He carries that cruelty like a habit: toward his mom, his sister, his friends, anyone who challenges him. It’s like empathy is foreign to him.
Out there in the woods, I wasn’t just uncomfortable — I was scared. Scared because I knew something wasn’t right with the gear, scared because he dismissed my voice, and scared because he thought playing with danger was some sort of joke.
He told me I’d be in tree stands, not saddles. He ignored me when I said the harness was wrong. Then, thirty feet up, he unclipped himself and danced on a six-inch platform to prove a point — while I was begging him not to.
That’s not love. That’s power.
He mocked me, threatened to cut my line, called me names, left me crying in a tree. And then somehow twisted it into being my fault — said I was “scared in a tree and put my fear on him.”
But I wasn’t putting fear on him. I was scared for him. Because I didn’t want to watch someone I loved fall to his death. That’s not weakness — that’s compassion.
Tonight I saw the truth: he doesn’t value safety, or care when he hurts people, or even try to understand how his actions affect others. He only deflects, blames, and belittles. And I can’t keep confusing that for love.
I can still choose grace. Grace doesn’t mean pretending what happened was okay — it means I won’t carry his cruelty as my own. I can forgive myself for loving someone who doesn’t know how to love back. I can walk away with peace instead of poison.