Prologue
I have a rule for myself: Never forgive after strike five.
Humans make mistakes. That’s fine. But what do you call it when someone gets called out, understands what they did, and then turns around, does it again, and serves up another cheap excuse? That isn’t a mistake anymore. That’s a choice.
So I keep an invisible ledger. There’s no expiration date on it. It just sits in the back of my mind, waiting. Through strikes one, two, three, and four, I play nice. I stay calm. I swallow the irritation, give them the benefit of the doubt, and hand out second, third, and fourth chances. But strike five is where the line gets drawn in concrete. The second strike five hits, the patience stops. I take action.
People love to spout cheap advice. Forget and move on. Forgiveness is good for your soul. They preach kindness, but they never talk about what happens to the person getting walked on. They ignore the dirt left on your chest every time someone steps over a boundary you explicitly drew. Forgiveness without consequences isn’t virtue. It’s permission for blatant disrespect. And I don’t tolerate disrespect.
Therapists could dissect this for hours. They’d call it “threshold-based boundary enforcement phobia,” “contingent punishment paranoia,” or a “rational and relational rule.” Blah, blah, blah.
They can analyze it all they want. To me, it isn’t a complex psychological defense mechanism. It’s just my rule. That’s it.
