This is What Real Closure Is
Why did she have to look so good when things looked so bad?
She’d left my house early the previous night. She wasn’t texting me like she had been texting me. So when I was at my friend’s house, and she texted me to ask where I was and if we could meet up, I knew what was coming.
Of all the times I’d wanted her to text me to ask where I was and to meet up … and now, this time, it was the last thing I wanted. Because I knew what she’d say.
We met just outside a park near my friend’s house. She was wearing a purple top. Why did she have to look so good when things looked so bad?
She told me she couldn’t do this anymore. She told me we wanted different things. She told me that she didn’t want a relationship, not now, and that I clearly did.
She told me it was over.
I didn’t argue. It hurt, but because I’d prepared myself, it hurt less. I guess I just felt numb. If that’s even possible.
I walked back to my friend’s and told him what had happened. He said he was sorry. What else was he supposed to say? I told him I was going to walk home because I didn’t feel like being around anybody.
I hadn’t accepted that she’d ended it with me. I hadn’t accepted that she wouldn’t be in my life any longer. I hadn’t accepted that she was now gone to me, forever.
I hadn’t accepted it because I didn’t want to. Because that would mean it was real. And then I’d definitely be hurt.
I didn’t accept it and I refused to accept it, and so I did everything I could to keep her in my life.
My friend was still “seeing” her friend, and so we still met up every so often, because I invited myself along every time I knew she was going to be there.
I took everything as a sign.
If she talked to me, maybe she liked me again. If she didn’t talk to me, maybe she was trying to make me want to talk to her. If I texted her and she texted back, surely she was starting to like me again.
Anything and everything she did was some sort of sign, some hidden message, some way of communicating with me.
How arrogant was I?
I started to text her almost every day. Sometimes, I’d tell my parents I was going for a walk, and I’d just walk past her house a few times, just to see if she was in there and, if I could see her, then maybe she’d somehow sense I was around and come running to me.
My texts became more aggressive. I never threatened her or anything like that, but I wanted her to tell me why she’d ended it. I wanted to know. I had to know. I thought about it every second of every day and if I didn’t know then how was I ever supposed to move on?
Not that I wanted to move on. I wanted to know so I could promise her I’d never do it again and that we could fix everything if only she gave me another chance.
She told me she was going to stop speaking to me.
She blocked my number.
I tried to speak to her online and she blocked me there too.
She sometimes spoke to my friend, which I fucking hated them both for, and I’d ask him to copy and paste the exact conversations they were having because if I didn’t know what they were saying then my heart would hurt.
I think that was my lowest point.
Trying to text her, trying to speak to her online, asking my friend to copy and paste their conversations … I was putting myself through so much pain. Every night I’d feel that pain. Every night I’d feel more hopeless.
I don’t think I ever got over it. Not at the time. I just moved on.
I gave up trying to speak to her, trying to get answers, trying to get her to say anything at all. I guess I realized I’d had enough pain, and that the pain of moving on would be less than the pain of holding on.
Something I’ve realized now that I couldn’t seem to realise then: you don’t need closure to let someone go.
I could’ve chosen to let her go as soon as she ended it with me. Why she ended it with me is irrelevant. She was completely entitled to end it for any kind of reason.
I chose to believe that we weren’t really over. That we still had a chance. That if I could find out exactly why she’d ended it, I could change, and then we could be together again.
I chose to believe that she HAD to tell me why she’d ended it with me, otherwise I’d never be able to understand what I did wrong.
But it wasn’t her responsibility to tell me what I’d done wrong.
It was my responsibility to accept what I’d done wrong, and learn from what I’d done wrong, and then let go of what I’d done wrong.
That’s real closure.
When you give it to yourself.
This story was previously published on The Good Men Project.