A Word About Closure

I know what you're thinking: who the hell does she think she is to rant about closure of all things? Who does she think she is when love was never something she yearned for nor experienced? Is this some sort of joke?

Maybe this is my social anxiety writing, but regardless. Let me be frank.

For starters, yes, I've never been in a relationship in my near sixteen years of existence. And yes, I don't know whether I want to pursue one, but I've thought of it before (only recently), especially when it's a cold night and I'm huddled with my blankets and laptop open to Netflix or YouTube or good old Word to procrastinate and fritter away my time, headphones plugged in to a brooding monologue of a song, or something frilly. Those times I feel most vulnerable to the impulsive and recklessly rash aspect of my personality, the same part responsible for my dashing off to BASIS (if you read my first post, you'd know). However, that doesn't mean I haven't dealt with the caprices of the heart.

I'm rather uncomfortable, squirming internally, but I might as well get this off my chest. No, I won't tell you his name for privacy reasons. I'd hate to get sued over a petty trespass like this, or cope through the embarrassing consequences, especially when I was the one suffering. Again, my own fault, but we'll get into that soon.

Heartbreak, then. It used to intrigue me tremendously, before I experienced it myself, for whenever cinematic heroines fell victim to it, they succumbed quite rapidly, not eating nor sleeping, pacing crazily up and down and back and forth, pulling out their hair, collapsing in shrieks and tears and bottles of wine and bitterness. Throwing daggers at the portraits of their ex-lovers, screaming at the same ones, deleting and blocking, hysterical fits on the shoulders of devoted friends, sobbing over and over how they should have seen this coming all along and how all men are useless and cruel and cheaters, whatever the occasion may be. It's humorous on the outside, but a throbbing stabbing pain on the inside. Think a knife piercing your heart unawares, the blood refusing to clot, pouring out your watery will to continue, flowing out of the gaping wound. I cried silently, muffled by my pillow at night, but the most fascinating thing was, I didn't rail against all boys or against him in particular. Rather, you know what the poor fool I was did? I prayed (I never pray for your information) that he'd be happy. I fricking prayed that all his dreams would come true, and his hard work pay off, and that someday he'd meet the girl of his dreams, the girl I'd never be. A girl who'd love him more than I possibly could; anyone but me.

Unrequited love really exacerbates low self-worth; I conjecture that the two are linked somehow. Moving on.

Let me tell you, in hindsight, this so-called caballero isn't as picture-perfect as my fancy conjured up. Yes, no offense guys, he was probably infinitely better than whomever you fell for. No offense intended at all. Funnily enough, children, this guy was...umm...you guess, and I'll say you're right 😬.

So, cue groaning and slapping-forehead-with-exasperation sound effects.

I quite frankly hope I didn't make too much of a fool of myself. I read his favorite book, recommended him books, texted him on occasion, admired him from afar, tried to mold myself into a more attractive persona by aping him at times, befriended his friends (who are fantastic people, so I don't regret that), looked into and read about his hobby, and overall paid close attention to what he liked and disliked. See, my dear fellows, I didn't, couldn't admit that I was really falling for this guy. His looks became irrelevant; I found myself dreaming when I should've been studying, glancing over at the empty chair when he was gone, brooding over books whose heroes I finally understood. So this was what those pretentious dead white men went crazy for, what they pored over, drove themselves insane to put to paper, and even then imperfectly.

Maybe I wasn't, probably wasn't, unlikely wasn't, 'in love' with him. However, I cared about him a great deal too much. Mix that in with utter admiration and esteem, and that's what I mistook for affection. In fact, I feel like he'll always have a special place in my heart, just because he was my first, and I'll always respect him. He never hurt me, you see; it was my own delusions that did.

Closure. It's defined as the act of closing, or drawing to a close. The state of being closed.

What this meager definition fails to include is the struggles that accompany trying to reach that state. Trying to lock that door of blind adoration behind you, when you broke the lock and left the key on the other side, and just didn't have the strength to bar. You'd barricade that door weakly, with distractions and coaxing and binging and numbness, but that's like taping a Band-Aid to a deep bullet wound, or worse, pouring scalding water on burnt skin. But that's okay. We all mess up when it comes to 'dealing with our feelings', as those useless self-help books preach. I mean, I'm kind of preaching right now, but know that I don't intend to. I'm just as confused and lost as anyone reading this.

That door...you can't bolt it with short-term, frantically thrown together solutions. You can shore it up all you want with the old rugs, moth-eaten sofas, and broken bookshelves of your own inner chaos, but it won't work. I tried, believe me, far too many times, rather than digging deeper, and fixing myself before fixing it. And even then it's still a work in progress, a big work in progress.

You see, when we force ourselves through toxic relationships, unrequited love, and any other unrewarding and abusive situation, it all stems from an intrinsic deficit or self-worth, self-esteem, and self-love. Yes, there are definitely factors we can't control, like an abusive partner, but the reason we stay is eventually traced back to those three things.

I can't say with a straight-face and truthful eyes that I'm brimming with self-love and self-confidence. I can't say, with stars in my smile, that I truly believe I'm worthy to be loved, and it hurts for me to confess this. But what I desperately want you to understand is that I'm trying my best every single day. I have too many bad nights, I have okay ones; sometimes, I feel like I'm a Lizzo! And you probably do too, and that's normal, okay? Especially in this day and age, when we're expected to look as flawless as a edited photo of a model that probably doesn't actually exist, with the brains and talent of an Einstein to boot, with our lives picture-perfect and figured out by thirty. It's okay if we don't have that yet; we're trying, and we'll get there in our own time.

Basically, closure starts with you. Calling him up, seeing him again, won't bring that state to you. You have to build it, sometimes painstakingly, brick by brick. Your friends, with all their love and support, can prop you up and pep talk the living daylights out of you, but they can't build that for you. You need to, because you're the only one that can.

If any of you were curious, I'm slowly but surely getting myself closer to that state, and it hurts terribly at first, but the pain ebbs away with time. There's nothing that time can't heal, so be gentle and kind with yourself on that. Recovery isn't fast nor easy nor glamorous, but it's solid and good, and you'll be so thankful towards yourself once you allow your healing to begin.