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We make our own closure

The letters I'll never send

By Kay HusnickPublished 4 years ago 3 min read
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We make our own closure
Photo by Kate Macate on Unsplash

There are things I want to say that I can't. I think everyone has thoughts like that. People are so inconsistent that everyone has lost someone in one way or another and left things unsaid. I've never been good at leaving things that way.

I write letters. I write the goodbyes I want to say, list the experiences that bring back memories, narrate their appearances in my nightmares, and vent my frustrations at the way events played out between us. It's cathartic.

I tell the guy from my senior year of college that just because I wanted to hold his hand on Thursday afternoon coffee dates didn't mean I wanted to kiss him at five a.m. after throwing up from the start of my first hangover. I tell him about the playlist I made titled after his initials that got me through the not-actually-a-breakup ending, specifically about the way some of his favorite songs turned out to describe him in all the ways he would hate. I hold him accountable there on the page for the ways he hurt me on purpose because he once insisted that he's not responsible for how people react to his behavior while yelling at me on the sidewalk in front of strangers.

I tell my former best friend that it's hypocritical to openly insult me in one moment and suggest me as a resource to others a few days later. I tell her how much I still worry for her wellbeing because I know what she's been through. I hope that she won't trap herself in situation she can't leave and that she won't cry alone on her bathroom floor anymore. I never write how much I hate myself for still caring after everything she put me through, though. I'm trying to move past that.

I'm writing to myself. It's a coping mechanism I picked up in high school and never stopped because it helps me process what I'm feeling instead of bottling it up, and I can keep every word of it private or turn it into a personal essay or a blog or a fictionalized storyline or a poem. Some of them end up here, as a form of creative work in one way or another to share a piece of my experience in hopes that someone who can relate can gain something from my perspective.

Moving on is a process. We focus so much on this idea of closure as a necessity for moving forward, but the problem is that closure doesn't really exist. We accept the way things are. It might happen quickly because of the circumstances or take a long time, but acceptance is the feeling we're all actually looking for when we say we want closure.

Back in September, I dedicated a notebook to these letters. I wrote that "maybe if I can write these thoughts out, I won't go crazy from them swarming in my brain."

For a while, I picked up that journal every day to write something new or reread whatever it was I wrote before. It slowed down after a while. The entries that came later grew shorter. I don't have as much to say.

There are times when I'm still dealing with problems that the people who are no longer a part of my life have left behind for me. I can't do much about what they did, but I can control how I react and move forward. I can forgive, not for them, but for myself.

I can't keep reliving my past trying to sort out what did and didn't happen. I can't drive myself mad over the people who tried to gaslight me as they left. I've sat with it and reflected, and I'll be okay.

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About the Creator

Kay Husnick

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