There's something funny about the word
"closure". Just the mere mention of this simple
two-syllable word brings about the image of two people tangled in a
long and complicated rift. To get closure, you would think that it
would involve the same two people. Right?
I always thought that. Up until the
last few years, I've been caught up in a web of my own. From one
abandonment to the other, I'd survived. But the life I'd led was
indicative of how I'd been treated.
When I was four, my earliest memory was
not a very good one. In fact, it was the defining moment of my life.
My biological mother pushed me through the door of my father and
stepmother's apartment and said, "Here, you can have her."
I'd always wondered if I was somehow bad. Why didn't my own mother
want me? Why did she keep my sister over me? Didn't she love me?
Over the years, I was shoved from one
person to the next, given to other people to raise. I couldn't help
but think that it was my fault somehow. That was exacerbated by the
guardian I lived with the longest in my childhood, who tried to mold
me into what she wanted me to be and if she saw any sign that I
wasn't conforming, she would tell me I was no good, that I would end
up a bum, and no man would ever have me. In the middle of all this,
she heavily restricted my diet in an effort to curb impending weight
issues while simultaneously telling me I was already fat (when I most
definitely wasn't) and she consistently accused me of sexual activity
when I didn't even know what sex was at that age.
Years later, as an adult who could
never quite finish anything I started, I had a husband who left me,
too. It seemed never ending. And I believed everything I'd been
told as a kid; I would never be good enough.
When I remarried and started having
kids, it opened my eyes. I started wanting answers and closure so I
reached out to my birth mother, who I hadn't had contact with but a
couple of times over the course of 20-something years. I laid my
heart out to her only to be disappointed when her response came back
full of excuses and self-pity. There wasn't an apology. That's
when I had to learn that I had to move on without answers and that it
was okay. When I got past that, I realized I wasn't mad anymore and
that I actually hadn't been mad for a long time. That was my
closure, although I hadn't recognized it at the time. I think that
was the first time I realized that it wasn't feasible to continue to
blame her for my own actions (or inaction, as the case may be).
That's when I got my butt in gear and
started taking my ambitions seriously. From there on out, it's been
hard work and determination, something that was reflected recently in
my grades for my first semester back in college in 10 years; I pulled
a 4.0.
I relearned the closure lesson this
week, albeit a little more in-depth this time. I thought I needed
answers and closure so I asked questions to a person who'd wronged me
a long time ago. But I never got the answers I sought. I don't know
if he just didn't want to answer them or was too ashamed by the way
he'd treated me to answer them. Nonetheless, for whatever reason
those questions weren't answered, it made me realize that I'd been
okay with what he'd done for a long time now. He apologized, which
was great, but I realized that I didn't even need that. I'd already
had closure and had already moved on in my life.
And for the first time, I think I
really understand what closure is. It's not about two people
resolving an issue. It's about resolving it within yourself and
understanding that you don't have to (and shouldn't) rely on others
for your sense of identity and purpose.
I've been surprised at myself at what
I've been able to do and accomplish since I first found closure. I
swear I'm not trying to brag; I'm trying to illustrate to those who
may have found themselves "stuck" how they, too, can move
on. It burns me to hear someone say, "I'd like to do (insert
ambition here), but I just can't because (insert obstacle here)."
You know, it would be easy for me to
say, "I can't," too. I could throw my hands up and give up
on my writing and on college and I'd have a million legitimate
reasons to do so.
But you know who I'd be saying, "I
can't," to? I'd be saying it to the two most wonderful kids on
the planet. I refuse to tell the loves of my life that "I
can't," because that would be like me giving them permission to
say they can't either.
So you've been through hell or you've
made a big mistake. Are you going to let that rule over your life?
I hope not. I hope you realize that you are more capable than you
give yourself credit for.
Peace, love, and closure,
Pamela
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