(Sorry for the break – spent a few days at my boyfriend’s house, and I feel a bit awkward asking to use his laptop just to write poetry/prose. Expect a short story either later today or early tomorrow. In the meantime, have some early morning thoughts on forgiveness.)
I think, in the damp, grey light of morning, that the hardest part of growing up is learning to live with the lack of closure. Words left unspoken, questions left unanswered, things we will have to live our lives not knowing.
Why did you do that to me.
Why did you hurt me.
Why did you leave me.
Why did you say that.
Why did you make me cry.
Why won’t you let me tell you how much you hurt me.
I might ask the first, but at the end of the day, I’m too proud to ever ask the last one, and I think it’s a good thing too – no one needs to hear that they’ve hurt someone. Or maybe it’s not pride – maybe it’s compassion, and I’m simply too down on myself to admit it.
But how do we live with the lack of answers? With not knowing why people shattered us? Or not knowing what might have been had things been different?
I think, when we’re little, we can’t live with it. It’s what makes teenagers so impulsive, so reckless, so stupid – the desire for answers above all else, even when the person they’re demanding answers from has none to give.
When we grow up, though, we have to learn. Learn to live with the pain, the coldness, the grayness, the melancholy of not-knowing. The lack of closure. Learn to sit with it and be still, and not move, and think ‘Yes, I will never know the answer to this question, and that’s okay’.
Which, and I think this is important, is a different matter from forgiveness. People tout forgiveness like it solves all issues, when really, I think forgiveness creates more problems than it solves. I think the world would be a better place if, occasionally, people admitted that there were people out there they just couldn’t forgive and told them to fuck off.
Closure, at the end of the day, is a lie, because the only answers we ever receive are from ourselves. The lack of closure is our own desire to put a definitive ending on our stories and learning that sometimes we can’t, and that’s okay is, alas, part of growing up.