Tag Archives: coping with loss

closure

The Only True Closure is Acceptance.

By Chris Warren

Seeking a clean break.

A couple breaks up; one or both of them want to meet one last time for  “closure”. There is a death; at least one survivor reaches for some act of closure beyond the usual funeral traditions. Someone quits their job. The employee agrees to an exit interview that doesn’t change any attitudes or alter the outcome; they don’t call it closure but that’s the intent. There is a deeply ingrained need for closure after any loss or disappointment. It’s part of the human experience to want a clean ending even when a clean ending is not possible. But closure cannot happen without acceptance.

The Band-Aid solution.

If one accepts the situation and only needs additional opportunity to process it, then closure is legitimate and beneficial. But for a few, it’s a vain attempt to delay acceptance. It is an artificial solution that delays or outright denies one a chance to learn and grow. I think most people, deep inside, know any orchestrated or forced act of closure is the emotional equivalent of taking an aspirin when what they really need is a shot of penicillin. They are compelled to do something even when that “something” will not resolve their concern. I don’t say this to be flippant or shun empathy. I just don’t think that closure is something one can have on their own terms and conditions.

When the closure you get is not the closure you want.

At some point in our lives every single one of us is going to experience a deep irreversible loss. It could be the loss of a job. It could be a disaster such as flood or a house burning down. Perhaps a relationship ending or the death of a loved one. We will almost certainly experience a major loss more than once.

The underlying question is: What do you want to happen? What would a satisfactory state of closure look like? Any honest adult would be unable to answer that question. The only truly satisfactory solution is to turn back time and undo the loss, and any honest adult knows that’s impossible. It’s nearly 100% certain what you get is going to be less than what you want.

Perfect vs. it will have to do.

Closure does not have to be an absolute binary state of being. In fact, it seldom is. Partial or imperfect closure is possible and can be beneficial. I hope it’s beneficial because it’s all we’re going to get. If we cannot create a fantasy world where the loss never happened, the next best —and only— option is to acclimate ourselves to the world we actually have.

Decades ago I had a close friend who one day decided to cut me off. In modern terms, he “ghosted” me. We had known each other for ten years. There was no big argument. There was no major belief or values shift, nor any life change that made us inherently incompatible. The last conversation I had with him was completely pleasant. For whatever the reason, he did not want to deal with me anymore.

In the days and weeks after that conversation I attempted to reach out to him to the extent I could without crossing into creepy stalker territory. Eventually, I accepted the situation and moved on. Now older and more insightful, I reflect on any friction between us. To me it all seemed like ordinary disagreements among friends that could have been worked out. I’ve had conflicts with other friends; we pushed past it and maintained the relationship. Unless he takes the initiative to contact me, which I would welcome, I’ll never know for sure what I did that warranted being permanently chopped out of his life. The closure I wanted was to get my friend back. The closure I got was accepting his decision even if I didn’t understand it. There was no clean ending.

Applying the past to life today.

During the intervening decades between the end of that friendship and my present day self there have been many other life disappointments and losses: A career path diverted, deaths of numerous meaningful people, health issues with no easy solutions. I don’t mean to imply my life has been hard, because when evaluated as a total arc, it hasn’t. But it would have been a lot harder had I not as a young adult unintentionally built a capacity for acceptance. What others may see as being flippant and unconcerned is, for me personally, a healthy defense mechanism.

Declining to get outwardly emotional and histrionic doesn’t mean I don’t care, nor is it performative stoicism. Life setbacks do indeed matter to me, but I accept the situation as it is, even if grudgingly, and form a positive path around it.

Acceptance is the only true closure.

I learned that only after acknowledging I was powerless to reverse personal losses could I attain any kind of closure. It’s not easy. I don’t like it. Yet even when I don’t get the result I want, it is liberating. It’s much more productive to work with what you have than to try to reclaim what you lost.

I realize that some people do not adapt so readily. That doesn’t mean they have a weak personality or a character defect. It only means their path to the ultimate destination…acceptance…may be longer and steeper. In their rumination they may not even think that acceptance is possible. Outside help may be needed to guide them along the way.

Going back to a previous question, What would a satisfactory state of closure look like? is seen in a much different light when one is developed enough to know the only real closure is acceptance. Without acceptance, one becomes a prisoner trapped in an endless vortex of wishful thinking that will never come to pass. Those who cannot accept will never be free.

This Blog Article Should Be A Blank Page.

By: Chris Warren

Writers by nature aren’t reserved about expressing themselves; this usually extends to our everyday, non-writer lives as well. Some articles come easier than others, but I always seem to find a topic that I can work with and turn into what I hope is thoughtful, positive, and relevant commentary. It’s rare for language to get the best of me, but when it happens outside the realm of writing there may be a higher purpose behind it.

The other day I attended a memorial service for a guy who died unexpectedly at an early age from a medical condition usually seen in patients decades older. I was only loosely acquainted with the deceased; he was a close friend of my best friend. My best buddy was broken over the loss and my presence at this service meant a lot to him. I’m very loyal to and protective of this particular friend. I would have attended a funeral for his third cousin’s babysitter’s cat if that’s what he wanted from me.

"I Will Do My Best" by Norman Rockwell, 1953.
“I Will Do My Best” by Norman Rockwell, 1953.

The event was going as expected until the Boy Scouts showed up. The departed was a leader for his son’s troop and the Scouts were there in freshly pressed, complete uniforms. By their appearance it was obvious that they had great respect for their leader. Every neckerchief was carefully rolled, every pin and patch was exactly placed. The smallest detail was cared for. They could have been a Norman Rockwell painting. Many of the parents attended also.

Watching the expressions on those crying kids’ faces and not being able to do a damn thing to help them was one of the hardest things I’ve had to push through in a very long time, maybe ever. The deceased’s young son was surprisingly composed, but I knew that he knew his life was never going to be the same. I wished I had the power to un-do all of their hurt.

I’ve spent my entire adult life studying words: Writing them, editing, changing, experimenting with them, learning how to manipulate them and make them do whatever I want. I’m the kind of guy who uses a dictionary and thesaurus daily and will spend thirty minutes fussing over the structure of one single sentence. I really wanted to put all the right words together. This time my command of the English language completely failed me.

After the service I could not bring myself to say anything more than small talk to my best friend of nearly three decades. Like a lost writer facing down a blank sheet of paper I kept digging in my mind for something insightful and brilliant that would lift him out of his sadness. The search came up empty, except for the realization that there are times when words cannot heal but being there and silently caring gives comfort to a pain that has no permanent cure. A writer’s job is always to have the right words. I had to concede that for this moment the right words were none at all. After the small talk I hugged him and excused myself to leave because my mission was complete. He did not need words. He just needed me.