Several years ago, I deeply disappointed someone. Or at least I think I did. One doesn’t really know when one has been ghosted. Silence offers no clues. Which is, of course, the power of ghosting. It’s a void. A hole. An isolating universe of no information.

And if the connection had been a treasured one, as it was in this case, the ongoing dead-air eventually morphs into a background noise, a discordant whisper distinctly audible in the middle of a sleepless night or during those quiet lulls when life’s distractions momentarily fall away; it’s a haunting grief.

I’m not thinking here of the ghosting commonly terminating brief, often dating site initiated, ventures. Those abrupt endings, particularly if recurring when one is sincerely trying to find lasting partnership, can indeed be painful in their impact. And there is some sage wisdom out there uniquely applicable to those short term encounters, when the emotional investment is still limited, when the mantra of ‘Next’ might still be useful.

What I’m mulling over is the sudden, unexplained ‘disappearance’ of a person with whom we have a long history, with whom we have built a relationship, with whom we anticipate sharing a social network or a work space or a family system as far into the future as we care to gaze. I’m talking about a rent in the continuing tapestry of our lives. These ghosters aren’t going anywhere; they just aren’t speaking to us anymore.

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Anyway, several years ago I deeply disappointed someone. And while I can’t seem to puzzle out the how or the why of things, I’m relatively clear on the when. Following my last response to the last correspondence I’d received, a correspondence in which we’d been discussing a tender topic, ... crickets. I was suspicious early on, given this delay in hearing back, that I had said something wrong, that my good intentions had failed miserably. Nonetheless, at first I simply waited.

Days in I reassured myself that folks get busy; weeks in I urged my worry to stand down; months in I reminded my self-absorbed ego that the world is fraught with a whole host of serious problems begging us to step up, that I might want to redirect my energies toward a more constructive, useful enterprise. (That last one has actually proved the most helpful through time.)

Despite ours best efforts however, ambiguous loss of any variety can prove a chronic affair. One that coaxes us to look back, to review the facts one more time, to hope for answers.

Initially, I obsessively reread our final exchange, hunting for any evidence I’d overlooked. What had I said that was troubling? Where were the offending words? How could I prevent myself from committing this hurtful misstep ever again? This tortured exercise always ended poorly, leaving me just as confused, just as sad, just as blindly culpable. So I eventually stopped.

Sprinkled through those initial post-ghosting months were also what seem to me now pathetic, breezy attempts on my part to reconnect with this beloved person. A friendly text; a light-hearted voice mail; a comment on their social media page. But when those few ‘Hail Marys’ failed, I stopped reaching out as well.

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On the topic of ghosting, advise abounds. An abundance, in my experience, inversely proportionality to its capacity to be of much help. Some psychology experts suggest the ghoster is, if not a narcissist, at the very least immature in their capacity to navigate interpersonal conflict. Friends will encourage us to just move on, that the ghoster is obviously not worth our time and energy. Buddhist teachings escalate this counsel even further, calling on our store of compassion and acceptance of impermanence and trust in inter-being; in other words: move on, but do so with an infinitely open heart.

Here’s why none of this has worked particularly well:

The psychologists suggesting ghosters are of a distinct immature and/or narcissistic type, implying such types might best be avoided, disregard the immature, narcissistic behavior of which all of us are capable, while simultaneously fueling our inner critic: “Yeah, why are you still mourning this type of person. Get a grip.”

Loving friends suggesting we just move on, likely defensive on our behalf, also miss the mark. Why would we be confounded by an episode of ghosting if ‘just moving on’ was a viable option? Moving on is not only our first inclination, but is often when we ourselves do the ghosting. We block unwanted callers; we unfriend bombastic high school alumni; we hang up on impolite customer service reps. But when we work with the ghoster or worship with the ghoster or are destine to while away many holiday hours with the ghoster seated at the very same extended-family table, far from moving on, staying put is where fate has landed us.

Secular Buddhist teachings, especially Pema Chodron’s practical instructions laced with her honest self-disclosures, have been of some comfort. The letting go in these wisdom domains is more metaphorical in nature, the release rooted in acceptance and an expansive heart. But it ain’t easy, even for the experienced practitioners. Renown keepers of the faith still succumb to sangha wars and sexual improprieties and right-path disputes aplenty; they are human after all. So while notions of forgiveness and compassion and inter-being and impermanence and so on are indeed worthy north stars, shit still happens. Personalities clash. Egos bruise. Ghosters ghost. Suffering results.

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Podcasts are an amazing resource. Like any digital media rabbit hole, one needs to choose wisely. But I have discovered remarkable gems. Recently I have become a loyal listener to Heavy Weight, Jonathan Goldstein’s production aimed at assisting folks address troubling interpersonal wounds.

And yesterday, in the midst of my struggle to compose this blog, I stumbled upon the perfect muse: Episode #34, Annie. Kalila Holt’s kind, humble exploration of this woman’s experience of family shunning, and the willingness of those involved to honestly share their conflicting perspectives, well it reminded me that my sense of wounding is legitimate, while also reminding me that intimacy is always a risky business. That things come together and then fall apart; and then come together again, only to fall apart again. That this is the cycle of relationships, of families, of jobs, of life.

Love is built on trust and respect. And the painful reality is sometimes those pillars collapse. People with whom we’ve been close leave us behind. Or we leave them. The circumstances vary wildly, geographical distancing or political tornadoes or sudden death itself. But in the wake of these missing-person-tsunamis, we are left washed up on an unfamiliar shore and in need of a new map.

I may never know how I failed this precious someone. And if I ever learn the whys of it, perhaps I may not judge myself having failed at all. In either case, being ghosted is tough. And in its aftermath, short of becoming callous and impervious, we suffer. We grieve. And then, with any luck, despite the occasional hauntings destine to follow us into the future, we redirect our energies, scars and all, toward more constructive, useful enterprises.

Linda J. Rohan, ARNP