Letter to My Former Self
“Life can only be understood by looking backward; but it must be lived looking forward” — Soren Kierkegaard
I’ve been thinking a lot about memories, lately. I think about the decisions I’ve made in my life that have brought me to who I am today. When you think about our pasts, our memories, often it feels like you are viewing the life of a stranger. Our past selves feel disconnected from us, apart from us, we want to close our eyes and shout, “That’s not who I am anymore!” When I think about my past, I feel like I’m looking at a series of movies where the main character is repeatedly recast. That’s not true of course, I’m the same as I’ve always been, sometimes my beard is just longer.
I feel like this feeling of disconnect is a defense mechanism. We don’t always want to associate ourselves with who we used to be. It’s embarrassing to think about how confident I was in my music choices, the jokes I told, the decisions I made. It’s so much easier to think to myself, “Yes, but that’s the OLD me, I’m so much better now.” I joke that every 5 years I wish I can go back 5 years in the past and smack myself for being so dumb.
That’s where I got the idea for this: what if instead of smacking myself for the mistakes I’ve made, I give myself a hug. I tell myself, “It’s ok, you’ll learn from this.” So I thought about what I would tell my past self if I could. What do I wish I had known, or been prepared for? What choices did I make that have reverberated into my now? It’s nostalgic, I know, but I’m not meaning to dwell or lament over past mistakes, only to understand myself.
We are an accumulation of our memories; to ignore our past is to forget ourselves. As a writer, I find depth in the mines of memories. So I wish to dig.
Dear Bryan,
Happy 21st birthday, and I’m sorry.
You are the me I’m feeling drawn to at this moment. 21 was a year. Living in the small apartment in Lakeview with Matt, taking the L each day to class, you write and write and write. You believe a beer is fuel for a story, Matt looks at you incredulously as you grab a Blue Moon at 10 AM and slink back into your cramped room to start writing for the day. You are yet to understand that quantity does not equal quality. You refuse to read the assigned novels for class, and it shows. You are still prideful and convinced that you know what you’re doing. This is the last year you will make that mistake.
You will become so excited when you find out you might finally qualify for laser eye surgery. Just the Summer before you wrote a story about a pair of glasses that became a monster and eats away your eyes — this has been a dream. Over weeks you’ll get tests done, measuring your eyes. You’ll write lists detailing all the amazing things you’ll do when you can see. You’ll wake up, and without reaching for your glasses, you’ll see. Then the doctor will tell you, “I’m sorry, we can’t do the surgery, you’re corneas are so thin, it’s a miracle you don’t have an eye disease.” You’ll be heartbroken like you didn’t think could be possible without a girl. You ask your friends to come over because you don’t want to be alone, some of them come, and that’ll be nice, and the drinks help for a bit to take your mind off of it, but a nagging question will keep coming to you: Are they here for me, or the drinks?
Soon, you will lose some of your friends. The last time you see them, it’ll be at your friend’s apartment, her drug dealer drops by to deliver the molly, he’s an older white guy with missing teeth and when you look at him you think, “Yeah, you are exactly what I pictured.” three of them go into the bathroom, and you leave without saying goodbye. It’s for the best.
You’ll ask Aaron how long he thinks slumps typically last. He says, “I don’t know, maybe a few weeks.” You’ll realize you’re depressed. You’ll realize you’ve probably been depressed for quite a while. For the first time since childhood you get a therapist. She tells you to go to sleep at a normal time, not 2 AM, and wake up before noon. Honestly, it’ll make a world of difference.
This is the last year you actually enjoy drinking. Once those friends leave, your incentive to drink leaves with them. You will start to question everything. Who are you, really? Even 11 years later, I look back at you, and still I don’t know. You live two distinct lives, a suburban kid, and a city writer, stuck somewhere stumbling around the precipice of manhood. For so long you have defined yourself by the friends you keep, but are you really any of them? Were you ever? You feel like an alien, and I regret to inform you, but even 11 years later that feeling still hasn’t gone away. But you’d be surprised to see which friends have stuck around, and who have disappeared.
You will change so much this year, and I think this is why you are so appealing to me right now. If there are an infinite number of universes, they all branch from 21. Every late night walk along Lake Michigan, could be a focal point — it was the only place in the city you could see stars and skyline in the same glance. Standing along the jagged edge of the concrete trail, the water lapping the sides, the spray misting your legs, you’ll think about jumping in, it seems peaceful. You never jump, instead you sit along the side, your legs dangling over, sometimes laying down on the concrete, sometimes in the grass. Your mind full of questions, self doubt, you watch the stars and instead of trying to answer any of the questions, you let it wash through you, like the waves, lapping along the confines of your mind. For once, you feel relaxed, like yourself, whoever that is.
Truth is, Bryan, I don’t know who you are, but I’m grateful you existed. Because you were you, I became me. I’m sorry you had to go through what you did. I know at times it feels like your world is coming apart, and I regret to inform you, that feeling doesn’t really go away. I wish I could say things get easier, that I got it all figured out, but it doesn’t, and I don’t. You’ll learn from mistakes, you’ll get hurt, you’ll hurt others, you aren’t perfect, but you’ll get better. The weights will get heavier, but you’ll get stronger. The best part: the load isn’t yours alone anymore, and the burden becomes richer and more and more worth it. You have a place to call home and loved ones you call family and, with them, you belong.
It’ll be ok, really.
Love,
Bryan
This is a project that I don’t wish to end with myself. There is so much value in our memories, and I hope more people will consider diving into their past selves as well. At the risk of being that guy, I am wishing to turn this project into a podcast where I will have guests write letters to their own past selves, and then discuss our memories and past. If this is something that might be of interest to you, to either listen to, or be a part of, let me know!