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Letters To My Younger Self

Andrew Kolarik

    Everyone else was doing it, so I thought I’d join in and hump on the bandwagon. I heard someone on the radio reading out a letter he had written to his younger self, offering advice and reassurance that things were hard, but they’d get better. A friend said he’d also written to his younger self, and doing it helped heal a part of himself he was carrying around and become a better person. I liked the idea, so I wrote the letter, got in touch with the radio show and went on the same program the next week and read it out. It was beautiful. People were in tears, and I started to well up myself when I read how I wanted to give my younger self a hug when it all seemed too much and the pain just wouldn’t go away, how our parents might sound like ogres, but everything they said would turn out to be right in the end. That the mistakes he made were okay and that he should forgive himself for them. To not be scared, and be brave enough to explore the wider world. To believe in himself, that he was going to make it through. That he was an amazing person in so many ways, worth so much more than he thought, and that I was proud of him. They had this gentle piano in the background that fitted the emotions perfectly. I got a standing ovation from the production team, and a mass of emails from people it really meant something to.
    As I mentioned, a lot of people are writing cathartic letters to their younger selves these days. But it came as a bit of a shock when I got a reply. Here it is.

    Dear Al,
    I got your letter. Well, I mean I heard you read it out on the radio, that is. And I got to tell you, I didn’t appreciate that shit. What possessed you to think I would need a hug to reassure myself of my own worth (or that I’d want some approaching-middle-aged-motherfucker touching me like that, for that matter)? You’ve probably forgotten this, but when you were young there were plenty of smug idiots who thought they knew everything at forty who wanted to share their wisdom with you, and they had the same, smug asinine overtones of the shit I had to listen to the other day. Why do so many people feel the need to be so patronising and condescending to who they were when they were younger, bloated with their own sense of self-importance? You think I’m scared and insecure, with no appreciation for the world beyond my own comfortable corner. Ever think that it’s you, my dear future self, which those accusations should be levelled at? You weren’t acting tough at eighteen, you were tough when you were eighteen. Not the wet sack of crap that wrote me that letter.

    Fuck off.

    Yours sincerely,
    You, age eighteen. Jackass.

    PS So when you look back on it, everything that your parents said turned out to be right, is that what you said? Remember that time someone stumbled into the road in front of Dad when he was driving, and his response was an avalanche of very creative verbal abuse? And when the poor bastard gave as good as he got, it was you (and by that I mean that it was me, your insecure, mouthy, younger self) who talked Dad into not turning the car around and beating the living Jesus out of the guy? Just saying.

    PPS What the fuck was with that tinkly piano in the background while you were reading the letter out loud? Is that what gets you off now? I’m sure I could hear you beating off through the tears...

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    So. You receive a letter like that, you’ve got to respond, right? Here it is.

    Dear Al,
    Thanks for getting back to me, you little snot. Its just great being young and looking down your nose at everyone, isn’t it? When you’ve never had to compromise because you’ve never been tested, and achieved nothing? It’s easy to be a swaggering git when you’ve got no responsibility. I’ve two sons and a wife depending on me, and in that position you can’t get pissed and high and get into a casual fight because you’ve got a big mouth (and I remember that time you got into a random argument and how hard you hit the floor after just one punch. Sure, you came back up like a jacked up jack-in-the-box, but we both know that you would’ve been turned to mincemeat if that nice couple hadn’t come to rescue you and take you under their wing).

    Just saying.

    Yours sincerely,
    You, age forty-three. And I can’t believe I used to be you.

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    You know what? Writing these letters really is cathartic. I rub my hands eagerly, awaiting the reply.

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