To my younger self, 

Omissions abound in every obituary. Maybe that’s why they’re unsettling. Whether it’s a friend or a stranger, there is a wistful emptiness between the lines. I’m sure this is not how you expected this letter to start. Don’t fret. It gets worse before it gets better. 

In the second half of 2017 a family member will have two years to live (it’s been seven, the prognosis was wrong), an employer will give credit (and a fortune) for your work to con-artist, a friend will fatally overdose, and a romantic partner will ghost you because of an undisclosed disease that will eventually kill her. 

Life’s most unpleasant and rewarding aspects are still abstractions to you. You are nineteen. Yes, you know things are ephemeral, yet you expect some stability. That’s fine. We all do. If we didn’t, we’d all be sages or basket cases.

You return to Florida from California to fix the house up for sale. During this period, your septuagenarian ex-employer becomes increasingly abusive toward your coworker, roommate, and his caregiver, a kind woman recovering from cancer. You are back home to help your family, while she’s stuck with him. She saved his life on three separate occasions. However, a gold-digger was determined to remove potential stumbling blocks. Now he’s penniless.

All of this is overwhelming. You (we?) have never been decisive. Hard as you may be on yourself, you have pushed through it all. Being knocked down repeatedly makes us prone to flinching at first. It’s natural to want to draw the curtains and withdraw. Fortunately, and unfortunately, you couldn’t do this without guilt, not for long. Let yourself escape now and then.   

All the world’s problems, including yours, will still be there. You can maintain a balance between stress and escapism. Fantasy can be a neurotic maladaptation, but a total aversion to it is masochistic. Ramming your head into your present reality does no one any favors. Reason is only unstoppable in theory; it’s subservient to our emotions, which, despite our best efforts, remain untamed. 

Introspective and analytical as you may be, there is no way to prepare for so many direct hits in such quick succession. Don’t criticize yourself for feeling hopeless. Yes, you have the power to withstand and understand what is happening. However, this doesn’t happen in a day or a month. Rebuilding can be just as hard as watching everything crumble. 

We’re not here to suffer; we’re here to learn. Suffering is an irreplaceable teaching tool. In the end, it won’t matter. It’ll be like a dream. Harold Bloom praises Shakespeare’s use of ellipsis in crafting his characters, leaving out details. Blind bardolatry got the better of Bloom, as conspicuous gaps in character biographies are inevitable in plays. Those spaces between the lines of an obituary are significant, but not important. Those who know assume they are there.

This isn’t just a pretentious aside. Vast swathes of our existences interest no one, not even ourselves. In hindsight, they are a means to an end. Make the right moments count. They’re still coming up. The rest is just preparation. At 33, we’re still preparing for what will come.   

You expect other people to behave (more or less) morally, or at least rationally. Admittedly, I do too, yet I regret to inform you that this is bad. Battles for even paltry estates bring out the worst in the contestants. When your employer evicted your roommate, her bills became yours. When your friend lost his job, you hired him. The burden shouldn’t have fallen on your shoulders. 

They were both instrumental in keeping your new client happy. Yes, marketing eventually got the axe, and you fell into debt helping them, but new jobs fell into your lap. Either through sheer coincidence or supernatural serendipity, you have always secured a new job shortly after losing an old one. 

Death, betrayal, and ghosting all strike different chords. Think of it as a kind of immunization. With reflection and other forms of inner-work, they leave you stronger. Remember what Virgil said: “some day, perhaps, remembering even this will be a pleasure.”

I’m not delusional enough to think these experiences are unique, nor do I wish to pretend that I should be altogether grateful for them. Hardship is not something I want to glorify or wish upon anyone. They’ve given and taken. Have they made us better? Worse? 

The question is moot, and we don’t owe anyone an answer. What’s important is that you pushed forward. Push through the empty spaces. All your work will be rewarded, I promise.