One Thousand Words of Pride

Discovering My Wrong Self

There's an old photograph in my hand, and it's of me.

Or is it?

The girl staring back at me is really young. Maybe she's ten years old, maybe less. Who knows. She's wearing a navy blue, polka-dot dress while standing barefoot in front of a tree house, waving a large stick at someone or something who's not in the picture.

She's smiling. But anyone who truly knew her can tell it's not genuine. Because underneath that smile, that pure joy of childlike innocence, sits a feeling of unbearable dread. One that runs so deep, it could never be wiped away by something so mundane like playing in the garden. The mind-numbing anxiety always haunts this girl, no matter how happy or carefree she seemingly is. And it will stay with her for so much longer.

The young man looking at her photo is some fifteen years older and hardly even resembles her anymore, or so I like to think. I have to steady my shaking hands and take a deep breath at this unexpected discovery. It takes a moment, but I manage well enough.

I look up into the garden, past the photo and the three boxes of junk on my parents' dining table, which they asked me to sort out. The tree house is long gone, of course. My brother and me grew out of that years ago. That stick from the photo, well, who knows where that ended up. It's probably rotting in the ground now, always assuming there's anything left of it at all. Good riddance.

It's getting dark outside, and I can clearly see my reflection in the window pane. The guy sitting there really doesn't look much like that little girl anymore. I only try telling myself that at first, but then I realize it's true. He's a whole other person, I think, and the realization sends a wave of relief washing across me. It almost makes me smile, too. Almost.

Maybe I'd look more like her without the beard, I wonder. And with longer hair. Then again, maybe not. I slowly turn my head to look down at the photo again.

There is no second shock like the initial one. Maybe because I know what to expect this time.

I hold the photo in my hands a few seconds, looking into the girl's eyes like I'm trying to win a staring contest against her. One that I lose, of course. Leaning back, I stare at the ceiling for a time, still holding the photo between my thumb and forefinger. I think about what to do with it.

What the hell, I think to myself. With a flick of my wrist, I sent it flying over to a pile of stuff I made for things my parents might want to look into before tossing them out. And who knows. Maybe they'll want to keep this. They're welcome to throw it away if not.

I pick up the next item from the box, and it's a book. Some fairy tale I liked when I was in kindergarten. Whether I'd still enjoy it right now, I can't really say. I don't want to think about it. So, I end up putting it back. For now.

Drumming my fingers on the table's edge, I decide I should listen to some music. Take my mind off of things. Just as I whip out the headphones though, I hear the front door open and shut again. Almost mechanically, I put them back, looking to see who it is instead.

My dad walks into the room a minute later. There's barely a strand of hair on his head that hasn't turned gray, not to mention the ever deepening wrinkles in his face. He's getting old, I think, and it hits me like another punch in the gut. I try not to let it get to me.

"Hi, Daniel," he greets me. "Find anything good?"

"A few things, maybe," I say. "Mostly junk, though. I'm probably gonna throw most of it out."

"Yeah, I thought as much," he says, slowly coming over. "There's always so much stuff lying around that nobody needs. Last time we moved, we threw so much away, remember that? I feel like half of what we owned just stayed right up in that trash can in Vermont."

"Um, sure."

"What about the rest?" He nods towards the box, which is still halfway full.

"I'm, uh, I'm taking a bit of a break," I say. "Got kind of hung up on, well, that."

I motion towards the picture, but I don't think he gets it right away.

"Which one?"

"That photograph over there," I finally say, pointing at it. He picks it up and squints.

"Let me get my glasses."

Getting old, I think again. I'm doing my best to banish the thought from my mind.

He comes back, picks the photo up and studies it for a bit. His eyes widen at the realization.

"I don't know if you guys want it, so I kept it," I say, as he looks at me. There's some concern in his eyes, and I hate it. The last thing I need right now is his pity.

"You don't want it?"

"No, I don't want it."

"Okay."

He steps back and tears it up into quarters, then walks to the trash can and throws it in. Turning back to me, he only shrugs.

"No point in holding onto bad memories, right?"

"Right," I say. He comes forward to lean on the table.

"Other than that you're good? I can stay here, if you want."

"It's okay," I say with a smile. "Just needed a breather."

"Fair enough." He checks his watch. "Oh, uh, I'm gonna go for the..."

"...watching the game?"

He nods, sheepishly.

"Yeah, that."

"I'll join you in a bit," I say. "Just let me finish this."

"Of course," he says. "Holler if you need any help."

"I will. Thanks, dad."