Photo-play

I am one of the messiest people you will ever meet, and I'll do pretty much anything to avoid cleaning, organizing or packing. So naturally, while trying to avoid packing for going back to school, when I came across a box of photographs, I paused to sort through it.

Before the advent and accessibility of digital cameras, my mother had a proclivity for taking stacks of pictures and not developing them for up to 10 years after their capture. It is obvious from the contents of this box that she either felt particularly motivated or had a great coupon for developing film, because I range in age from about four to 16 in the pictures.

Snap. I'm 16 and at my junior prom, wearing a floor-length bronze princess-style gown and elbow-length black gloves that I bought at Claire's. I'd bought my dress six months prior to the prom, and if I was having a bad day, I'd lock myself in my room, put it on and literally jump up and down. My best friend C is standing next to me wearing a dress in a similar style and white gloves. My date is her brother, who I have a huge crush on, but who sees me as just a friend. I'm smiling ecstatically, like I can't imagine anything better than that moment.

Snap. I'm four or five, playing on the beach with my two sisters. We're all crouched around a bucket, overturned and concealing what will surely be a crumbly sandcastle. Crumbly because my older sister L is giving a heavy-handed demonstration on how to get the wet sand out of the bucket. What I admire about L is her consistency; 16 years later and she's still telling me how to do it right. My little sister, A, is the happiest. In most photos, she looks like she's about to laugh; excited just to be there, her curly blond hair is frizzing in a cloud around her, and it suits her. I'm in the middle, a little obscured, with a look of intense concentration.

Snap. I'm 15, before the homecoming dance, bent into what I think is a seductive pose, trying to get my mother, who is taking the photo, to laugh. I haven't figured out yet how to style my hair, so it's wavy and a little wild, and accidentally looks great. I haven't figured out how to pluck my eyebrows either, so my would-be come-hither gaze looks more like a fierce growl. Despite the aggressiveness of my face, I look like I'm about to break. Still in denial about my anorexia, my collar bones jut sharply from papery skin. My hip bones are visible in detail and my brief dress shows impossible legs. My thighs have deteriorated to nearly the same size as my calves, and combined with the high heels I'm wearing, the look is almost comic in its proportions. I'm smiling with my mouth closed.

Snap. I'm five, wearing a black jumper, white tights and black mary janes. My arm is broken, and in a sling. I'm at the playground, and I want to hurry up and get the picture taken so I can go back to playing. The photo almost looks like I'm in motion because I'm so energetic and impatient. I can envision myself running around, not too concerned about my arm at all.

What edgingly bothers me about these pictures is the disconnect I feel from myself in some of them. It's been years since I've spoken to C, a friend who once knew everything about me. I'm jealous of my broken arm, and the girl in the photo who is totally confident that she'll be okay; a girl who doesn't yet know what it's like to be undermined by the insecurity of constant pain from an injury.

I feel anchored, though, looking at myself being silly before homecoming. When I look at the picture again, I see determination; a look that's mirrored on the beach in 1989. Flipping through these and the other pictures in the box, there are moments captured that I no longer remember, with friends who I no longer see. Spying flashes of myself in moments of honesty, though, gives me confidence about the future. The feelings don't change, just the circumstances.

How does that song go? Everything will be all right.