Back Up

The combination of a heavy backpack and a camera hanging off my neck during a hike had proved to be too much for my healing back, and I found myself laying in bed on a heating pad, quite cranky that it had thwarted all other plans.

The smartphone had been released from the clutches of the safe that afternoon, and I quickly checked my messages. A few minutes turned into an hour before I looked at how much time I had spent on Instagram, and I found myself indifferent to the minutes that grew larger with each passing moment. After all, I was in pain and couldn’t move around much - what else was I supposed to do?

I knew the smartphone wasn’t helping my mood. Not only was I physically unwell, but scrolling through endless posts and videos was turning my apathetic mood into a somber one, offset by a touch of anxiety.

I reverted to dreaming about destroying the phone in some way. Perhaps I could back over it with my car, or throw it into a nearby pond. I could take it down to the workbench in the basement and smash it with a hammer (after I had put on protective eye-wear, of course, in case the phone decided to fight back).

I started to wonder if it could really be possible to completely rid myself of it. I could check my Instagram messages and email on the handy Chromebook I’m writing this on. Posting might be a bit more difficult on the browser, and recording a video is not an option. I’d have to say goodbye to GPS, and instead rely fully on the paper maps I had gathered. Group chats would be a thing of the past, but I talk enough in person that I think a bit of silence online may add an air of mystery, if even possible. 

I would miss Whatsapp, especially since I have a friend who has recently moved out of the country, and it’s my primary way of communicating with her. I reminded myself we could still video chat on some other platform, perhaps with more intention since I would be on this laptop. 

I imagined the cathartic release of wailing on the old smartphone with a hammer. Destroying something that had consumed my life, something that had taken so many moments from me seemed outrageously satisfying. I wondered how I would feel in the immediate aftermath, if logic would take over and there would be a panic back to reality. 

With the state of my back, I wasn’t sure exactly how much wailing I could do in the present moment. But, if I were to do that, was there anything I would need to prepare on the phone?

Ah, my pictures. The ones I had never backed up. I tapped on the screen to get the process of saving them to my Google drive started, when I noticed how painstakingly long it was taking. I glanced at my photos again, looking at the different folders. Altogether, there were…fifteen thousand.

Fifteen thousand??? Photos??? Of what???

I couldn’t fathom a guess of how many of those were low-self-esteem-selfies, but the majority of them were of our pets. There were years of pictures - family, friends, weddings, pets, holidays - and I decided it was time to sort through it all. I stopped the data transfer and got to work. 

I scrolled back as far as I could and landed in 2016. Nearly a decade ago I had stuffed my entire life in my car and made the twelve hour drive back to my home province to start over. I was twenty-nine years old, moving back in with my parents, and going back to university to finish my degree. To some that would seem dismal, but to me, it was exciting. I’ve always loved new beginnings.  

As I deleted duplicates (I’m not sure why I felt the need to consistently take five shots of the same picture), the tone of the pictures changed. Photos of late nights and drinks gave way to more structured days, and eventually Brent and a bundle of pets appeared. The quiet, forced solitude of COVID was evident in the uptick of nature pics and decline of gatherings, only for them to pick up again sometime around 2022. The rush of nostalgia was overwhelming. People appeared who no longer existed, and I found myself once again both celebrating and mourning them. 

After three long hours, I had deleted over twelve thousand pictures. My eyes were blurry from the constant scrolling and it felt as though I had just cleaned out a storage room full of years of my life. Every click on a picture was both an acknowledgement and a farewell to something, or someone, I needed to let go.

I set my phone down on the bed. Now, with everything backed up and calls and texts going to the handy flip phone that lay on my nightstand, I could safely destroy the smartphone. 

Hesitating, perhaps because I knew I was in an emotional state, I instead picked up the phone and threw it back in the safe, twirling the large button until the timer was set for ten days. As I heard it lock, I placed it under the bed, knowing I couldn’t access it until the Thursday after next. 

I guess we’ll see, in ten days time, if the hammer is nearby when the safe unlocks.