The worst thing

A few years ago, my friends and I were shooting the shit, asking those dumb questions you ask after a few beers. They seem so significant at the time, though, don't they? My turn came up and I was asked, "What was the worst thing you ever did?" The guy who asked me was the last person in the world I'd share a confidence with, much less give the answer to that question. He was much more of an acquaintance than a friend, actually. The rest of the table was full of friends whose good opinions of me I valued. For these reasons, and because that's just not the kind of question it seems prudent to answer under any circumstances, I refused or maybe I made up an obviously false answer, hoping the moment would pass. But in a way, it never did. The moment was strange and awkward enough that it not only stuck in mind, it stayed in others' as well. Even though nobody else was asked that question that night, or any other night, it still comes up -- they want me to answer. They want to know the worst thing I've ever done.

Being made to think of the worst thing I've ever done isn't that comfortable -- surprise, surprise. But since it's become a sort of running joke, that's exactly what happens. Somehow, I never see it coming, but there it is again and again: "What was it? The worst thing?" So the answer stays front of mind, like a big bruise that never heals. At times, it makes me want to scream the answer out for everyone to hear. If I look on the positive side, maybe its constant presence will keep me from doing something even worse.

And what's the answer? It's not a complete secret. There are people who know the worst thing I've ever done. I'm not sure if they realize it or not. It's better that way. People often ask questions that they don't actually want the answers to. The answer is enough of a burden for me to carry -- I wouldn't want anyone else to have to bear even a fraction of it. Besides, we all have our own answer, and it's the heaviest load in the world.