My hand

I recall being asked how I broke my hand. I answered to the best o my ability at the time, but it was incomplete. It was a painful experience, no one wants to remember the time they broke a bone, they want to forget about it as soon as it's over. There's no lesson to be learned. You're just stick with a useless part for an elongated duration. My hand still hurts.

It never would have happened if I didn't go against my Pops' way of thinking. He doesn't care about things, or he doesn't care as much as I do, or he doesn't care about the same things I do. Like with food, he doesn't or barely tries to make food that has flavor. For much of my childhood I was served t.v. dinners and canned food. When I was younger and he did my laundry it would always come back to me crusty and stinky smelling. Imagine that. Clothes when washed that end up coming out worse. It frustrated me. I disliked the uncomfortable feeling of my shirts on my bare skin. And I disliked the smell. Not to say that the smell was strong, I could only smell it after I put right against my nose, so only I could smell it, but I still did not like it.

So I started to wash my own clothes. You see, the reason my Pops' way of washing turned out the way it did is because he would just leave the clothes in the wash for days without hanging them up or drying them. So when I washed my clothes and hung them up my clothes were soft and smelled nice. I liked it quite a lot. I was happy.

But as my clothes were hanged up spread apart, my Pops would often slide them back together. I know it's a stupid thing to be upset about but I was afraid that the clothes wouldn't dry quick enough and become as they were before. So I asked him not do it anymore. But he kept on doing it. And when asked him stop again, he kept on doing it. So I stopped asking him to stop and instead I simply went into the laundry room every night to check if they were stuck together again. I thought my problem was fixed. I don't try to change people for the benefit of myself. I like to think that I need only change myself.

But then he unhooked all of my clothes, put them all in a hamper, and brought it upstairs. And that was the last straw. And that was how it happened.

I know it's not his fault. There were many reasons and variables for why and how it happened.

I never liked my father, for my childhood he was either absent or angry. So I do my best to deal with him as little as possible, as seen with me stopping to ask him to stop unspreading my hung clothes. The reason why he did it was because I barely ever talked to him, and I talked to him to stop sliding my clothes together. My hand could have remained unbroken if two things happened. Either I didn't try to actively ignore him, or if he chose to understand and accept my reasoning for wanting to hang up my clothes spread out. But we wanted different things, and so I had to suffer.

I am still suffering. Fault lies with everyone and no one. It's easy to say if only blank did blank, but in the moment, it's impossible for anything else to have happened. The past shapes too much. That is why we must remember it.

I think i am depressed. I don't want to be. You know, most people's goals are either relationships or work/companionship or greatness. I thought i wanted to be great. But ever since I was a kid, I just wanted peace. I was talking so grandly of aspiring to be a great writer. But if I truly wanted to be a great writer I would have written more by now. Even though I'm down to only six usable fingers, it didn't take me long to adapt to my previous speed at all. I only had to look down at the keyboard for my first couple hundred words, and then I adapted.

I don't want to be great. I don't want companionship. I just want peace. That is my happiness. I would be fine being idle all my days, if only I could be alone, if only I could wash my clothes, and cook my food in peace. That is my dream.

My father wanted companionship, so he adopted me, but that didn't go well. I don't care about being important or remembered. I just want to live my own life.

I don't - I'm in so much pain, I just want it to stop.

If only I didn't care about cleaning my clothes, if only I didn't care about being better. Maybe I could still be happy. It's fucked up, that thought. No, I wasn't wrong for wanting to wash my clothes. I wasn't wrong for caring.

I want to smile so badly, but it's getting so hard. The more I care, the more I try to live, the more I break myself. It feels as if the only thing I can actually do is die. The only thing I can do is fail. It's so hard to hope. It's so hard to try. But that's why. That's why it's better. Because it's harder.

I don't think I've smiled in a very long time. So please, everyone, smile for me.