Thoughts From The Walk

*Warning. This post contains triggers and oversharing.

This isn't a real post. This is just me sharing my thoughts I've had while walking. Feel free to skip this one!

HANDS:

I thought a lot about hands today. Maybe to try take the focus off my feet.

I thought of my dad's hands. Mighty and thick and hard as iron. Can play any instrument he wishes to play and can shoot, skin, cut up and cook any kangaroo, emu or other bush tucker.

But when I think of those hands I think of the holes he left in the walls of our houses, or the black and purple bruises he marked my mother and step mother with, or the angry red welts left on my flesh - a perfect imprint of his hand.

So different to my stepdad's hands, which fix and make and grow and paint. He's a DIY guy for sure and his hands are rarely idle. They have also never struck another living creature in anger.

I thought about my mum's hands next. Small and dainty with thin fingers. So skilled at sewing and cooking and growing things in the garden. I can see the rings on her thin fingers and I can feel her stroking my hair back from my face while I'm lying in a hospital bed. The doctors think I'm going to die. I have no idea what's going on. It's just another stint in the hospital. I had many as a small child. This is not the first time the doctors think I'm going to die. I would not know this until many years later.

My friend, D, had such beautiful hands. Long and slender and black and simply beautiful. She is simply beautiful. Even when she carried extra weight. Her smile was always the brightest in the room. We aren't friends anymore and a part of me is sad. She was my first friend at uni. My first friend ever actually. This bright, bubbly, beautiful woman saw me back then, a small scared, shell of a human and saw something else, something I wouldn't see until my 30s.

I can see her hands picking up another glass or bottle, balancing a fag that is smouldering to the butt. I hope she is happy.

J's hands were nothing special. The hands of a labourer who worked on the mines. The hands of a heavy drinker and charming lady killer. Those hands were very unremarkable. But those hands choked me on more than one occassion. Smacked me hard across the face once. Pushed me and pulled me more than once. Invaded the most private parts of me when he pleased and how, without ever asking. J's hands were very good at taking but they were not gentle or kind. Much like him.

B. I cannot for the life of me remember what B's hands look like. I'm surprised by this, he became such a force in my life. A destructive force that destroyed everything, I'd like to stress. But I can't remember his hands. They're usually the first thing I notice. I do remember how he wrote the number seven, with a cross through the middle. I had never seen it written like that before and I have only ever written it like that since. Why can't I remember his hands?

My favourite pair of hands belonged to L. Big and rough and so strong. They could twist a horseshoe so one half bent the other way. But they were the gentlest hands I knew. They never grabbed or pushed or choked or took anything that wasn't freely and willfully offered. They were very gentle hands. They rested softly on my hips when he peaked over my shoulder as I cooked. The closest I have ever come to domestic bliss. The closest I probably ever will. I don't miss those hands as much as I did. And one day soon I won't miss them at all. Thank God for small mercies.

I spent a fair bit of time looking at my hands today. There are a fair few scars, one from fishing, one from trapeze practice, one I have no idea the origins of. My nails are short like I like them, they are too soft to grow long and too impractical I feel. I was told I have stubby fingers but I don't think so. Some have said I have healers hands. Once upon a time they created art. They used to create stories! And they occassionaly create bad music on the ukulele. They cook and clean and fix minor things around the house. They pat doggies with glee! They sew and knit and sometimes crochet. They can be so loving and yet sometimes so violent, though I can proudly say I have not self-harmed since 2019. I have a good pair of hands.