Perfect Parts
Saint Creature We lose our “perfect parts” throughout our lives. For normal people, it’s probably nothing, but when you’re a perfectionist, it’s like cutting off pieces from a whole person.
Once, as a child, at least as I remember it, I was thrown into a car. More precisely, a car with a cut-off roof. I’m not sure if it was the first injury in my life, but that’s how I got my scar on my left leg and my first four stitches on my body.
Another incident was related to the fact that, while at my grandmother’s, I climbed onto a pipe to call my mother. The reason? Strange and stupid. Ugh… I needed to wipe my ass. So don’t ask about age. My foot slipped off a pipe that was lying on the ground, and…so I got a wound in the scrotum, running into a rebar sticking out of the ground. Everything was sewn up and “put back in place”, but I ended up with another scar in a rather strange place.
The third incident also happened in my childhood. When I was going down a roller coaster. My older brother was having fun from below, who was sitting at its base. When I went down, I was scared that I would drive into him, and my finger got electrocuted between the metal pipe of the swing and the canvas, which was also made of metal. No, my finger wasn’t cut off then. But since then, another scar has been appearing on my little finger.
About 15 years ago, my nose was broken during the New Year holidays. Some bully, because we were relaxing in our informal party. They attacked us and…since then, my nose is the way it is.
Interestingly, throughout my youth I was more careful than before. So I didn’t get any special injuries (except for mental ones, of course). When I was 17, I had a varicocele cut out. About three stitches. But that doesn’t count.
It’s funny, but most of the injuries I got in the city where I live now. Once I almost put my eye out when I put a board on a stone, put a cherry tree on one side, and stepped on the other side with my foot. It’s funny now, but it wasn’t very good then. But it hit me right in the eye. It hurt. A lot. Sometimes it seemed to me that because of this, one of my eyes sees everything in more yellow tones, but over time I learned from the Internet that this is typical for many people.
In the same city, when I was 10-12, I probably filled a plastic bottle with gas from a lighter and… set it on fire. As a result, I had a burn on my finger, but it was relatively minor because it can’t be seen now.
There is a small scar on my left hand – and I remember exactly that it is from a watermelon. More precisely, from a knife that slipped off. Just like there is a scar on my other hand from the same place, which was obtained with an old knife that was used to cut nettles for chickens. I don’t remember exactly how I got that scar.
I have a scar on my eyebrow from hitting a door. It’s from my military days, when I hit my forehead against a wooden door in the dark.
One of the stupidest scars, or rather not scars, but an almost severed part of myself, I got when I was repairing a bicycle. I spun the wheel, tried to stop the disc brake with my hand, and my thumb got caught between the brake and the disc. The tip of my finger was almost cut off. But, thanks to Pavel, we got to the hospital, they treated the wound there and everything went well. I can’t quite feel this tip, but the finger looks like a normal one. It was he who became the reason for this post.
During life, we lose our “perfect parts”. We become destroyed. Not like others or as nature created us. I feel sad that certain parts of me will no longer be the way they should be. But I can’t do anything about it, so should I be sad about it? I’m still looking for an answer to the question of what cuts off parts from us more – iron, or negative experiences received from certain people? I lean more towards the second.
I have a lot of imperfect parts with which I have learned to live. I have come to terms with what they are. I once thought that if I lost even a part of myself – it would be better to die than to remain disabled. But if you think like that – you should have jumped off that bridge at 17, because that’s when I got my first serious disability.
There are many people in the world who are more beautiful than you or me. More perfect than us. But what of it? In a broader sense? It doesn’t make them more important than us. More beautiful (in a broader sense) than us. Better or anything else. Everyone just has their own path, just like everyone was born under certain conditions, in a certain place, and in a certain family. It’s not scary that you may not be rich, or have some flaws – the main thing is not to make these flaws the meaning of your life. Not to focus on them and not to attach more importance to them. My camera is worn out, but it still takes great pictures. I’m worn out too, and sometimes I do great things. It doesn’t depend on my physical condition.
