Has Been Broken

“The part of you that endured the sting of his whip is asking to be heard now. And every part of you is falling silent, leaning close, to witness.”

Mel said this to me back in January, and until today, I hadn’t imagined writing it out from the ether like this. I didn’t know if I could. Even now, as I type, I’m not sure if this piece will linger in my drafts or show up in your inbox. There are parts of my story I’ve tucked into thin places, preserved within small mossy boundary layers, not to hide them but to ensure they make it. It’s always cost something, after all, to make him mad, and I am tired of paying.

My friends are those thin places, the ones holding fragments and whole bodies of story. I drop voice notes filled with trembling truth at their doors, and they return full and warm with belief and love and fury like midwestern casserole dishes - the kind of dishes neighborhood women exchange when something’s changed the terrain of someone’s life. Casseroles come in a myriad of shapes, I’ve learned. And the love of my friends has often been the only thing keeping me fed when the ground is still rippling below my feet.

Back in January, something happened. Something I’m going to be a little vague about because, you know, I’m trying to make sure this part of me makes it. But I’ve already done much harder things. It’s only taken me a paragraph to decide I can do this, too.