Missing Parts

In November of 2023, my essay titled “Missing Parts” was published in the North Coast Squid, a bi-annual literary journal supported by the Hoffman Center for the Arts. Hoffman is a beautiful art gallery in Manzanita, Oregon, where I live part of the year.

Of course, I was thrilled to have one of my essays published! What I wasn’t expecting, though, was that they would ask me to read my essay at a live, spoken-word launch event. As scary and vulnerable as that sounded, I agreed and began preparing. I practiced with a coach and learned a few things about reading one’s work in public. Mostly, the message was: DON’T JUST READ IT, EXPERIENCE IT! The coach encouraged me to put myself back into the scenario of the essay, in a sense, re-living aloud the story. So, that’s what I set out to do.

It was terrifying.

Before I spoke, as I sat in the crowd, listening to other (much tamer!) readings, my head was filled with doubt. Could I really do this? Would people think I was weak, over-dramatic, making a big deal out of nothing? Did anyone care about what had happened to me?

I can’t remember how I answered myself, and at that point, it didn’t really matter. I had committed and, soon enough, it would be my turn to speak.

The emcee introduced me, and I headed toward the podium. A hundred sets of eyes watched as I took my place on the dais and began speaking: “I think of that day as the day I began to lose myself. To lose my body.”

Over the next few minutes, I re-lived a tale of parental betrayal. As I did, I looked out over the sea of faces, noticing the looks of horror, disgust, confusion, and shared shame on the men and women in front of me. I saw my sister tearing up and my husband nodding his head in encouragement. My knees were shaking, but my voice was steady as I recounted one small speck of the larger trauma my family endured. I finished with one of the lessons I’d learned at 9 years old: “Bad things happen in this house.”

The audience let out an audible gasp, burst into applause, and I walked back to my seat.

As I lowered my still-shaking body into the chair, my husband leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You’re the bravest person I know.” That was a nice response.

But that wasn’t the end of the feedback I’d receive that night.

During the reception, at least a dozen women approached me, thanking me for the reading. They assured me that my work would help a lot of people; they shared their own stories of abuse and neglect; they applauded my courage; they assured me I wasn’t alone.

One woman stood out to me in her earnestness. Her nearly 90-year-old eyes seemed to stare through me, as her wrinkled, mottled hands gripped mine. “What you’ve done is so important,” she said. “Please, go out and tell your story. Other people need to hear it.” She then shared her own experience as a victim, over 80 years ago, and her lifetime of survival.

I was honored and inspired.

“Missing Parts” became the first chapter in Wreckage.