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The Scream on Friday Night “Noooooo”, I screamed. It was midnight and my family was still having the shabbos meal. A few family members stopped their chatting. “What was that? Was that Yehudis from the back room?”. My sister came in to check on me and found me sobbing on the bed. In explanation of my sudden scream I sobbed […]

The Scream on Friday Night

“Noooooo”, I screamed. It was midnight and my family was still having the shabbos meal. A few family members stopped their chatting. “What was that? Was that Yehudis from the back room?”. My sister came in to check on me and found me sobbing on the bed. In explanation of my sudden scream I sobbed “I drank too much” even though I had just one glass of wine. But that wine was enough to make me loose outward control of the flashbacks that felt so real.

My trauma, you may ask? Well, let’s just say it involved a lot of sexuality, nakedness, and a lot more touching than a child under 10 should ever know.

It is strange how trauma works. I am an adult and yet was sobbing away screaming “No”. Those weren’t the only words said between the choked up sentences that made its way through my lips after one glass of wine. “Don’t touch me”, I begged.

It was me, just me in the room, with only G­d as the witness and my sister a few feet away walking towards me to find out if the noise she had just heard was me screaming.

But to be honest, it wasn’t just me and G­d in that room that shabbos night at midnight. He (the perpetrator) was there too in the memory that is properly called a flashback and clinically called trauma. He was there trying to insert himself into me. That memory, and better termed as flashback, made it feel like the abuse was happening right then and there.

I’d been fighting these flashbacks gracefully for days, and every time it felt like he had his hands on me, or mine on his body, I brought myself back to the present. No screaming, no outward sign as to what I was feeling then. To manage the flashbacks and body memories I grounded myself in the ways I ground best. But that night, with the effect of one glass of wine, I lost control.

And screamed. And sobbed.

About things that happened years ago and torment me through flashbacks that feel so real I

tense up in preparation for the touch that happened years ago.

Posted in media, survivors-letters.

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