MY life was a hopeless morass of pain, torment, shame, and despair from when I was very young and into adulthood. When my marriage and my parenting flailed, I was convinced that it was all a result of my shortcomings. Until I was introduced to people and methods that helped me cope with my trauma and put me on the path to emotional healing.
My father died four years ago, from Covid. I grew up without ever knowing my father, never having any inkling of the person he was beneath all the violence. His uncontrollable rage formed the essence of my childhood, and much of my adult life, too. And me? When things hurt, they hurt deeply. I was around nine. I refused to change for the seudah, as we usually did, because I wanted to go meet my friends later. Inevitably, my father took control of the situation and yelled at my mother and anyone in the vicinity, while I raced to hide in my room.
Soon enough my father was banging the door down so hard it was close to breaking. I remember thinking, Okay, I have two options โ I can throw myself onto the concrete two stories below my bedroom window, or open the door.
My married sister lived several blocks away, and the minute my father was distracted with something else, I sped over there. From then on, her home became my haven, my safe place. I was available for her whenever she needed me, and in return, she nurtured me in ways my parents never did, doing homework with me, chatting with me, and just offering me a safe harbor where I could escape the chaos of my home.
I called her place my ir miklat , my city of refuge. She was my true burden carrier. Financially, my parents were really challenged. Someone in shul recognized the coat as his old one and was decidedly vocal about it. I wished I could disappear from shame, yet my heart broke for my brother. At their lowest financial point, my parents were threatened with foreclosure on the house.
