2am this morning.
I’m taking deep breaths with my hand over my mouth—a long-established, almost automatic practice. My eyes, temples, and the space between them ache. As I write this, I can feel that same pressure building again. It hasn’t been that long since these small acts were even noticeable to me, and now they provide insight into what is happening. Chakra-wise, it’s the voice and wisdom center that feel in pain.
I thought back to one evening about a year ago on my therapist’s couch. When I described “The Scream,” she said, almost immediately and with empathy, “It’s because you had no voice.” Instantly, tears sprang to my eyes. With that sudden understanding—something unknown becoming obvious—my throat hurt. It made sense. It was clear to her, but new to me. I couldn’t wait to tell my husband, but when I tried to explain it later over the phone, it got lost in translation. It lost its potency, and I lost the motivation to explore it further.
The scream I speak of took place in mid-February 1994, just days before my 18th birthday, outside of the Patchogue courthouse on Long Island. The previous summer, on July 9th, was the first time police were involved in the domestic violence and abuse that had been present in my home since I was born, resulting in that February court date. I wanted justice. I wanted something to happen. But nothing did. Because I was still a minor, the case was moved to family court, and my father walked away without consequence.
I didn’t understand what was happening that day. As we left the courthouse, I asked my mother what was going on. At first, she said nothing. Then finally, she said, “Nothing is happening.” With each step toward the car, it began to sink in. Confusion turned to anger, and anger turned into something I couldn’t contain.
I stood behind the car. I didn’t want to get in. The car felt like the box I had lived in my whole life—hot, enclosed, inescapable. They urged me to get in, but I couldn’t. And then it came. A scream I didn’t know existed inside me—loud, uncontrolled, inhuman. I screamed again, and again, and again. They froze and watched me like I was something wild, and in that moment, I was.
When it stopped, I felt different. Not fixed—but released, even if only slightly. I got in the car, went home, and we never spoke about it again. But I never forgot it.
Years later, that scream came back. At first I didn’t understand it. It would happen in my car, at home, sometimes in the middle of the night. It felt like something building and building until it had no choice but to come out. I thought it was dramatic. I didn’t connect it to anything real. Hindsight is something else.
What I now understand is that my body was reacting to something it recognized as danger—something emotional, not physical. The same feelings of being trapped, unheard, and without control would surface in my adult life, especially in situations where I felt I had no voice. My body didn’t see the difference between then and now, so it screamed.
For a long time, I didn’t understand what was happening. I just knew that when it came, I couldn’t stop it. It felt like a complete loss of control, followed by an overwhelming release. Last summer, something shifted. After a particularly intense episode, I began to understand what was happening in my body—how trauma lives there, how it gets triggered, and how the mind and body respond even when the present moment isn’t actually dangerous. That understanding changed everything.
I haven’t screamed in many months now. Not because the past is gone, but because I can recognize what’s happening before it reaches that point. I can get somewhere safe. I can slow things down. I can give myself what I didn’t have then—a voice, space, and awareness.
This post doesn’t wrap up neatly. It doesn’t tie itself into a perfect message. It just is.
I woke up this morning with my hand over my mouth, my temples aching, and a memory resurfacing—reminding me of where that pain comes from. The scream felt inevitable then. Maybe it doesn’t have to be anymore.
Peace.
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