Who am I? The other calls me Trauma Man. I hold shards of ineffable evil inside my psyche, a broken cauldron of boiling anguish. And I mourn for my shattered faith.

Once, I possessed absolute trust in the universe and Hashem, my G-d. Throughout my adolescence, the power of my faith protected me. Then I lost my last strands of strength, for my faith was severed from my being, like Samson’s hair cut off by the seductive Delilah. One day, a beautiful part of me died. And after this first death, I died again and again.

Now, I seize vanishing glimpses and vestiges of my ancient beliefs.

The Darkness calls me Trauma Man, for I hold it inside my Jewish soul, and slowly, insidiously it eats my Spirit, and soon, I look like an Auschwitz victim, naked and emaciated, only ghostly bones with a mask of death.

I no longer look human. But I am a person. Still, they say I resemble a ghost of Auschwitz who inhaled Zyklon B. After his death, his corpse was fed into an unholy fire. The Nazis waited for him to disappear inside the crematorium, his body defiled and humiliated before, during, and after death.

The other calls me Trauma Man. A dreamer, he has visions of beauty. My alter ego, he is the part of me who seemed to die over four decades ago. Yet he still exists in a corner of my wounded soul.

At night, I listen to the lonely silence that stretches across my dreamscape. I listen and sometimes he speaks to me about the splendid universe and Hashem, my G-d. And although I cling to the Darkness, he reveals holy truths. He evokes ancient memories. And for a few seconds, I recapture the faith I once possessed.

The Darkness calls me Trauma Man. I mourn for my shattered faith. Yet from time to time, my twin speaks to me and feeds me hope and an iota of faith. I eat his gifts. And my soul begins to heal.

They call me Trauma Man. But I am blessed, even though the Darkness consumes me. I believe. I sit quietly and wait for Hashem, my G-d.