An Autobiography Of Trauma

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When I was a child and adolescent, my family suffered prolonged life-threatening intimidation from the New York mafia. My father was called as a witness to testify against Johnny “Dio” Dioguardi, a ruthless mafioso of the Lucchese crime family. In an attempt to protect my mother, me and younger brothers from almost certain death, my father refused to testify against Dio, even as this was demanded by the young and ambitious Robert F. Kennedy, then chief counsel to the New York Senate committee on racketeering.

To help secure my father’s silence, I was brutally raped at the tender age of about twelve-years-old by a gang belonging to the Bronx mob, likely the Fordham Daggers. This violent incident happened under dense overgrown bushes in a neighborhood park, a place that had previously been a playground and treasured refuge for me. This rape was a secret I kept hidden from everyone, especially from myself. It was buried in the recesses of my mind, but my body “remembered” it. Every day, as I walked to school, my body tensed and my breath constricted, as though my entire being was hyper-vigilantly readying itself for another assault. But even more destructive than this was the ongoing fear, as I agonized about the disintegration of the very fabric of my family and, with it, the collapse of any enduring sense of safety.

I was never able to talk to my parents about this assault, as doing so would have confirmed the violence I endured. And so, it became deeply lodged in my psyche as a pervasive sense of shame and “badness.” To displace those awful feelings, I assiduously avoided stepping on any cracks in the sidewalk, as I carefully walked the mile between school and home. I did this as if somehow I could ward off the threat with that classic ritual. In addition, I would constantly pray in the hope that God would protect me from another assault. I would place my hand over the top of my head, as covering the head was required by Orthodox Jews. I did this even though neither of my parents were practicing Jews in any regard. In fact, when my father saw me doing this, he would imitate and ridicule me. This humiliation was something I dreaded. As I reflect on this demoralization, I suspect it was his attempt to discourage me, and I believe that (at least in his mind) he was trying to protect me from doing this in public where I could be scorned. Unfortunately, it did not work. I t only made matters worse. I felt both ridiculed and humiliated by him, while being left entirely alone with my crippling fear and anxiety.

Though I had a childhood replete with violence and life-threat, there were a few times that I felt cherished and protected. I recall these two experiences which left me with a full open feeling in my heart and an exuberant bounce in my legs. I believe that these sensory and emotional imprints helped me to survive what surely could have destroyed me.

On the morning of my fourth birthday, I awoke to a grand treat. In the middle of the night my parents had quietly crept into my bedroom while I was sound asleep. Then, underneath my bed, and into the far reaches of the room, they stealthily laid the circular track for a Lionel model electric train set.

Can you imagine my delight when I awoke to the train clanging as it chugged around the tracks? Instantly I jumped out of my bed and ran over to the transformer, where I could control the speed of the train. I beeped its horn with glee. I believe that this surprise gave me a sense of wonder and of being loved and cared for. Reflecting on this memory, I am reminded of an even earlier time when I felt tremendous and exuberant joy at being embraced and made to feel extra special.

When I was around the age of two, my father was the head counselor at a New England summer camp. Evoked by a black and white photo, I have a body memory of him standing in the swimming pool. I recall running and jumping into the pool. He made sure that I didn’t drown as the water covered my sinking body. I can still sense his hands gently closing in around my hips, lifting me above the water, and depositing me on the grass at the edge of the pool. I would then ready myself by backing up and running, again and again, full speed across the lawn and jumping into the pool and my father’s welcoming arms. After many of these flying jumps, the water quickly became my friend. My father would then gently hold my outstretched arms and let me lay on my belly and kick as I made my first swimming movements. After this introduction, I fell in love with swimming. Later, as an adult, I’d always find myself seeking places, on a lake or at the sea, any place where I could once again be held by water.

Holding these body memories of being cared for helped make it possible for me to encounter many times of great distress without being completely overwhelmed and annihilated. In later years, they supported my healing journey in resolving trauma.

I know of many individuals, both personally and professionally, who endured childhoods with ongoing violence, abuse and neglect. In comparison, I feel the violence and abuse I bore don’t compare to theirs. But having worked with traumatized people for nearly half a century, I believe it is a misstep to compare traumas. If I have learned anything, it is that trauma is trauma, no matter the source!

We all have the capacity to heal. I believe there exists in humans a fundamental, primal drive towards wholeness and health. This includes access to a part of ourselves that has always been within, that lives beyond any trauma, and is eternally whole and undamaged. It is a part that could be called the True Self or Real Self. The Jungian analyst, James Hollis, defined the Self (with a capital S) as: “the purposiveness of the organism, the teleological intention of becoming itself as fully as it can.” I would only add that this drive is to become more like our True Self, more like who we are, outside of our roles and personas. In my experience, this drive is akin to that innate impulse towards curiosity and exploration.

Sadly, this primal instinctual energy is all too often forced underground by oppressive over socialization, or overwhelmed by toxic stress and trauma. Nevertheless, this powerful resource lives deep within all of us and lies in wait, ready to be awakened at the right moment. In spite of pervasive trauma, I believe this creative curiosity, and inner sense of vitality and exuberance, was always present in my life and is what helped take me from there to here.

Excerpted with permission from An Autobiography of Trauma: A Healing Journey, ©Peter A. Levine, Ph.D. (Inner Traditions Press, 2024). Inner Traditions Press.

Peter A. Levine, Ph.D., is the renowned developer of Somatic Experiencing. The recipient of four lifetime achievement awards, he is the author of several books including Waking the Tiger, which has been printed in 33 countries and has sold over a million copies

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