The Rabbi’s abuse shattered him, and it exploded 30 years later

A few months ago, a dear man came to me and shared a story that shook me to my core. “I was born into a haredi home, to a family that gave its soul for Torah. When I reached yeshiva ketana, I felt I was in a place where I could grow and rise. One of the maggidei shiur in the yeshiva was a revered figure, a great Torah scholar, someone everyone respected and admired.

But soon, I realized he wasn’t what he appeared to be. There were moments when he’d get too close, speak to me in a way that didn’t feel right, sometimes placing a hand on my shoulder, sometimes looking at me in a way that made me uneasy. When I tried to distance myself, he’d find ways to pull me back—sometimes with kind words, sometimes by ignoring me, sometimes with veiled anger that made it clear I depended on him.

Then came the moment that broke me. One day, he asked me to come to him after evening seder, claiming he wanted to help me with a specific sugya. When I arrived, he started talking about personal matters, trying to ‘understand’ me. And then it happened. I can’t even say it explicitly. I just remember freezing. I remember my whole body shutting down, unable to move, my mind screaming but my mouth unable to utter a word.

When it was over, he said to me coldly: ‘This is our secret, right? Just between us.’ I nodded because I had no other choice. I walked away with trembling legs and a broken heart.

And so it continued. I couldn’t resist. I didn’t know how. Every time he called me, I went. Every time he ‘cared’ for me, I forced a half-smile, as if I were fine. Inside, I was crumbling. No one knew, no one saw. I was a child, dependent on him, in a world where he was the ultimate authority, the one meant to teach me Torah and morality.

It didn’t end there. Even when I distanced myself, something inside me was broken. I couldn’t trust people. I couldn’t build healthy relationships. For years, I didn’t understand why I disconnected, why I was afraid, why my body reacted the way it did. It took me thirty years to realize that the pain I’d carried since childhood didn’t vanish—it was buried deep under layers of repression. Life went on, I grew up, not even grasping how deeply that rabbi had wounded my soul.

The bizarre part? I stayed in touch with that rabbi for years, and he ‘helped’ me in life—or so it seemed. But the traumas were so repressed I didn’t even realize how much I was suffering or what was happening to me.

Over the years, I struggled with distrust, fears, anxieties, and severe issues with my wife. I didn’t understand why—every time we touched on those topics, my body froze, disconnected, as if I wasn’t present.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me until the moment I couldn’t bear the pain inside anymore and decided to seek help. But the pain of 30 years, so deeply repressed, erupted mercilessly. I couldn’t handle it. I began to understand myself—the awful suffering I’d carried in my body, spirit, and soul. The anger, the fears, the anxieties, the struggles with people, the loneliness—everything.

For years, I didn’t connect my past to my present suffering. I always told my wife, ‘What happened in my childhood and youth? I don’t remember anything. It’s like it’s all erased; it doesn’t affect me at all.’

But that was a decades-long repression mechanism, so my soul could survive.

When we’re hurt in childhood—or in life at all—the soul can’t always cope with the pain directly. It’s too much, too intense.

So it does what it must to survive—it represses.

The memories are shoved deep inside, seemingly erased.

The victim tells themselves, ‘It’s behind me. It doesn’t affect me.’

And sometimes that’s even true—for years, it feels like it’s not there.

But the truth is, it’s always there.

Repression might hide the memories, but it doesn’t erase the pain.

The soul might ‘forget,’ but the body remembers.

And the cost of repression starts showing up in ways you can’t ignore:

And here’s the trickiest part:

A person can live like this for years without realizing it’s tied to what they went through.

They suffer.

They face difficulties.

But they don’t link it to the past.

Until one day, it explodes.

And it’s not always a direct memory that triggers it—sometimes it’s a moment in life that stirs something old. Sometimes it’s a relationship, a figure of authority resembling the abuser, or even an unrelated situation where the body reacts with panic to something it no longer recalls but still lives within.

And the victim wonders, ‘Why am I like this?’

Why can’t I trust anyone?

Why do I lash out or freeze when touched?

Why do I feel empty, detached, numb?

The answer is that repression protects, but it comes at a heavy price.

What’s repressed never truly disappears.

It just waits for the moment it rises to the surface—and demands to be seen at last.

For years, I couldn’t look that rabbi in the face and distanced myself as much as possible. He must have sensed something, sending me messages: ‘What’s wrong? Why are you mad at me?’ Then, at the height of my pain, I couldn’t hold back anymore.

I wrote him a letter. I asked him to leave me alone. I wrote that he’d hurt me, that he’d murdered my soul. I cried for five hours while writing it. And what do you think? How did he respond?

‘I only did good for you! I always cared for you! What harm did I do? Did I hurt you? I only looked out for you!’

That was the moment time stopped.

That was the moment I understood something horrifying: He truly believes it.

‘He described how his body reacted when he read the message—his heart pounding, his breath caught. He felt like a helpless, confused child again.’

My mind couldn’t process it.

How could he not see what he did?

How can someone hurt another so badly—and then say, ‘I only cared for you’?

And that’s when the mind starts to unravel.

Because suddenly, you ask yourself questions you don’t want to ask:

‘Maybe I’m wrong?’

‘Maybe I’m exaggerating?’

‘Maybe I don’t even remember it right?’

And that’s what makes it so devastating.

When an abuser not only denies the harm but portrays themselves as caring, it completely undermines the victim’s sense of reality.

In psychological terms, this is a form of gaslighting.

It means the abuser didn’t just hurt you—they’re trying to rewrite the past so you doubt yourself.

A victim’s soul is built to seek external validation that their experience is real.

After all, when we were abused, no one protected us.

So all our lives, we wait for someone to say, ‘It really happened to you. You’re not imagining it.’

But when the abuser—the one who ruined your life—comes and says, ‘I only did good for you!’

It creates a total collapse of inner certainty.

It feels like a double betrayal.

Not only did he hurt me—now he’s erasing what he did, and I’m left alone with the memory.

I feel like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline—only to find it’s made of air.

Then comes another stage—dissonance.

Instead of feeling, ‘I’m sure I was hurt,’ something in my mind starts fighting itself:

‘Maybe I’m making it up? Maybe I’m crazy?’

‘If he says he cared for me, maybe I’m the one seeing things wrong?’

‘If he were a real abuser, he wouldn’t say that!’

And that’s what makes it so hard to process.

Because a victim’s soul wants to trust what it remembers.

But when the person who hurt me insists they only did good—

It causes a deep inner rift.

And that’s exactly the point.

Abusers almost never see themselves as abusers.

Why? Because it would mean seeing themselves as monsters.

And the reality is, most people can’t bear the thought that they’re evil.

So they build themselves a different story.

A story where they were the good ones all along.

And the moment I understood that, something incredible happened—

My pain stopped being about, ‘Why won’t he apologize?’

Because I suddenly realized—he’ll never apologize.

Because if he admits it, he’d have to see himself as I see him.

And he can’t do that.

Does that make it easier?

No.

Does it mean I forgive him?

No.

But it means I’m no longer waiting for him to understand.

It means I no longer expect to hear, ‘You’re right, I hurt you.’

And that’s the real liberation.

Because when I stop expecting him to understand—I realize I don’t need his understanding anymore.

I don’t need him to see me.

Because I see myself.

And in that moment, instead of hurting over his lack of understanding—

I could hurt for myself.

For the child I was, left alone.

For the years I lived with guilt and fear.

For the pain I repressed to survive.

And it hurt.

But it was a clean pain.

A pain of truth.

Not a pain waiting for someone else to validate it.

Because I no longer need the abuser’s approval.

I already know my truth.

And I release him.

Not because he deserves release—but because I deserve freedom.

But there’s something much bigger here—which is why I wrote this article.

We all tell ourselves a story about our lives, about what was done to us, about how we see reality.

People can commit the worst acts imaginable—and still have a story that justifies it.

Even the Nazis, may their names be erased, told themselves a story.

They didn’t think they were evil.

They believed they were saving the world, protecting the ‘Aryan race.’

Hitler himself, when he conquered Austria in record time, saw it as a sign from heaven to keep conquering the world.

And that’s how it is with all of us.

Everyone holds onto their story, convinced it’s the absolute truth.

It happens in relationships too.

Each partner sees the conflict from their own angle,

And each is certain they’re the victim.

He says, ‘I just wanted attention, and she always dismisses me.’

She says, ‘I just wanted peace, and he always attacks me.’

Both are convinced their story is right.

And when two people cling so tightly to their stories, neither can stop and see:

‘Wait, maybe the other side is hurt too? Maybe I did something too?’

But people don’t want to think about that.

Why?

Because if they admit they’re part of the problem—it means they have to change.

And that’s hard.

It requires taking responsibility.

So most people prefer to hold onto their story—

Even if it leads to fights, burns their relationship, or drives them away from someone they love.

Because changing a story is the hardest thing there is.

And that’s true everywhere. People are certain the story they tell themselves is the truth. They can’t see the other side’s story.

So, don’t let hatred consume you. Understand—the abuser lives in his own story. That doesn’t mean you should pity him. It doesn’t mean you should forgive him. It just means you can let go.

The Story We Tell Ourselves—Reality or Imagination?

Every person in the world sees their life through the story they tell themselves. This story includes our memories, our interpretations of what happened, the way we perceive ourselves and those around us.

We don’t see reality as it is—we see reality as we tell it to ourselves.

This means that even if two people experience the same event, each will interpret it completely differently.

For example, a child growing up in a home with a cold, distant parent might tell themselves: ‘I’m unworthy of love, I’m not good enough, my parents didn’t love me because I’m rejectable.’

Another child in the same situation might say: ‘My parent was cold because they were hurt themselves—it’s not about me at all.’

The external reality might be identical—but the internal story is entirely different, and the result? Their lives will unfold in vastly different directions.

How Does Our Story Shape Us?

The problem is that people live inside the story they tell themselves—but they don’t always realize it’s just a story, not an absolute fact.

Some tell themselves they’re pitiful, that life is always against them.

Some say they must always be strong and never show weakness.

Some believe they need to please everyone to be loved.

Some think the world is full of enemies and no one can be trusted.

And then, that story becomes their reality.

Someone who believes life is a constant struggle will experience everything as a battle.

Someone who thinks they’re worthless will always feel rejected, even when people value them.

Someone who believes people can’t be trusted will never build real relationships.

How Does This Relate to Abusers and Victims?

When someone hurts us, we think they did it because they’re ‘bad,’ heartless, cruel.

But what if it’s not that simple?

What if they’re just living inside a story they tell themselves?

What if, in their mind, they don’t even think they did anything wrong?

What if, in their story, they’re the victim of life, feeling they had to act that way to protect themselves?

That doesn’t mean what they did was okay. It just means they don’t truly see us—they see themselves, through their story.

Imagine an abusive man who beats his wife.

If you ask him, ‘Why do you hit her?’ he might say: ‘I’m disciplining her, she needs to know who’s in charge. If I don’t control things, everything will fall apart.’

That’s the story he tells himself.

What can’t he see?

He doesn’t see her pain. He doesn’t see that he’s abusing her. Because if he admitted it, he’d have to see himself as violent—and that’s a story he can’t bear.

We Live in Stories Too

Now, let’s turn it to ourselves:

We, the victims, live inside a story too.

If someone hurt us, we might tell ourselves:

‘I’m weak, powerless, I’ll always be the victim.’

‘I’m alone in the world, no one truly sees me.’

‘My life was ruined because of what was done to me.’

But the truth is—it’s just a story.

Does it really mean I’m weak?

Does it really mean I’m hopeless?

Or is that just what my mind tells me because it’s all I’ve known?

How Do You Change a Story?

The first step is to see that the story exists.

Ask ourselves: ‘What am I telling myself about my life?’

And just as important: ‘Is it really true?’

For example, you can change the story:

Instead of ‘I’m alone’—‘I can find people who understand me.’

Instead of ‘I’m ruined’—‘I’m in a process of healing, I’m moving forward.’

Instead of ‘My life was destroyed’—‘I’m surviving, I’m growing from this.’

It’s not easy, because our mind clings to the old story with all its might.

But when you start to doubt—something opens. Suddenly, you see there are other possibilities.

So How Does This Tie to Releasing the Abuser?

When that rabbi who hurt you so badly wrote, ‘What? I only cared for you!’—it feels unbearable. It burns inside.

Because you know the truth.

You know what he did to you.

But what if you realize he’s just stuck in his own story?

It doesn’t erase what he did. It doesn’t make it okay.

But it does mean you can stop expecting him to understand you.

And that’s the real liberation.

Understanding there’s no point in expecting the abuser to see our pain.

Because he can’t see anything beyond the story he lives in.

When you grasp that, you can release the emotional hold he has over you.

Not because you forgive.

Not because you forget.

But because you stop letting him control you through the pain.

In Summary—Stories Are Power, and the Power Is in Our Hands

If there’s one thing to understand—it’s that our story can destroy us or heal us.

The pain is real, the harm is real—but our interpretation of it can change.

We can tell ourselves we’re broken, or we can tell ourselves we’re healing.

We can cling to the pain, or choose to tell a new story—one where we’re strong, where we don’t let the past define our future.

Because in the end, everyone has a story. The question is—what story do we choose to tell ourselves?

There’s a tale about a man bitten by a snake.

The venom spread through his body, the wound festered, and he neared death.

And what did he do?

Instead of rushing to treat the wound—he started chasing the snake.

He ran after it, tried to find it, tried to take revenge.

But meanwhile, the venom kept spreading.

And that’s exactly what happens with those who hurt us.

We don’t notice, but sometimes we’re too focused on the abuser, on what they did, on how unfair it is.

We obsess over who bit us—and not on how to heal the wound the venom left inside.

That doesn’t mean the abuser didn’t cause immense damage.

It doesn’t mean we should ignore what happened.

But it does mean that if we keep chasing the snake,

If we keep thinking about how they’ll understand, confess, feel guilt,

We’re just letting the venom within us keep destroying us.

The real release comes when we stop chasing the snake—and start healing ourselves.

So What Does True Release Look Like?

Many think release is simply ‘forgiving,’ ‘forgetting,’ ‘moving on.’

But it’s not like that.

Release doesn’t mean the pain disappears.

Release doesn’t mean the past doesn’t exist.

Release means the past no longer controls you.

The man before me once said, ‘When I’d think about him, my body would shrink.

I felt a sharp pinch in my stomach, a choke in my throat.

Thoughts of him flooded me, the anger burned, and I couldn’t break free.’

Today, I still remember.

But I remember differently.

I no longer wake up at night with panic attacks.

I no longer think of him day and night, waiting for him to understand one day.

I no longer feel my life depends on his acknowledgment.

And most importantly—I’m no longer as angry as I was.

Not because he deserves it, but because I deserve a quieter life.

‘You don’t need the abuser to understand you. You don’t need him to confess. You just need to choose—do you want to live your life in the story he wrote for you, or in the story you write yourself?’

So don’t take things personally.

If someone hurt you, if someone wronged you—it’s not because of you.

It doesn’t mean you’re less good, weak, or deserving of that pain.

It’s just their story.

The way they tell themselves reality guides their actions.

But it doesn’t have to be your story.

Don’t dwell on ‘how he hurt me’ or ‘how he did this and that to me.’

Don’t let it control your soul.

Because in the end, it’s just his story—it doesn’t have to be yours.

And that’s the real release.

When we stop living in the story the abuser wrote for us—and start writing our own.

Release isn’t a ‘click’ that happens in a day.

It’s a process.

But I’m already in a different place.

‘When I explained the snake story to him, he fell silent. I saw the look in his eyes change.

Suddenly he understood—all these years, he’d been chasing the man who hurt him. He sought validation, recognition, understanding.

But meanwhile, the wound inside him kept festering.

In that moment, he said to me: “So I need to stop chasing the snake… and start healing myself?”

I smiled. “Exactly.”

‘That was the moment he truly began to break free. Not because the wound vanished, but because he stopped seeking recognition from someone incapable of giving it. Because he realized—he’s the only one who can heal himself.’

‘And don’t forget—there’s a Creator who sees and knows everything. He peers into the hidden, knows what you’ve been through, what was done to you, and what you carry in your heart. Only He knows the full truth, and only He is your true Father—a Father who truly loves, who never abandons anyone, and never forgets any pain.’