What To Do When a Rosh Hashanah Prayer Is Triggering For You: Walk Out.
Against Death: On Rosh Hashanah we blow the shofar, the one mitzvah we fulfill by the breath of life itself without needing any words. Image by Getty Images
On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed.
So begins the poem “Unetaneh Tokef,” which is recited on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I have always struggled with this poem. The very literal translation speaks to an intervening God, one who is ready to stand in judgement and hand down harsh punishment to His/Her children. That is not the God I believe in.
Who shall live and who shall die, who shall reach the end of his days and who shall not.
Over the years I tried to look at the poem metaphorically, searching for a deeper meaning and one that reflected the compassionate and loving God that I believe in. Turning the lens, I searched the words and found a message of the uncertainty of our days: None of us knows when our time on this earth will pass, nor do we get to choose the manner of our death.
So why is it that I can no longer utter the words of this prayer? Why will I choose not to stay in the room at all when it is spoken? Why does the metaphorical lens no longer work for me?
Allow me to say it in the simplest of terms. It is a trigger for me. The violent manner in which my father died by suicide is specifically laid out in the words of this poem. I won’t reference them here, lest my words serve as a trigger to someone else. To hear those words uttered around me, or to even consider allowing them to come from my lips makes me physically ill. There is nothing metaphorical about it, there is no way for me to turn the lens and try to reinterpret the nature of how my father died in the basement of my childhood home.
And then there is this line:
Who shall be at rest and who shall be tormented.
Tormented.
Mental illness had tormented my father for months. Depression and anxiety tag teamed him in such a cruel manner, pulling him deeper and deeper into a place of darkness, and we who loved him most did not see how far he was sinking.
Tormented.
My father died alone. He died believing that we would be better off without him. He died cloaked in shame and sorrow. He had lost all hope that things could get better. He died in a state of torment and when he died, and I pray found some peace, the torment was then passed on to the survivors of his suicide. The torment has become a part of the fabric of my own being, the being of my mother, my brother and all who loved and cared for my dad. And we strive daily to navigate through it, to find a place for it, seeking peace for wounds so deep that at times, they threaten to tear us apart.
I understand the metaphorical value that some see in this poem. But as a trauma survivor I have become personally and painfully acquainted with triggers. And when I look at the words of this poem, I am struck not only by my triggers, but the potential for those who have been tragically touched by things like fire, flood or violent assaults.
Perhaps in addition to asking congregants to try to dig deeper, and to take the words beyond their very literal interpretation, it is also time for those who lead us in prayer to acknowledge that for some, the words alone, have the power to trigger traumatic thoughts and memories. Do not ask us to try and push through that, rather give us an opportunity to leave the room, should we choose. What an authentic recognition of Acute Stress Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that would be. And what a valuable lesson that offers to those around us as well, demonstrating that sometimes all it takes is a word, or the imagery those words can evoke, to re-open our wounds. And surely on the holiest of days, what God wants of us is not only to look within and search our souls, but to tend to them, nurture them and protect them as well.
That is what I will be doing when I leave the sanctuary in advance of this prayer. And I believe with all of my heart that God will fully understand.
Deborah Greene lives in Superior, CO, with her husband Rabbi Fred Greene (of Congregation Har HaShem in Boulder) and their three daughters. She lost her father Lowell Herman to suicide on April 20, 2015. She is devoted to raising awareness about suicide loss and mental illness. She chronicles her journey at reflectingoutloud.net
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