Part One: Stop Downplaying What It Was

Giving Voice to the Silent Films of Childhood Trauma

Trigger Warning: This blog discusses topics related to sibling sexual abuse, childhood trauma, and the healing process. I understand that these subjects can be difficult or triggering for some readers. Please take care of yourself while reading. If at any point the content feels overwhelming, I encourage you to step away and reach out to a trusted support person or professional for help. If you need immediate assistance or resources, visit my Need Support page. It includes peer support groups, advocacy organisations, and helplines that may be helpful to you.

Recovering and writing about childhood trauma is not just about recounting facts; it is about giving space to the silent films that have played out in our minds for years. These films often haunt us in the background, shaping how we feel, see ourselves, and respond to the world around us. We may downplay these moments to ourselves, possibly because we have watched these films for so long, in silence, alone, but they shape everything—our relationships, our mental health, and our ability to feel safe in the world.

For me, this came to a head during a simple writing exercise. I was prompted to reflect on a challenging or life-changing moment, and what surfaced was a memory I’d never put into words. It was a black-and-white film that had been running behind my eyes for years, a memory of childhood nights in my little bedroom.

Here is the poem that poured out from within me:

The Poem
Alert, breathing, waiting.
Only she hears the quietest of footsteps.
No one else hears; does no one else have ears?
Why does no one else ever hear?

Heartbeat drumming, tummy churning, mind empty.
Going limp, waiting to be trapped.
Dread as footsteps stop beside her bed.

Then, Dad’s cough from the next room.
Like playing ‘Marco?’ but no one responded ‘Polo!’
Dad’s subconscious screaming, ‘Wake up!’

Ah, uncertainty, now hovering, risk of capture.
She can’t hear him breathe.
It feels like minutes, yet parts of a second.

Slow, slow, slow; tick, tock, clock, tick, tock, stop;
Please stop; stay stopped.

Her breath short, pretending to be dead.
Wishing for invisibility, to magic herself through the bed, into the dark beneath.

His feet shift on the carpet.
Exquisite awareness, her every sense alert.

Hopeful, is he going to scurry away?
The tiniest movement, the carpet squeaking under bare feet.
He hesitates, uncertain, unfulfilled. He’s boiling mad.

Will he risk it? She waits, praying for a sign that tonight she’s safe.

Then, dozing off, and, as if in a dream, recalls a shadow.
Alert, the shadow looming was gone.
Heart and breath return to an even rhythm.

Body loose, she drifts into childhood dreams of cloud lands, of kittens and fairies and troll bridges.
The bogeyman fades from her mind.

Until next time. There’s always a next time.

~ 8-year-old Me ~

As I finished writing the words of the poem, I stared at how I had signed it off: 8-year-old Me. My pen paused, then continued as if it had its own mind or perhaps its own soul. It challenged me to be honest with myself: Stop downplaying it. That was your childhood experience.

That film clip running on repeat behind my eyes wasn’t a fictional scene from a movie. It was a memory—one I had never fully acknowledged and definitely had never shared. That short writing exercise made me see what I had dismissed. The trauma wasn’t just about the moments I was abused; it was about all the moments in between, the constant tension, vigilance, and dread that had become part of my daily life.

Additional Years of Silence and Survival
Like many other sibling sexual abuse survivors I’ve come to know and speak with, my experience of trauma wasn’t a one-time event or even something that could be boxed into a single year. As I sat with the poem, I saw how each year added layers to that experience. I let the pen continue writing on the lines beneath where I’d written ~ 8-year-old Me ~

The ink flowed from the nib, guiding me to be honest, writing the words:

9-year-old Me.
10-year-old Me.
11-year-old Me.
12-year-old Me got my first period.

Each year, the abuse continued. Each year, I held my breath and hoped for safety, only to find the same looming fear and uncertainty. And each year, something I wasn’t conscious of, was that a part of me buried the memories deeper, surviving by not allowing myself to fully see what was happening.

Acknowledging the abuse wasn’t just about the nights it occurred—it was about the endless in-between moments when I felt unsafe in my own home, in our holiday home, at my grandma’s house, my great-aunt’s house… anywhere. I had not yet accepted that it was about those years when I lived with the tension of not knowing when or if it would happen again.

Reflection
Writing that poem marked a turning point for me. It was the first time I had acknowledged what I had lived through, without downplaying it or minimising it. The memory was more than just a vague feeling of unease—it was real. And by writing it out, I had finally given it a voice, not just for 8-year-old me, but for 9-year-old me, 10-year-old me, and so on. Each year carried its own weight, and each year added to the layers of trauma that had to be peeled back in the process of healing. Accepting this was monumental that day. If I hadn’t explored the idea of writing, I’d not have embraced recovery as I have for these past five years. But I needed to accept it for what it was in order to be able to lean fully into opening up to my recovery journey.

For so many survivors, these silent films continue to play in the background, shaping our lives even if we never speak of them. But acknowledging those memories, as painful as they may be, is a crucial step toward healing. I can only say that because I have experienced it for myself now. If you’re carrying silent memories of your own, I send you love and courage. I am not a therapist, so will not tell you what to do, as I would never presume to understand the depths of someone else’s experience of trauma.

For me, that poem just flowed. Each line followed on from the next because it was inside of me. It’s mind-blowing when I think about it now. I’ve got more films like that playing occasionally, and I try to capture them with my pen if I can and write them in my journal. I don’t need to do more than that at that moment. I can address them later or when I see my psychologist so we can discuss them in greater depth.

Next week, I’ll continue sharing this story—how acknowledging this memory led me to stop running from my past and begin the deeper work of healing. In the meantime, if you need support or resources, as I shared in the ‘Trigger Warning’ above, you can find them in this website’s “Need Support” section, which includes peer support groups, helplines, and advocacy organisations.

Shared with love,

Alice Perle