The Cost of Speaking up in the Hasidic Jewish Community

Mental Health Abuse in the Hasidic Community

This week, I have shared an essay that I wrote several years ago regarding the Mental Health Abuse that I experienced in the Hasidic Community. If you are a long-time follower, you may remember this piece.

I have also added an epilogue at the bottom, as there have been some new developments since I wrote this in 2020.

I know that many women experience this type of manipulation and abuse. If you have experienced something similar, I’d love to hear from you! Please comment below or send me a message!

“You have bipolar disorder and here is the medication you need to take.”

It was a warm September morning in 2007 and I had been unexpectedly called in for an urgent appointment with Dr. Pence, a psychiatrist. I’d been a patient at the clinic for the past year and a half and this was the first time I’d been called in for an appointment.

My appointments had always been pre-scheduled — weekly appointments with the therapist Leslie, and an appointment every few months with Dr. Pence, the psychiatrist.

I squirmed on the hard plastic chair, its sharp edges digging into my thighs as I recalled the first time I sat on this chair, a year and a half earlier.

— — — — — -

It was two years prior to this, six months before I even heard of the clinic, and I had just moved to a new home with my husband and eight children. The two-family home was located in a small cul-de-sac in Monsey, NY, with bikes strewn hither and thither and children of all ages racing in the narrow pathways between the houses, its idyllic surroundings belying the tension inside the houses. Men spend between 14 and 16 hours a day studying heavy tomes of Talmud and women bear and raise large families single handedly.

The rent-reduced neighborhood was located within a Jewish Ultra Orthodox enclave and was financed and built by a rich community member exclusively for elite Torah Scholars and future Rabbis and their growing families.

For years I prayed daily. “God, please help me to become a “Kosher woman who does the will of her husband,” I quoted the words of the Talmud. Please, please, please help me to do this. I want to be a good wife to my husband. I want to make him happy. I want him to be happy with me.

This is what I lived for; to be a good wife to my husband. But I never felt good enough.

I was now recovering from a miscarriage that had taken place in Canada two weeks prior. As the only driver in the family, I had driven my family back home to Monsey, NY in the family minivan a week after the miscarriage. Moshe didn’t drive because he told me that Torah Scholars of his caliber don’t do such mundane things and didn’t I want to be a good wife and drive him around.

Now back in Monsey, it was several weeks after the miscarriage and I expected to feel better and back to my normal energetic self again. Instead I grew more and more tired. My body should have healed already, I knew from experience. But the exhausted feelings got worse, I could hardly drag myself around, and the self-blame increased.

“Why are the dishes not done at night? Do you really leave them for the morning? Why are there toys on the floor when Moshe comes home? And why, oh why, are you so sad and never smiling anymore?”

These were no longer voices outside of me; my own voice had joined the cacophony, not giving me a break, relentlessly badgering me and talking of my worthlessness. It was a vicious cycle I couldn’t stop.

That morning, trudging up the stairway after sending off the children to school, the daily voices of blame became louder and louder.

“What are you worth if you can’t even keep your house tidy? You should be managing all of this. It’s been already long enough since the miscarriage. Just pull yourself together and make it happen. What will Moshe think if he comes home to a messy house again?”

Unable to shut the voices down, feeling defeated and worn out, I burst into tears and tumbled into my bedroom. I landed face down on my bed, unsuccessfully willing the critical voices to shut down. For days after that, I lay there for hours, only getting up to take care of the basic errands and welcome the children when they came home from school.

I had been thinking about the curve on the main road leading to my street that had been newly built to accommodate the increase of traffic in the neighborhood. It was the kind of turn that if you didn’t turn the steering wheel at just the right angle, you’d turn off the road and go hurtling into the tree-covered ravine.

There were many days that I considered making that tiny little turn that would end it all. The voice that said just make that turn and get it over with became louder and louder. That little move would stop all the insanity and end my tortured existence. Some days during that period of time, my hands clenched on the steering wheel, every fiber of my being willing me to turn off the road and end it all. My existence wasn’t worth anything anyway if I couldn’t satisfy Moshe, so what was the point of continuing? I might as well just be over and done with it.

When these thoughts became more persistent, I was overcome with terror — what if I accidently turned the wheel and hurt myself? I had children that needed me. This could not continue.

I had never gone to a doctor when I wasn’t feeling well like this but now terrified, went to the local physician, Dr Silverstein. Perhaps I was suffering from. an unknown physical ailment. I sat silently as the technician drew blood from my arm. When I returned several days later, the doctor gave me a clean bill of health and turned to me, making eye contact for the first time.

He looked at me over his wire rimmed glasses. His face seemed kind. “Is everything all right?”

“I feel terrible, I can’t concentrate, I can’t manage my house and the kids, and I feel like crying all day. I just want to give up. I can’t believe that there is nothing wrong with me.” I gnawed at my lip, as I tried ineffectively to will the tears to stay in my eyes.

Looking at me steadily, the doctor handed me a slip of paper with a referral to a therapist. “I have seen many patients experience tremendous benefit from counseling. Try it and I am sure that you will feel better.”

I left the office silently, clutching the referral tightly, close to my chest, feeling a slight glimmer of hope, perhaps things could get better.

Several days later, I was climbing up the rickety stairs to the community-funded free clinic, located at the back of a warehouse, several blocks from my house. I had to see a therapist at the clinic since Moshe insisted that I mustn’t go to therapy and that we definitely could not afford to pay for a private therapist. His friend had told him that his wife went for therapy and it made everything worse. “And besides,” he said “you can’t trust doctors.”

Still finding it hard to believe that I was going against Moshe’s will, I trudged up that narrow rickety flight of stairs as a drowning person gasping for air, desperate to be saved.

As per the clinic’s policy, two weeks after seeing the therapist, Leslie for the first time, I was seated in the hard plastic chair in Dr Pence’s office for my first appointment, a year and a half before he would diagnose me with bipolar disorder.

“Talk therapy does wonders in helping clients like you gain their voices and feel better. I could give you medication, but based on your symptoms that is not the right treatment for you. Meet with your therapist weekly and we will meet again next month.”

At one of the first sessions with Leslie, the therapist, I retold an incident that had occurred earlier in the week.

— — — — —

It was the day before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and I asked Moshe to give me money to purchase the shoes for my seven year old daughter, Brocha.

“No, there’s no money for that.” A short mumble and Moshe was out the door, heading for a day of studying.

Later that day, I was surprised to hear him say, “I want to buy you something special for the holiday. Here, let me give you money for a pair of shoes for yourself.”

They were Moshe’s first words when he came back home hours later, standing in the corner of the kitchen where I was finishing up the cooking.

“But you know that I have many pairs of shoes, I don’t need a pair. Brocha needs a pair, but now all the stores are closed and there is nothing that I can do. I am so embarrassed to take her to Shul with her old shoes.”

I continued rambling, muttering the words under my breath, and finally I noticed that. Moshe had left the kitchen, heading to his room to continue his studies. I was used to being ignored. Moshe’s Torah Studies always came first.

— — — —

The therapist, Leslie looked at me with serious eyes. “What do you think that this was about? Do you think there may have been an element of control involved here? Why do you think he did this?”

I sat dumbly in the chair. “Maybe, he really didn’t have the money and got money all of a sudden. Maybe he didn’t really understand what I was saying. Maybe it was my fault because I didn’t ask nicely?”

Moshe had warned me that therapy would ruin our marriage, and I was determined not to allow anything to interfere with our marriage.

I was a good wife, and proud to feel that way. I had to maintain that he was innocent and I was at fault. That was the balance that we’d found.

During the following sessions, Leslie began asking more probing questions. “What do you do when you feel stressed? How do you handle that? Do you ever sit and relax?”

“I take care of my kids, I try to keep the house clean, I and I cook for my family. What else should I do?”

“There are all kinds of things people do when they feel stressed — some go to the gym, some practice yoga while others paint and draw.”

Joining a gym felt revolutionary at first, but then I saw it as an option. Exercising regularly became a lifeline for me, the endorphins spreading through my body gave me newfound vitality and hope for a better future. It took many months, but slowly I started gaining a voice and began speaking up. I no longer felt as helpless and drained.

One example of finding my voice was when my parents invited me to visit with my family for a Hanukkah weekend at their vacation home in the Catskills. I now heard that small voice inside me that said. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to stay in a small house for a whole weekend with all of my siblings and their kids and sleep in a crowded bedroom with my kids.

Over a few days, I practiced making that phone call many times, where I would tell my parents that I would come to the party on Saturday night but did not want to stay over for the weekend. When I finally did call, it went smoothly.

“We’ll be coming to the party on Saturday night, but will be staying home for the weekend”.

The silence at the other end of the phone spoke of shock and bewilderment. My mother had never heard me express my preferences so clearly. The phone call ended quickly as I ran to Moshe.

“I did it. I told them that we are not coming. I am so excited that I finally stood up for myself.”

He looked up from the pages he was studying. “You could’ve told them that I didn’t let you. You’ve done that in the past and it worked. I don’t understand what the big deal is here.”

Disappointed by his response, I still held onto the strong sense of achievement for having stood up for myself.

I had never worked out of the house before, but as my confidence grew, I responded to an ad for a substitute teacher job at my daughters’ school and to my surprise I was hired — and Moshe didn’t object since it was close to home and wouldn’t interfere with the children’s schedule. My first job out of the house provided me with confidence and an additional sense of purpose.

I was placed in the special education division, teaching the young girls one on one. The director told me that she trusted me with the more difficult cases because she knew I could handle it. It felt good being valued in this way

I also began to experience my feelings differently. In the past whenever I would have a disagreement with Moshe, I would blame myself but now I had a new response. It was during the springtime, at Passover that I burst into Moshe’s study room on the first day of Chol Hamoed, the intermediate days of the holiday, excited by an idea I had.

The study room was a large dark room located right off the main foyer of the house. The door of the study room was flanked by ornate framed needlepoints, signifying the room’s importance. The room was lined with custom built, floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with maroon and black, gold trimmed holy books. The room was empty, besides for a large table set in the center atop an intricately decorated rug, the only rug in the house. Moshe always sat on his office chair behind the table facing the door. The table was always covered with piles of books and later when obscure holy books became available online, Moshe would have his laptop open as well.

I would go into that room monthly, knocking submissively, when I would come back from the ritual bath, the Mikvah, to let him know that I was ritually clean again and available for sex.

I would also be invited in when we needed to discuss important issues and did not want the children to listen in, since the room was designed to be soundproof to ensure that Moshe could study without interference.

But now I burst in.

“I would like you to come out with me and the children on a trip, at least once. It is so important that the children spend time with you during the holiday and I want to spend time with you as well.” It was the first time I had asked him for something like this.

“No I don’t want to, I don’t do those kinds of things and I won’t start now.” Moshe’s expression remained passive; his hand rested on his forehead as he continued poring over his books in his large booklined study.

I stood in front of his mahogany desk pleading with him. “But please, it would mean so much to me and the kids if you just come with us one time.” In the past, didn’t push him, but now, I just had to ask for more.

“No, and stop bothering me, I’m learning now.”

Now, I no longer blamed myself but instead felt a deep fury rise from within me. I had always excused his behaviors, considering him to be held to a different standard, as he was a Torah Scholar and a Rabbi. All those years of repressing my anger now transmuted into a loud roar deep inside of me. Something had been unleashed deep inside of me. I had unearthed a powerful voice that would not tolerate being treated badly anymore.

“You can’t just ignore me like that. You can’t just sit in this room all day and not be part of the family. I am done with this. It’s not fair! I also have a right to ask for some things.”

Despite my unprecedented outburst, Moshe did not even look up from his books, his fingers curling ever so slightly in the palms of his hands were the only sign that he had heard me speak.

After my initial outburst, I became deadly silent, as I contemplated my next steps. But first I had to wait for the holiday to end. I spent the last two days of the holiday cooking and serving the many lavish meals, while tending to the children as usual. On the outside, things looked the same as always but inside of me everything had changed.

I had finally seen things for what they were and could never go back to hiding them anymore. I was not a proud and supportive wife to an esteemable Torah Scholar and future Rabbi that I thought I was. Instead I now saw the reality for what it was. I was an oppressed woman living with a controlling and demanding man.

I was both terrified and exhilarated. I didn’t know what would happen but I knew that I could no longer remain silent. Galvanized by my newfound strength, I waited until after the holiday to speak to my brother about what was really going on in my marriage. I was bewildered when my brother and the rest of my family told me that they were not surprised. They now told me they had seen Moshe’s ugly side in the past but had been convinced that he must act nicer to me privately. There was no other way to explain my loyalty to him.

It would still take me several years to see how my family was complicit in this and wanted me to remain oblivious.

“He needs to go to therapy and it will get better,” Insisted my father. “That is your only solution. I will arrange for a Rabbi to speak to both of you and force him to go.”

I ran from Rabbi to Rabbi, desperate for someone to fix things and change things in marriage. Now that I saw how bad things really were, I was desperate to make things better.

For weeks, day after day, I would go into Moshe’s study room and beg and threaten him. I told him that he needed to change, and if he wouldn’t I would leave him. I had had enough.

As always, Moshe would barely make eye contact with me and when he looked up, he would glance at me with disdain, seemingly not hearing my words. But my persistence paid off and after several weeks, Moshe, scared of losing me, began seeing a therapist at the same clinic that I’d been using. After three sessions, however, Moshe refused to continue. He told me that the therapist was not competent and he would not do this anymore.

When I told the Rabbi, he called Moshe and. insisted he continue, after the therapist, a disciple of his, explained that Moshe likely had narcissistic personality disorder which made it very difficult for him to empathize with others or accept help.

When I heard this diagnosis, I looked up the prognosis in my college textbook and my doubts and fears that things would never get better in my marriage haunted me. However, I would still not give up on my marriage for another several years.

I entered the Rabbi’s home office late on a rainy Saturday evening with a mixture of trepidation and hope. He would help. Things would get better. They had to.

I poured out my heart to the Rabbi. I told him about everything I had endured over the last 15 years. It was the first time I was speaking openly in this way.

“He never helps me with the children and when I ask he just ignores me. I’ve had to run errands all over town when my babies were a few days old because he refused to help. I can’t do this singlehandedly anymore. As the children have gotten older, he calls me names and laughs at me together with the children. And when I try to join in the conversation at the Holiday and Shabbat table, he insists that I stay quiet and not say a word.”

I continued.

“He insists that I beg him for sex each month and then ignores me and shames me when I do, telling me that I’m immodest and brazen.”

I took a deep breathe as I continued.

“He doesn’t give me money to buy clothing for the children and then complains that I am not dressing them well enough. I’ve asked him to get some work and bring in some income because money is so tight, but he refuses and tells me that I’m not respectful enough. I just can’t do this anymore.”

After a few moments of quiet, the gentle eyed, grey-bearded Rabbi looked me in the eye and prodded. “Is this all because you are interested in another man? Tell me the truth. Why are you even so angry at your husband? I know it is hard to get along with scholarly and smart men but you have been with him for so long.”

He hadn’t heard a word I said. He did not understand how desperate I felt. He had to understand. He was a Rabbi and he would help me. I was sure of this.

It was several weeks after Moshe began seeing the therapist and the Rabbi began meeting with us, that I was unexpectedly called into the psychiatrist’s office and given the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, and was told I needed medication.

At first, I insisted that I would not take the medication.

I knew that there was nothing wrong with me. For a year and a half I had been seeing Dr Pence regularly and he had been satisfied with my progress, insisting that talk therapy was the best choice for me. I was feeling so much better, why start taking medication now.

Standing in the basement one afternoon a few weeks later, I saw two bags of garbage on the floor I’d put there the night before.

Moshe was coming down the steps and I turned to him.

“I asked you to take down the garbage last night and you said that you would. Please take it now. I am taking care of the children and need some help.”

My voice was shrill as I pleaded with him.

Would things ever change in this house? Would I ever be respected?

He looked me up and down, his dark eyes barely moving and finally resting on the toes of his shoes. “Did you start taking the medication yet? Why are you getting so upset over nothing?”

Stung by the comment, I didn’t dare utter another word. Maybe I was getting upset over nothing. Maybe it really was my fault again. I shouldn’t have asked him for any help. I should just do everything by myself. The doubts had returned. The awful heavy feeling that I had in the past came back. Maybe it was my fault after all. Maybe I didn’t have a right to ask for anything.

Because I was seeing a therapist at the clinic, I was required to see the psychiatrist regularly. At each visit, he would pull out my file, peer at me closely and say, “You know you really should be taking your medication.”

The last time I refused, he said to me,“You know that your husband’s therapist and the Rabbi also think you should be on medication. Your behavior is problematic and you are so moody.”

Worn down, I finally agreed to take the medication. I had just learned to listen to my own voice. It was easy to shut it down.

I had begun attending college at that time. Moshe knew he couldn’t stand in my way now. He knew I would now speak up and get the Rabbi to support me. I was thrilled to be getting a college degree as I had never graduated High School, and was hopeful of starting a career. In an introductory psychology class, I learned about various mental disorders and was surprised to learn about the symptoms of Bipolar Disorder. They included not sleeping several nights in a row or being hospitalized, none of which were behaviors I was exhibiting. I told my therapist and she told me to listen to Dr. Pence.

“You have a mild case of Bipolar Disorder and it is important you continue taking your medication.”

What a confusing and tumultuous time.

On the one hand, I was now working out of the house, at a local nonprofit organization overseeing several programs and going to college.

I also started getting very anxious, something new for me. I had a hard time falling asleep and could not get myself to go to the Mikvah and resume sexual relations with my husband.

“He has treated me so badly, how can I get into bed with him?” I complained to the psychiatrist.

“Here let me give you this other medication. It will help with your anxiety.” And I was handed another prescription.

The Rabbi sent us to marital counseling over these next five years, where each session would begin the same way.

“There is something wrong with her. If she would just behave and go back to the way she was, things would be fine. I don’t know why we need to do this.”

Invariably, the therapist would tell Moshe that he too needed to take some responsibility for our relationship and after some cajoling Moshe would make a small gesture, such as buying me flowers or a small piece of jewelry for the holidays.

His efforts however were too little and too late as I had had enough by then and those gestures could not make up for the incredible frustration and anger I felt that no real change had occurred.

After our last bout of therapy ended unsuccessfully, I pleaded with Moshe for a divorce or at least a separation and he told me, “You can leave, but you will never see any of the children if you do.”

I thought those were empty threats until I realized that Moshe had begun turning the older children against me one after another. I received a call from my 18 year old son who was studying in Israel admonishing me for my behavior and the Rabbi told me that my married daughter complained to him that I was not being a good wife.

Desperate to leave, but terrified of losing my children, I carefully planned my exit sneaking surreptitiously out of the house in the dark of night, with my four youngest children, with the help of a friend.

It was a week later and I was standing in a courtroom listening to my husband’s lawyer. “Her father drove all the way from Canada because he is concerned about her mental health. The children must be returned to the father at once.”

My lawyer was delighted when he received a letter from the psychiatrist several days later stating that I did indeed have a mild case of Bipolar Disorder, but I was capable of taking care of my children and running a home and if I felt better I didn’t need to take the medication.

The therapist wrote a letter to the court stating that I was experiencing situational depression due to the difficulties in the marriage and was fully capable of caring for the children.

I was relieved when the judge accepted these testimonies and I was awarded both an order of protection and temporary custody of the children as the court began their prolonged deliberation process.

Several weeks later, having run out of money for my lawyer and pressured by my parents to leave the secular family court system, I was seated in front of three Ultra-Orthodox Rabbis appointed to deal with my case. They immediately insisted I see a psychiatrist of their choosing.

“He is my friend, you see,” proclaimed the Rabbi. “He will know what is wrong here and then we will know what to do next.”

“It is a setup,” proclaimed my lawyer.

“Don’t go, they are setting you up.” Dr. Pence intoned when I asked him to speak to the Rabbi’s psychiatrist.

“Record the session.” My friend who helped me leave my house with the children said. “I don’t trust them.”

Despite the warnings, I went to the psychiatrist recommended by the Rabbi. I felt I had no choice. I entered the psychiatrist’s office and, confused about which door to enter, was greeted by an angry male voice, “Why did you come in through this door? Didn’t you see the other door?”

This greeting set the tone for the rest of the session as I tried unsuccessfully to yield off an onslaught of manipulative and invasive questions, most of which I can barely remember as I spent all my energy fending off the attack.

Shaking, I left the office hurriedly and refused to see him again, even though the Rabbis insisted that I go.

My friend, a clinical social worker, told me recently that she had received a call from the psychiatrist during that time, who insisted that she agree with him that I was psychotic and needed to be on strong medication. She claimed that I was completely normal and he angrily hung up and never called her again.

The Rabbis also ordered a comprehensive psychological evaluation of my husband, my ten children and me. When I finally obtained a copy of it, several months later, the recommendations included a requirement for me to be on medication to get custody of my children. Not wanting to go back to the Rabbi’s psychiatrist, I went back to Dr. Pence. “Please put me back on the medication. I am so afraid of losing custody of my children. I need to do this.”

The doctor obliged and handed me a prescription. Two weeks later, preparing for Purim, I found myself yelling at the kids, and stressing over the holiday packages in a way that had not happened in a long time.

The next visit with the doctor I asked. “Could it be a side effect of the medication?”

“It is possible, stop taking it, but keep on refilling the prescription so that the Rabbi will think you are taking it. It is the only way to avoid taking the antipsychotic medications that the other doctor is known to prescribe to women like you, women who speak up.”

My efforts were of no avail. I had tried so hard to work with the Rabbi’s and listen to their demands but it did not make a difference.

The Rabbis concluded that I was incapable of taking care of the children and awarded custody to my husband, writing up an extensive report detailing my shortcomings and problems. I was devastated and felt betrayed. Despite my initial misgivings I had trusted them to be fair and they betrayed my trust so badly.

I was relieved and felt vindicated when this decision was reversed in family court six months later, and I received full custody of the four younger children and a divorce settlement.

Several years have passed since then. I attended and graduated from an MBA program and moved to NYC for a well paying job with my younger children. I started seeing a new therapist and despite her assertions that I had no signs of any mental disorder, I still had my niggling doubts. For years I had believed that I had a problem and it was hard to shake off that identity.

If I got very excited about something, I would stop and ask myself, Am I being manic? Is this ok? My mood seems very high. And when overwhelming sadness would engulf me, as it sometimes would, especially when I would grieve over the loss of my older children who were not in my life, I was terrified that I was having a depressive episode. Perhaps they were right, maybe I really had a disorder?

It took years, but I can finally see myself as a normal human being with a full array of emotions. Sadness, happiness, anger, and excitement are not signs of a disorder. They are a normal part of life. And now, as I build up a new life with my younger children in a home where all feelings and voices are accepted, I delight in using my voice to express myself and inspire others.

It is safe to use my voice.

I now know that using my voice is not a sign of a disorder but rather a sign of strength.

Epilogue:

Once again, in 2022, I was in Family Court. As part of the custody decision-making process, my lawyer requested a Forensic Psychological Evaluation instead of a lengthy trial.

Both the Judge and my ex-husband were so confident that I was mentally ill, and they happily agreed to it. After several months of interviews and extensive evaluations, the psychologist wrote his lengthy report, and five of those pages included refuting the idea that I had bipolar disorder. As a result of the positive report, I was able to maintain custody of my son, though a recent text message from my ex-husband makes it clear that he still believes I have “episodes.”

On my part, this is far behind me, and I am grateful to live a life now true to myself, fearless and fulfilled, without worrying about being “treated” for nonexistent conditions to please others.