10 Imprint Reflection

Another memory surfaced—uninvited and all-consuming. I didn’t know how long I’d been standing by the castle wall, lost in thought. Alex and my friend had quietly moved away, sensing my need for solitude. But the memory hadn’t loosened its grip. It still held me fast.

I suddenly remembered racing home one Saturday, terrified I’d be too late for the dairy before it closed at 12:30. First, I had to grab the aluminum milk can from the kitchen. The front door was locked, so I ran around the house, through the backyard, burst inside, snatched the can, and sprinted out again. By the time I reached the dairy, my legs felt weak beneath me.

I hated the embarrassment of saying, “My mother will pay later.” Everyone else paid at pickup. We didn’t. The milk lady never said a word, but I felt judged anyway. She knew we owned a gas station. Of course she would be paid—but the shame burned every time.

I arrived just in time. If I’d missed it and the dairy had closed, it would have been a disaster—no milk for the entire weekend.

On the way home, thunder cracked overhead. Rain hammered the pavement. I set the milk can down in the kitchen but didn’t stop to pour it into the stoneware jug.

The boys weren’t home.

Panic surged. I knew exactly where they were—out fishing again, without a permit. Worse, he was coming at one o’clock to take us to the gas station for weekend work.

I left the milk can in the sink and ran across the street toward the river. The church clock struck one. No sign of them. I guessed they’d gone farther downstream, near Lembeck’s nursery, and ran harder, my heart pounding, my legs numb with fear.

Finally, I saw them.

“Nigg! Hans! Hurry!” I screamed. “We’re late—he’s coming!”

We stopped at the Stadtmuellers’ barn so Nigg could hide his fishing rod. Grandpa had given it to him, and anything from Grandpa was forbidden in our house. By the time we got back, we were soaked to the bone.

Then we saw it.

Our father’s car.

We froze. My stomach clenched.

“What do we tell him?” I whispered. There was no time to invent a lie.

His whistle cut through the stairwell.
“We’re coming!” I shouted.

Like frightened dogs—wet, shivering—we climbed the stairs.

He stood at the top: cigar in one hand, the other planted on his hip. He pointed at me.

“You. Come.”

I reached the last step. He grabbed my arm and shoved me into the kitchen.

“What is that?” he demanded, pointing at the milk can.

I stared at it, confused, trembling. Then it hit me—the milk was still inside. I hadn’t poured it into the stoneware jug. The storm’s heat and thunder had turned it sour.

Without a word, he lifted the can and slowly poured all three liters over my head. Cold, curdled milk soaked me to the skin. I stood motionless, humiliated beyond words.

He looked at me with pure hatred.
“Go,” he said, gesturing toward the laundry room—his torture chamber.

As I walked, I whispered a prayer: Dear Lord, let him fall and break his neck. Or let me die. Either would be better.

But this time was different.

He wasn’t holding the rubber hose.
He had a stool.
And scissors.

“I’ll teach you to respect what costs money,” he muttered.

He forced me onto the stool, tied my hands behind my back, and began hacking at my hair like a madman. Wet strands stuck to my face and neck. When the scissors slipped and cut my scalp, I flinched. He slapped me hard across the face.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I felt frozen—emptied out.

Something inside me cracked. And in that moment, I began to plan.
Someday, I thought, he’ll feel what I feel now.

When he was finished, he turned the garden hose on me, blasting me with ice-cold water.

I don’t know how long my mother had been watching. Finally, she spoke.
“That wasn’t necessary,” she said quietly.

Then she turned to me.
“That’s what you get for not putting the milk in the jug.”

I looked at her. Pathetic. Spineless. I didn’t see a mother—I saw a woman who had long ago stopped protecting her children.

Then I saw myself in the mirror.

I looked like a witch. Hair hacked into long and short clumps, bald patches everywhere, blood streaking my scalp. He wouldn’t even let me wear a scarf. I had to go to school and to work like that.

I became a walking joke—not just among classmates, but throughout the town.

How much more could I endure? All I wanted was peace, yet I knew it was still far away.

Even as an adult, haircuts make me uneasy. I like the styling—but not the cutting. The moment the cape is fastened around my neck, my body stiffens. I hold my breath as the scissors come closer.

Once, a hairdresser accidentally nicked my scalp.

Panic exploded inside me. I ripped off the cape, grabbed my bag, and ran—without a word. Halfway home, I caught my reflection in a mirror.

The story was written there.

I was that girl again.

Only much later did I understand the quiet power of the subconscious—the black box where trauma is stored. The imprints of childhood don’t fade. They follow us, silently shaping our reactions long after the danger has passed.

Now I recognize those imprints in others. When someone suddenly goes quiet, avoids a subject, or hides pain behind humor—I know.

I see it.

Evaluation:
Psychological Evaluation – Subjective Trauma Narrative

The subject presents with clear indicators of complex developmental trauma rooted in chronic childhood abuse, humiliation, and emotional abandonment. Experiences of coercive control, public shaming, and unpredictable punishment have resulted in lasting hypervigilance, somatic memory activation, and trauma-linked triggers—most notably around haircuts, authority figures, and situations involving vulnerability or loss of control. Emotional numbing during abuse episodes suggests dissociation as an early adaptive survival response, while later panic reactions indicate unresolved traumatic encoding. The subject demonstrates high insight and reflective capacity, recognizing the role of subconscious “imprints” and accurately identifying trauma responses in others, which points to strong psychological awareness and empathy. However, residual shame, conditioned fear responses, and implicit memory intrusions continue to influence adult functioning. Overall presentation is consistent with Complex PTSD, marked by enduring trauma imprinting alongside notable resilience, cognitive clarity, and emerging integration of past experiences.

Forensic Summary and Evaluation:
The subject’s narrative provides substantial evidence consistent with Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD), as evidenced by persistent emotional dysregulation, trauma-linked cognitive distortions, and physiological reactivity originating from prolonged childhood exposure to coercive control, humiliation, and physical punishment. The described symptoms—including dissociative responses during traumatic events, enduring shame, hypervigilance, and conditioned fear responses in adulthood—are clinically congruent with chronic developmental trauma. Available information indicates that subsequent therapeutic interventions did not include structured trauma-processing modalities. The implementation of evidence-based, trauma-focused treatments (e.g., EMDR, somatic-based interventions), alongside narrative restructuring, boundary development, and stabilization of perceived safety, would be reasonably expected to reduce symptom severity and trauma reactivity. Complete eradication of traumatic memory cannot be assured; however, significant functional improvement and attenuation of trauma-related responses are clinically plausible.