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Living in Squalor!

  I head downstairs, the overwhelming scent of mold permeates throughout the room. Garbage and wet clothes are scattered everywhere and makeshift hammocks adorn the ceiling. A dirty rabbit hutch reeks of urine and feces, and the rotting smell of dead mice or some other mysterious animal buried beneath the filthy ruble burns my nose. As the intense aroma penetrates my eyes, they begin to water incessantly, I don’t think I can handle this. With a trash bag in one hand and plugging my nose with the other, I proceed down into the dingy basement. I  begin wading through the plethora of items in my path, deciding what to keep and what to throw out, I’m disgusted at what I see, my mother would have never let it get like this.  I stand, staring at a massive pile of clothes laying on the damp floor by the washing machine. It feels like just yesterday my mother died and suddenly life went from living in splendor to living in squalor. For me, living in “splendor” didn’t mean living ...
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Trapped!


  I am sitting in the living room. I can see a small cockroach crawling across the end table. I watch its antennae move back and forth, examining every object and surface it’s comes in contact with. I see them all over the place. I have learned to sleep with the covers over my head to prevent a cockroach from crawling inside of my ear. Sometimes, if there is a cluster of them, you can hear them scurrying around in the darkness. There are so many of them, and they are everywhere. I see them mostly in the kitchen and the living room. Maybe it’s because they are the most frequented areas of the house. A lot of times, when you are cooking, you have to carefully examine your food before eating it, there might be a dead cockroach hiding in your rice or mashed potatoes.

We are ate a lot of rice, potatoes, spaghetti, ramen noodles, and powdered milk. My dad’s only source of income was from disability, and there were 6 kids still living at home. Of course, his money was well spent on beer and cigarettes. Every once in a while he would treat us to pizza and wings. My grandmother contributed as well but, I’ll get into that unfortunate situation another day. We used to get our food monthly from a local church. It came with your basic staples, bread and cheese and all of the other aforementioned items. You learned to get creative with the food provided. A little bit of ramen here and some spices there, mixed with some soy sauce packets and oil and you have quite the unique dish on your hands.

The kitchen was always a mess, an obvious attraction for the cockroaches. There was no structure in our household, it was a like living in a tornado and you’re trapped inside. You’re just winding around like thread spooling around a bobbin on a sewing machine, a never ending roller coaster ride of chaos. I would be stuck inside of that tornado for the next 5 years, my brain turning to mush, blending memories together until they became one big ball of unforgettable torture. 

Foster care had been a momentary safe haven, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. Now, as I write these stories, describing the events of my life and narrating my experiences, my senses have been triggered. Flashbacks and certain smells encircle me, encasing me in that glass cage that I usually only see in my nightmares. I am immersed inside of the memory and I am forced to relive my experiences all over again. I can feel the cockroaches crawling all over me. I can smell the moldy clothes in the moist basement and the cigarette smoke is suffocating me. I know that this is the beginning of the healing process but, I also know this is going to be a long and treacherous journey. To say it pisses me off that the only way for me to heal is to confront my demons head on is an understatement. I don’t know if I will ever make it out of the tornado but I am determined to weather the storm and if I do come out of it, I will be stronger than ever.

More than 3 million people in the United States suffer from PTSD. A lot of times, shame and guilt forces us to suffer alone and in silence. You do not have to suffer alone. YOU ARE NOT ALONE!! #PTSDAwareness

https://www.ptsd.va.gov/professional/treat/type/sexual_abuse_child.asp

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Living in Squalor!

  I head downstairs, the overwhelming scent of mold permeates throughout the room. Garbage and wet clothes are scattered everywhere and makeshift hammocks adorn the ceiling. A dirty rabbit hutch reeks of urine and feces, and the rotting smell of dead mice or some other mysterious animal buried beneath the filthy ruble burns my nose. As the intense aroma penetrates my eyes, they begin to water incessantly, I don’t think I can handle this. With a trash bag in one hand and plugging my nose with the other, I proceed down into the dingy basement. I  begin wading through the plethora of items in my path, deciding what to keep and what to throw out, I’m disgusted at what I see, my mother would have never let it get like this.  I stand, staring at a massive pile of clothes laying on the damp floor by the washing machine. It feels like just yesterday my mother died and suddenly life went from living in splendor to living in squalor. For me, living in “splendor” didn’t mean living ...
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