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 in some extrav
I understood what suicide was at a very young age. After my mother died, my dad struggled to cope. He chronically abused alcohol and would feel deeply sorry for himself. I understand he was only 35 years old when my mother died and he had several children to take care of. My family was by no means wealthy. We lived in a small townhouse. There were 3 bedrooms upstairs with a full bath. There was somewhat of an open concept downstairs. The kitchen led into the dining room and the dining room and living room looked as if it was one large room. My parents separated the two by placing a couch in between them and a sofa table behind it. My mother did not work and my father collected disability. It wasn’t until years later that I learned about his schizophrenia diagnosis. From what I can remember my dad has always been a heavy drinker but, after my mom died I don’t think I ever saw him without a beer in his hand. Canadian Molson was his preference. If he was desperate he would settle