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
When I was taken from my home in the middle of the day, I was panic-stricken. I was scared of what was going to happen next. I had so many questions and the uncertainty of my future frightened me. I spent a short stent with a nice family in the city. From what I can remember it was a young couple, and they had two children; a teenage boy and a toddler. They made every attempt to make me feel welcome and at home. Coming from poverty and having such a distressing background, it was hard for me to acclimate. They effortlessly included me in everything like family gatherings, games and activities. On the outside I appeared to fit in well. It was easy for me to force a smile. I was good at playing pretend and acting as if nothing was wrong. I was used to hiding my pain, internalizing all of my anguish. I would do this for years to come. They would pry quite a bit about my home life, I think they were trying to find a way to connect with me or maybe they were just trying to satisfy