Skip to main content

Posts

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 in some extrav

Taken!

  It’s mid afternoon, on this  cool, crisp fall day. I can smell the dew on the leaves and fresh cut grass as everyone scrambles to get a final mow in before fall rapidly turns into winter. I am in awe as I look down a tunnel of trees and watch as hues of red and orange dance in the wind. My cheeks are tinted slightly pink as the wind brushes across my face. The serene landscape surrounding me is pulling me into its captivating scene. My mind is at peace. I have completely forgotten where I am. I have forgotten who I am. I want to stay lost in this moment forever. I open my eyes and I no longer see the blue skies and enthralling mountainous terrain. I only see darkness. I have snapped back to reality and I must face the circumstances presented before me head on. He is going to take me away and to where I do not know.  I am curled up in a corner on the floor of our one bedroom apartment. Not long after my dads first suicide attempt, we were forced to relocate due to our abhorrent living

Discovering Suicide

  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

Crossing Boundaries

Lately it has felt like I have reached an impasse when it comes to my depression and anxiety. I am at a dead end and I am certain that I am destined  to fail at life. I am not meant to be successful. All of my confidence has been stripped from me and I have officially hit rock bottom. I don’t know how to pull myself out of the darkness. It’s as if I’m standing outside, naked and exposed. I’m exhausted and I just want it all to be over.  This is me at 12 years old before I was placed in foster care for a year. I have now been experiencing abuse for 3 years. I’m tired and I don’t feel like a little girl anymore. I feel like a grown woman who lives in the 1700s or something. I must get myself ready and prepare for my nightly coitus with my husband. Only, I am not waiting for my husband, I am fearfully waiting for my abuser. I am laying in bed, covers tightly wrapped around my body, my hands are fixed to my side.  My eyes are wide and my lips are tightly shut. I hear heavy footsteps h

My Earliest Memory

  My earliest memory from childhood seems to be from about the age of 9 years old. I have vague memories from an earlier time. Snippets of things lIke being a cheerleader in pop warner football or the car that my parents used to drive. I don’t remember the color or any details about it, just that it was a station wagon. Clearly, I have no significant memories from an earlier age.   When I was 8ish my mother was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. I can remember her having treatments and losing her hair. She wore a wig but hated the way it felt so she preferred to wear a bandana. I can almost picture her petite build and some of her facial features. Although, without a picture I am certain the ability to visualize her would have faded long ago. I can’t remember her voice or her demeanor. I imagine a kind, caring mother. Nothing has indicated otherwise and I hope that never changes. It’s soothing to think that I inherited some good from at least one of my parents. I’m not sure