My Connection with My Spirituality

 I dealt with depression since I was a kid.  Children of Hoarding disorder often are emotionally, psychologically, physically abused and neglected.  My sister and I were no different.  Parents with Hoarding Disorder often suffer a multitude of mental health issues like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, tragic loss, victims of violence, or have a physical reason as to why they hoard.  Brain injuries and dementia are causes for hoarding as well.  Both my mother's and father's life histories were filled with violence and loss.  They were from Slovenia and Austria, and were young children when World War II broke out.  They were children of the Depression Era.  My father's history in Europe ended with losing his own homeland and everything he knew.  Forced at the tender age of 15 to join the German Army.  Migrated through Europe in Displaced Persons Work Camps and eventually ended up in a small town of Skt. Josef, Austria where he worked alongside my mother in the farm fields. 

More of My Story From 2017

July 3rd, 2017. A photo I have never made public.

Taken moments after the first time I spoke with my mother and children days after my arrest and removal from my home.  My bail conditions were so strict I was not permitted to call my own home and speak with my younger two children.  I had to wait for them to call me.  Or have someone pass their phone to them, as was the case here.  Without my knowledge or consent, my new life had already begun.  My children and mother were blissfully unaware of how our lives had changed.  I had to keep it together and pretend all was okay.  It most definitely wasn't.

It's difficult to move on to events that followed after that first day in my new life in this story.  There was so much that happened and so many people to be remembered and greatfull to.  There is a lot of information that needs to be shared and advocate for.  There was so much to describe in the trauma and the damage, but also those that came to my salvation and how simple acts of kindness can make such a difference in mere survival and recovery.

While I was laying on the cold hard concrete bed in the cell, so many things came to my mind.  If he was being carted off to the hospital, where were my children?  Who was looking out for them? Was he going to tell the police the truth and will it only be a matter of a few hours before I am home again?  Will he continue with the lie? Am I trapped here for what was already feeling like forever?  The hardest was coming to the reality that no one will believe I am innocent and help me through this.  I had to push these thoughts aside.  I found escape in prayer and my faith.  Everything happens for a reason.  My mind searched for anything and everything that would console me and give me strength to endure and survive the night unbroken.  

Sitting here writing all of this is difficult.  I want to write about it every day but it is damaging in its own right.  I have to put my thoughts back into a time when I was being psychologically and emotionally tortured and the feeling of helplessness can be retraumatizing in my present life.  The need to write about it is overwhelming however not always cathartic.  People ask me why am I doing it if it's so painful?  The intention is to bring to light what victims go through in this type of abuse, to advocate for victim's rights and open more doors for them. To put a face to the story.  My own story is terrible but it isn't near as horrific as many others experience.  I don't know why I am more fortunate than others. It could be my sense of humour or my knowledge of how to stay positive despite adversity.  Or maybe it's my ambition to grow and succeed.  Or maybe it's God's plan for me to keep going, tell my story and to inspire others. The daily struggles even to this day to survive and stay sane are often challenging. But I am still here.  I'm still laughing.

I know without a doubt if it weren't for my friends and strangers who believed me and believed in me when I was at my weakest, I would have died.  

My oldest son had heard what had happened while he was out that night, ran home and immediately had arranged for a criminal lawyer and called friends to come to my aid.  My son was only 16 at the time but those moments made him grow up regrettfully overnight.  His young, carefree and naive days of childhood came to an abrupt end.  He had to be a man and responsible and help his mother because he knew the truth and that I wasn't a violent person and without his help, I would have no one else. He became my Superhero that night.  He called and left messages everywhere for my friends.  Some ignored his cries for help for weeks. It seems to be true that you will find out who your friends are when a crisis comes along.  To this day I am still in shock and angry that the one person who I had trusted the most in this world to do right, the person who was written in my Will as the executor of my estate and made guardian of my children chose to disregard my son's cries for help.  I am not a violent person but I might just slap that self-righteous hypocrite of a bitch for turning her back on my children as a trusted friend and the professional she was in my world.  Instead, I had surgically cut her out of our lives permanently where she belongs.

I entered the courtroom sometime in the late afternoon Friday, June 29th, 2017 to be arraigned after spending hours in holding cells hearing but not wanting to listen to the most mundane of conversations by other inmates further down the corridor. Their voices carried so clearly with the cinder block walls, I had to drown out the sound of their voices I would flush the toilet almost obsessively.  I needed silence and peace to work out what was happening inside my own skull. The only thing I can clearly remember them saying was when they whined "Why does she get to go in before us?!", when I passed them to proceed to the courtroom to be arraigned. The doors were opened and to my absolute horror and relief, I saw my son sitting there in the courtroom gallery.  I was horrified for him to see his mother in this state.  No child should be put into this position.  I walked through the doors with my hands bound in handcuffs in front of me.  I cried and shook my head in silence as they read the charges.  I looked my son directly in the eyes and mouthed the words "I didn't do it!"  He responded from across the room by nodding and mouthing back "I know mom, I know".   Much to my surprise, he was sitting next to a familiar and kind and loving face.  A friend with whom I had reconnected with a few years earlier but she didn't really know me well enough to believe my innocence to support me as she had.  I felt such incredibly shame knowing that my tragic life events had torn her away from her peaceful and happy life.  She sat next to my son as an angel from God with her glowing blonde hair and her soft gentle, sympathetic smile.  She has become my "Sunshine" in this story and one of the people who will always be one of the most incredible women I know. 

They sat there together in the gallery while they listened to the court officers and Judge announce my name, and my charges, and the conditions of my bail.  When I heard my full name being stated, my first thought to myself was, "Now I've shamed the family name. And I did nothing but want a better life for myself and my children."  I had been accused of shaming the family name only a short time before because I discussed my parents' hoarding disorder openly and honestly on social media with the intent of helping people.  It had caused some family members distress and judgements. But now!  Here I am with my hands cuffed together in front of me, hair dishevelled and askew, dirty clothes, standing before a judge, listening to her recite the terms of my bail.  My family and my world had been blown apart by a lie.

To be continued...