It will take a few entries to describe the depths of filth I lived in and the subsequent spiritual, emotional and physical decay I experienced. The reasons why it happened are multifaceted and I will address them seperately. Hopefully the order of the entries I write make sense.
It is hard to write about how bad my house got because it will make you readers skirmish. My friend, whom I can share anything with covers her ears and screatches "I can't hear it, don't say it" when I talk about the condition of my house due to the hoard. But if I don't describe the deapths of my condition, the journey of my recovery will not have the same impact. It is hard even for me to envision my living conditions. I rationalize the mental pictures in my memory as an episode on the TV show "Buried Alive" and assign my memories to their stories.
And so I will describe my house bit by bit from the periphery down to the four foot square area where I inprisoned myself with the surrounding hoard. Again, I am new to blogging and hope to make this accessible to all who search for it to find encouragement and help without identifying myself. I need to remain anonymous because part of my story involves situations that some of my family members cannot know. If they found out, it would be devastating to them and they would question their sense of self.
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