In gritty 1980s New York, one West Village flophouse became a last-chance refuge for addicts, criminals, LGBTQ runaways, and anyone with nowhere left to go. And my mom was their queen.
Convinced a demon was making me gay, my mother turned to exorcism. Years later, her pop idol finally helped her understand.
After a lifetime of resentment, working with other T.B.I. patients finally helped me understand the riddle that is my mother's mind.
She said I had cancer, and an eating disorder, and pneumonia. I didn’t realize it was abuse until years later.
As we plowed through decades of her extreme clutter, I began to notice similar tendencies in my husband. And once I saw the hoarder in him, there was no turning back.
When I took in a twelve-year-old with PTSD, I knew it would be difficult. What I didn’t realize was how hard it would be to let her go.