As a young child, her siblings would tie strings to her legs and exclaim, “when does the balloon take off?” At the time, she was the youngest child in the herd. She was overweight. She was born premature, only weighing four pounds.

Her real father wasn’t around much, he liked to drink. Eventually they found him dead in his home having drunk himself to death. He had been there for a couple of weeks before he was found.

Her step father had a desire for young girls. He touched her. She was abused by her older siblings, and both of her “parental units”. Once, when no one knew she spit on the step fathers pants. It wasn’t too menacing of an act but it was all she had at the time.

Soon, another child was born and she was no longer the youngest. He was the spawn of her mother and “him”. Him is how she refers to this person. He deserves no other name.

She is a good catholic woman, she tried to do all the right things, get good grades and follow the rules. Following rules means you are safe. You won’t be molested, raped or beaten. Or, so we think. This is only a part of her story.

Flash forward to 64 years old. This woman sits alone, in a chair by the door surrounded by her hoard. She’s created a safe place that only requires a few steps amongst her hoard of things she thinks she needs.

These are her walls. She is still protecting herself from bad things. She doesn’t realize those bad things are gone and she can come out.

That little girl still exists in the big woman’s body, telling the big woman that she needs these things in order to keep them both safe. I am trying to reach in and grab that little girl’s hand, to let her know that everything is ok now and that I can help her.

If only she’ll let me.