You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything — I mean absolutely everything — until you actually do. It’s gut‑wrenching. A mixture of rage and despair, both fighting to be your wingman.
I’m not talking about a few belongings. I mean all of it: my belongings, my money, my safety, my home, my identity, my credit, and even my son. Sure, things can be replaced, but not the treasures — the things money can’t buy.
Christmas ornaments collected since childhood. A village built year by year. A christening gown worn by every child in my family. Photos that proved I was there. A four‑generation antique bookcase. Quilts I made for each of my children, and the ones waiting to be made. All my important documents — divorce papers, custody papers, tax records. The mementos from every apartment I ever lived in.
The list goes on forever. Even now, months later, trying to remember it all makes my stomach twist. There are no words for how it felt. Pieces of me scattered everywhere — in strangers’ homes, making new memories for someone else, or tossed in the garbage as unwanted trash.
My identity was taken and used for things I could never afford, for items I never got to enjoy. The proof that I had existed in a continuous, meaningful way — gone. My past erased, along with the quiet reassurance that I was a mother, a keeper of traditions, a person with roots. When everything tangible disappeared, so did my sense of who I was.
What it really did was show me how unprepared I was for what came after — the shock of surviving without evidence, without documents, without a home, without my child. Losing everything didn’t end when the items were gone. That was only the beginning. I had to rebuild, but I had no idea how. The things I grieved most, could never be replaced. That part of me was gone — an empty container. Maybe ready for new memories someday, but I still ache for the ones I lost.
Slowly, I’ve replaced most of the documents. I bought new furniture, new clothes, new everything — but none of it feels like mine. It all just reminds me of what I’ll never get back.
Turns out rock bottom has storage space. Who knew,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 