Hello my name is (Redacted) I am an author and a Journalist writing under the name of Tobin Frost for APH Press. I am currently doing a story on the death of Emily Amber Packy on or about January 6, 2023 for APH Press, theanonymouspublishinghouse.com and a book that I'm writing about her, homelessness and mental illness.
In the name of full disclosure I must also mention that Emily was my friend. I am writing to get any information that I can regarding the disposition of her case. I can be reached through the publisher info@anonymouspublishinghouse.com
I sat there in the same old green chair, in an East Liberty homeless shelter in Pittsburgh, Pa, day after day, as they brought their stories to me like offerings. The room, filled with an air of melancholy, became an altar for their confessions, a sanctuary for these souls to unburden the heaviness that had settled within their hearts.
Stories of love and families, dreams and hope, but mostly stories of tragedies and unimaginable horrors, all of which they told me in painful detail. Yet, it was in their vulnerability that these stories breathed life into the somber atmosphere that encompassed us.
An older woman, eyes etched with the mark of time and sorrow, spoke of her escape from an abusive husband who was once again drunk and needed someone, anyone else, to hold to account for his failures. She hid in the basement of an abandoned home, clutching onto her last fragment of hope, wishing for solace in the darkness.
A 22-year-old pregnant girl revealed the stories of repeated physical abuse and rapes with the casual demeanor that one would discuss the memory of a rainy day. The ladder of old self-inflicted wounds running up her forearm told yet another story, a tale written in her flesh that spoke of her quiet battles between life and death.
Then there was the tall, fit teenager built like a professional baseball player who dreamt of someday being a rapper; his eyes sparkled with the ambitions and aspirations of youth. But too often, he struggled with sudden and unexpected shifts in mood and detachment, manifesting a storm of emotions concealed beneath his strong exterior.
These were just a few of the stories I wrote down with a careful hand, feeling the weight of their experiences as if they were my own.
All of their stories started with tragedy, followed by hope. Each one of them woven with threads of pain and resilience, a testament to the indomitable spirit that lies within every human heart. But as I wrote down their stories, I realized that most of their tales had a bitter ending and that I was destined to unfold their tales.
For the aspiring rapper, the funds that promised solace and a roof over his head were suddenly depleted, thrusting him back onto the streets into a vortex of uncertainty and despair. He found himself living in a homeless camp battling his mental illness and committing petty crimes to survive, his behavioral issues going untreated. The world had been blind to the raging storm within him, the unseen battle of mental illness he fought against, day in and day out.
The young man still roams the very streets where his dreams once flourished, carrying verses and melodies unheard, as though he was a ghost of his unfound greatness. Aching to be heard, to share his art with a world that scorns the misunderstood, he remains on the path of passionate determination.
The woman who had come to this place seeking refuge from abuse; instead, found a new master at the helm. A malevolent shelter administrator who seemed to delight in running his shelter like a prison complete with black-suited guards who routinely conducted searches and questionings, and who would threaten the residents that if they did not like his treatment of them they could just go back out onto the streets. One whose cruelty spread through twisting halls and battered faces. This haunting presence, its laughter echoed in her nightmare, its gaze, a blight on her delicate heart.
In the sterile room, she felt the walls whisper their stories into the silent night. A concatenation of voices rising, of whispered dreams, their cries for help drowned beneath the cacophony of denial, blame, and hate. She decided that there was little difference between mental and physical abuse and chose to leave the shelter.
Then finally the unwed 8-month pregnant woman who found herself having to seek refuge in a shelter. Ironically, even the cold walls of a structure created to provide solace would not provide her the dignity she desperately deserved.
She was expelled from the shelter, with no warning, money, or resources because she chose to withhold the identity of her child's father. Despite the hardships she faced, she maintained her right to keep certain secrets close to her heart. Her expulsion from the sanctuary of the shelter threw her into a merciless world that would end up consuming her life murdered by someone who promised to love her leaving behind a precious gift, her child who now is in foster care.
And so their stories go, as do the stories of many others like them amidst the horrors and the sadness, there was something undeniably beautiful in their perseverance, the way their voices ebbed and flowed with the stories they carried deep in their souls.
For every tragedy that had unfolded in their lives, hope and humanity lived on in the telling of their stories. And so I wrote, chronicling the words that weaved the entirety of their human experience. I listened to their whispered secrets, their tears and laughter, their dreams and defeats. In the end, it was in these sacred moments that hope fragile, fierce, and resilient, was found. With every stroke of my pen, I write to immortalize their voices and forever engrave their narrative in the souls of those who dare to lend their ears.
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