I Buried Myself Alive — Depression Dug The Hole
Relapsing is very real mentally
Today I vacuumed three times. I clean up after my family because I have to. Do I want to? No. That carpet has seen better days and so have I. I take baths just to escape; sometimes, I let the water get cold without noticing; it’s my happy place. Or my sad place, a place to cry to myself.
It’s just a place.
Did I tell you I buried myself alive?
I buried myself in others, but I made sure to paint my face pretty with lies, so others see my beauty while I rot. I thought someone would notice that girl digging a hole in the back, you know, that girl. I see her when I’m angry sometimes. She looks like me, but she reeks of depression and beer. I don’t Like her, but she loves me. She keeps hanging around. She hates vacuuming. She always tries to get me to go take another bath. Maybe she’s the smart one?
Ugh, who am I kidding? I love her too.
I often remember my childhood, if I want to call it that. The state of being a child. That’s the definition of childhood. That is by no means what I had. I had a house (not a home) filled with rats, booze, and blood. I had adults (not parents) who beat us, cursed us, and a few times; tied us to chairs in the basement so they could drink and abuse each…
