I Buried Myself Alive — Depression Dug The Hole

Relapsing is very real mentally

Photo made by the author on Canva

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 other in peace. That was only when we became immune to our nightly dose of Tylenol PM. I hate pills. And basements. Daddy got drunk a lot and sometimes thought we were toilets. But we couldn’t move when he’d Pee, or we would wake him out of his drunken trance, and the belt would be unleashed. That ole piece of leather loved to dance on bare flesh. I hate flesh. I hate a lot of things.

I buried myself alive again. Too many thoughts.

Daddy died, so did mommy. I hope they are doing ok down there. Well, maybe I just say that because forgiveness is supposed to release resentment or some shit? Whatever.

I wonder if my abusers will suffer? I’ll name them. Orlando (he liked to hit me when id kiss my boyfriend, it was my fault; I found love in him.) I hate love. Mark (he was my step-uncle. He liked to touch me from the age of 9–18. Also my fault; I let him. He cared unlike my parents. It’s just his way of saying he loved…