I head downstairs, the overwhelming scent of mold permeates throughout the room. Garbage and wet clothes are scattered everywhere and makeshift hammocks adorn the ceiling. A dirty rabbit hutch reeks of urine and feces, and the rotting smell of dead mice or some other mysterious animal buried beneath the filthy ruble burns my nose. As the intense aroma penetrates my eyes, they begin to water incessantly, I don’t think I can handle this. With a trash bag in one hand and plugging my nose with the other, I proceed down into the dingy basement. I begin wading through the plethora of items in my path, deciding what to keep and what to throw out, I’m disgusted at what I see, my mother would have never let it get like this. I stand, staring at a massive pile of clothes laying on the damp floor by the washing machine. It feels like just yesterday my mother died and suddenly life went from living in splendor to living in squalor. For me, living in “splendor” didn’t mean living in some extrav
Lately it has felt like I have reached an impasse when it comes to my depression and anxiety. I am at a dead end and I am certain that I am destined to fail at life. I am not meant to be successful. All of my confidence has been stripped from me and I have officially hit rock bottom. I don’t know how to pull myself out of the darkness. It’s as if I’m standing outside, naked and exposed. I’m exhausted and I just want it all to be over. This is me at 12 years old before I was placed in foster care for a year. I have now been experiencing abuse for 3 years. I’m tired and I don’t feel like a little girl anymore. I feel like a grown woman who lives in the 1700s or something. I must get myself ready and prepare for my nightly coitus with my husband. Only, I am not waiting for my husband, I am fearfully waiting for my abuser. I am laying in bed, covers tightly wrapped around my body, my hands are fixed to my side. My eyes are wide and my lips are tightly shut. I hear heavy footsteps h