The Waves of Depression

The burden of climbing out of its pit.

It shocks me that there are people who don’t have depression.

What is it like? And when you do go through the blues, is the pain unbearable, or is it so brief that it’s barely noticeable?

What is it like to not push down a hidden shadow every day that is like an incessant telemarketer who won’t forget your number?

It angers me that I have to feel this and others don’t. Does it make me a wah-wah crybaby victim? You betcha. Welcome to the world of depression, where a violin is always playing a melancholy song.

This isn’t something I advertise to those in real life. Other than my ex-husband, no one knows that I’m on anti-depressants. Even he didn’t know the extent of my depression; Joseph was too busy being a dick to everyone when struggling with his own demons.

Unlike him, I could teach a Masterclass on hiding depression. I understand that true friends would support me. But what does telling them do? I don’t want someone to talk to who is a friend (I’m fine paying someone who has no ties to my personal life). I loathe awkward situations, and unless it’s a solvable problem, letting others know that you’re in a constant state of internal misery doesn’t leave much in terms of conversation.

I don’t want to answer questions. I don’t want to discuss it. I’m in my late forties (fuck, that’s hard to type when I have the emotional maturity of a preteen), and pushing it down is the best I’ve got.

Before the pandemic, I began TMS (Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation). I was moderately hopeful that there may be a legit, almost cure to this internal monster. Alas, Covid made it impossible to continue treatment; it’s a daily-for-weeks-and-weeks kind of deal. Battling depression and rewiring your brain takes time.

Of all health ailments, this isn’t that bad. It’s how I view my life with rape; if statistically, the odds are high that every woman will be raped or molested, then two guys who secretly took condoms off is the least-worst version of rape I can get. Bad things happen in life. I should be grateful the bad things aren’t that bad.

I could have physical limitations. I could have facial deformities. I could have a progressive illness that leads me to a path of incapacitation. If I lost my leg tomorrow, I’d tell the Me of the Past, “oh, was life so hard that you couldn’t get a pedicure with two feet?”

When I was younger, I told myself I was “shlogging through sand.” Is shlogging even a word? I mean walking as if there were 100lbs weights on each ankle. Everyone seemed to know the rules and kept pace in the race of life. I felt like I was forever catching up.

I still feel that way. And after the divorce, it’s like I’m back at the starting line, watching everyone in the distance.

A few girlfriends and I got together for Galentine’s Day. I have some wealthy friends, but I rarely felt financially different when hanging out during my marriage. I could afford dinner and drinks. I could afford new shoes.

This time, I felt like a homeless lady among the rich. There were talks of the cost of tutors for their kids (my daughter gets the free homework club after school once a week to address her crappy math scores). There were discussions about kids’ afterschool activities (I’m trying to figure out how to pay for the things my kids have an inkling of an interest in).

One wealthy friend brought her an even wealthier friend. When I got home, I looked up her shoes; they were $1700 from a brand I’ve never heard of. She had a Fendi jacket and a thief’s dream in diamonds.

I can’t afford to take my kids overnight in a hotel without a budget overhaul, meanwhile, someone out there is walking on money. My kids think I’m the biggest cheapskate. They don’t even know the half of it, like how I’ll only order a soda at restaurants because I forego buying myself a meal.

At this Galentine’s Day dinner, the food was family-style. Fuck. That. I’m too picky of an eater, and I sure as hell don’t need to split ten meals among six friends. I told them to order whatever they wanted, but I was such a picky eater that I’d order my own meal. I brought cash to toss in for my one glass of wine and a small salad.

With a generous tip, I gave $30. Except I’m an idiot, and I went to the bathroom while she was getting change, then left without realizing that I gave her a $21 tip on a $19 meal. I’m still pissed at how I gave $40 instead of $30. It’s going to bother me for months.

My friends spent $85 each to cover their family-style meal and refills of alcohol. I don’t think I’ve spent that much on anything outside of a theme park for my entire family.

I can see in the photos we took how eager I am to pretend that I fit in. I’m the only one without a diamond marital indicator on her finger. My smile is forced, and I don’t want to be there.

The only place I belong is in bed with the blankets over my head.

The Depression Monster has me believing that I don’t belong. I don’t have the money. I don’t have the spouse. I don’t have full-time custody of my kids to take them to activities.

I don’t have full-time custody of my kids to kiss them every night before bed. Cue the waterworks all over again.

My job is still a hot mess. I hate it. I knew I’d hate it. I told myself that I could splurge occasionally on things to make myself feel better because I’ll have financial freedom.

I don’t think buying twelve items on Temu.com for eleven dollars counts as a splurge, especially when I’m buying things like travel bottles for sunscreen. I’m still trying to save for a house closer to my ex-husband and my kids’ future high school.

Really…I’m still trying to save for a house that won’t remind me how much I downgraded after the divorce.

Part of depression is acknowledging when you’re being irrational or ungrateful. I’m light years behind my friends in life, but I can imagine many living-in-a-cardboard-box scenarios. It could be worse.

It could be worse. That doesn’t make me feel better. What if there’s an alternate reality or multiverse where there’s a version of me that’s doing much better, and the life I’m living now is her version of “it could be worse”?

Maybe I jinxed it because I wrote about how happy I was a few months ago. For a brief moment, I was happy. And that makes this feel so much worse because I had hope. Or amnesia.

To end this article on a bleak note, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t bail out of this job. I can’t get full-time custody of my kids. I can’t move into a better house in a better neighborhood. I can’t magically get married and become a team unit with someone. I can’t seem to stop eating carbs, which is depressing me more as someone who also struggles with an eating disorder history.

I can’t escape this mental prison with a Depression Monster as its warden.