When Depression Ruins Your Writing

The only thing I genuinely enjoyed

Writing is my therapy. It’s all I’ve done my whole life to ease the noise in my brain. It’s the place where I’m brutally honest and unleash mental screams on paper. Or uh, on screen.

It’s a bad sign when I’m too depressed to write. I’ve had a few interesting moments in the past two months that warrant articles. Dozens of articles in my drafts lay dormant, barely past the first sentence.

The problem begins when I think of an audience. When I imagine there are real humans on Medium reading my writing, I clam up. I do best when I emotionally vomit my thoughts without caring what others think. This isn’t my day job; income earned here pays for a monthly pedicure.

Speaking of, I’m long overdue on a pedicure. It’s the one self-indulgent treat I allow myself. Right now my toes are talons with pinkish-red gel. I just don’t care.

My relationship with Carlos ended (spoiler alert for future writings). Occasionally my phone buzzes and I assume it’s him. Otherwise, I’m indifferent. I’m going to miss the sex. He wasn’t the best but damn, that man’s body was ripped. Give it another week and I’ll be clawing the walls doing my best to not send a “WYD” booty call text.

And so, I’m alone. I always was but under the guise of a relationship.

Normally, I think “If it weren’t for my kids, I’d consider killing myself”. I’ve felt that way my whole life. I don’t know a time when suicide wasn’t a I’d-never-do-it-but-I-understand-those-that-do thought.

I dropped my kids off at their dad’s work Halloween event (what would have been a family affair before the divorce). Something random triggered me and I began sobbing. For the first time, I thought “No, really, if it wasn’t for my kids I’d absolutely kill myself. No question.” The pain is no longer manageable.

Therapy is out. I tried to find someone affordable and after months, it was a bust. Plus, this isn’t the kind of thing that a 55-minute session once a week will resolve. At $150 a pop, I lack the funds for $600 monthly payments. If I had that kind of money, I wouldn’t be this depressed. I did have that kind of money once and yes, I was still depressed. But this is a whole other level beyond that.

It’s time to admit that I need to call the psychiatrist who prescribes me Wellbutrin and try something else. Except I have tried other things (at least four or five) with neutral to downright negative results. I’m scared to try something new when it’s at least a week’s commitment and it’s a wildcard on the side effects.

But I work from home and I’m downright miserable. I got divorced because I figured it couldn’t be worse than what I was experiencing.

I was wrong.

I feel like I’ve failed not only my kids, but myself. I was supposed to make this life better.

It dawned on me, as I recover from some plastic surgery, that I follow the same pattern when I’m frantic about my environmental conditions. Take my breakup with Jeremy, for example. I was a sobbing hysterical mess. All I could think about was how easily he’d replace me. I longed to feel better because I couldn’t function.

I took pickleball classes. I took golf classes. I planned plastic surgery to stay competitive in today’s dating market (affordable only because the surgeon is an ex-boyfriend who did it for free). I insisted I needed to get out of my comfort zone and joined a dozen groups with events that I’ll probably never attend.

Rebounding with Carlos helped ease the breakup fall. Now that it’s over, I’m able to realize my knee-jerk reaction is to jump into things under the guise that discomfort is good for me. With a face covered in bruises, I’m forced to stay home when I don’t have my kids and not feel pressured to live an Instagram-worthy life.

Something has to change. I can see in the mirror how much I’ve aged in the past two years. I don’t recognize myself. It’s like in horror movies when a soul is sucked out of a character. I feel like those little grey blobs leftover when Ursula sucks their poor, unfortunate souls.

I need to get better with my sleep.

I need to get better with my eating.

I need to get better at staying on top of my To-do list so I don’t leave it all to the last minute.

I need to make an effort with my appearance despite working remotely 100%.

There’s a small change I’ve made for the sake of my mental health. I stress when I have events with friends because they always cost money. I feel like a loser showing up, not eating (saying that I already had dinner), and at best getting a single glass of wine or sometimes a soda. I’m not doing that anymore. I don’t go out often with them and not enjoying my evening because my brain was ruminating on money defeats the purpose of what’s supposed to be a fun night.

I wrote the above a week ago. I’m no longer feeling like I want to hurl myself in traffic but I’m back to feeling “meh”.

Meh is when the bed feels like the only safe haven. A text arrives and it doesn’t get read. You only shower when you have a meeting. You barely spend time with your kids, which you already only have part-time, because laying on the couch sleeping is all you can do. Meh is the best state because if you acknowledge your emotions, you’ll have a meltdown.

Dammit. Thinking about those emotions caused me to cry.

I want to rewind the clock but I don’t know the best time. Which time frame sucked the least? I imagine old photos and I think that despite my giant Look-No-Braces grin, I felt ashamed and alone because of my tough upbringing at home.

My son is thirteen and struggling. Middle school isn’t doing him any favors and I learned his sister teases him for his autism (something they both learned he had last year). When I was his age, my self-hatred was in full force.

I look at him and see innocence. This is a kid who still wants dinosaur toys, Transformers, and action figures. He also lacks friends and I know, deep down, he’s building the same self-hatred.

Mine stemmed from my parents but also from feeling like an outsider (a side effect of autism is never feeling like you fit in, anywhere). I try my best to boost him up and to tell him that if he’s struggling, he’s not alone and I’m here to help him through it. I desperately want to push him off this path of self-loathing.

I’m so far down that path, they’ve run out of matching bricks and I’m ordering them off Temu as I trudge along. I don’t want him following it. I want to grab him like he’s an infant, squish him, and insist that destined for greatness.

His school hired a therapist and I casually brought it up. As expected, my son reacted like I suggested disposing of the television. I would have killed for access to a therapist at his age (well, I’d take one now as well if my taxes to the school district paid for it). I was desperate to be heard and validated. But with no one to turn to, my diary was my voice.

It’s almost 5 pm on a Sunday. No kids means an uninterrupted day to be productive. Whatever I’ve done today, none of it fell under “productive”.

Something has to change. Something has to change.