When the Depression Beast Wants to Suck You Back In

It’s so much work to fight it off and it feels easier to give in.

I hate crying.

I hate that I’m so damn good at it.

I was doing fine. There’s traction on my divorce. I’m dating two fantastic guys. My arms got their two Covid vaccinations and California is set to open on June 15th (mask burning time, woot!). My kids’ school year is done in less than a month. I felt happy. Well…happy-ish.

Little things began to chip away at it. Soon, it becomes a snowball effect, rolling downhill so fast it has too much momentum to stop.

My quasi-ex-husband and I met with the mediator for our first session over finances. As I’ve written before, I’m fucked. While Joseph is voluntarily giving me more cash, it’s not a lot to help me buy anything. My years of doing everything for him, our children, and this house are reduced to almost nothing. It’s like I rented the homes I owned for twenty years.

Coupled with the most insane housing market since 2004, I’m not doing well with this uncertainty.

Then I received a series of texts from my ex-boyfriend Jon, which can be paraphrased as him out of the blue telling me how my existence and previous value are meaningless to him. Normally I’d tell myself, “he can fuck right off and why the hell would he text to say that to me?” I know he wasn’t intending to be malicious but his callous choice of words (and the choice to message me for no reason in the first place when I have left him alone) unfortunately got to me. It was a punch in the gut to be reduced to nothing by someone who once said they loved you.

As a result, every now and then, my brain flashes with the message that my existence is meaningless. Is that logical? Of course not. But there’s only so often I can push back those thoughts.

Because of the divorce, we can’t afford to put my kids in a summer program this year (minus two weeks where we splurged). Normally they’d be in a program from 8 am to 6 pm. I’m torn between paying for the lowest childcare option I could find compared to knowing that I need every penny for a down payment on a house. Joseph and I both work full-time; this means a summer of them watching iPads and television.

My son is in a socialization program every Friday courtesy of his Autism therapy. They’re including my daughter in it for free, which is good since she’s the one who needs it more than him. I’m tired of the fighting I hear from them every Friday when it’s time to go. It’s games and crafts with other kids but my children don’t care; Covid life has made them hate car rides longer than five minutes.

I want to yell back, “Yes, I hate driving there too. I hate that I’m stuck waiting in the car because I can’t sit in the waiting room for two hours. I don’t enjoy fighting with you guys to go every week. But it’s good for you guys so suck it the fuck up, we’re going.” I dread Fridays.

The snowball continues spiraling downward.

I’m preoccupied with going over financials because of the divorce. I’m obsessed with any side hustle cash I can stash towards my small pool of savings. I’ve set aside the funds for movers; one small step towards the loads of things I’ll have to pay whenever I can get my hands on an actual house.

Which, at this rate, will be Winter 2022.

From the pool of depression, out comes the hand of the Depression Beast, reaching over my head to shove me under.

I can’t go out often with friends to help uplift my mood because I need to save every penny for the divorce.

I can’t indulge in a little retail therapy because of you know…divorce stuff.

I can’t just go bang any of the guys I’m seeing because they have their kids part-time and work; they don’t live close enough for me to hop over, bone for a bit, then bail out. Plus I’ve already gone out a lot lately and it’s awkward with Joseph at home watching the kids while I stumble in at 1 am. If we lived apart, I would only go on dates the nights that I don’t have the kids.

Living with your spouse that you’re divorcing sucks.

The Depression Beast has two hands on my shoulders and is bearing down into the water.

I temporarily distract my mind with stupid social media apps and mobile games. They suck up time and serve no purpose but for a brief moment, my brain forgets everything.

I want to exercise this stress away. I want to sweat it all out. But I’m recovering from surgery. I asked the doctor when I could start exercising and he told me two more months. At least before when I stress ate, I could burn it all off with intense and refreshing workouts. Get my endorphins on. A friend told me I could go for walks every day; switching from HIIT workouts and weightlifting to a fucking walk would be like telling The Rock to skip his workout and go for a casual stroll. I need the sweat, the intensity, the burst of adrenaline that is achieved in the limited amount of time I have to work out. I worked so hard to get muscle and in three months, I’ll have to start over.

Today, the mediator sent me the calculations for child support. I’m getting $399 a month. Where I live, that barely covers the electricity bill. If I had divorced years prior when I wanted to and he was always working, it would be significantly more. But now that I’m bailing out of the marriage that he was never present for, he’s going from being a 1% parent to a 50% parent.

Okay, Depression Monster. My coping skills at every roadblock are nonexistent. Lead me by the hand into your oasis so I can drown.

I crawl onto my bed. I text Joseph and tell him he needed to make dinner for the kids. My body flops with emotional exhaustion and I start crying.

Fighting depression is hard. Even with meds, therapy, and whatever happy pants arsenal of weapons on your side. It feels like you’re fighting your default state of being.

It’s one thing to cry to let off steam. It’s another when it’s depression crying. That’s when you surrender to the beast and let it pull you under without struggle.

It’s comforting but not in a pleasant way. It’s not the comfort of a cup of warm cocoa and a blanket. It’s the same comfort I imagine smokers have with cigarettes. You don’t particular enjoy smoking and you know you’ll feel even worse after. But the act of it is comforting because it’s familiar and it’s much easier to go with it than to swim against the current. It’s so easy; you simply be and it’s what is already there.

Still crying, I want to pass out. But I already took a two-hour nap earlier because my sleep is erratic lately.

Logically, I tell myself that life isn’t bad at all. That I’m grasping at the worst parts of it when there is so, so much to be happy and grateful for. That only makes me cry harder; I’m already underwater, I can’t see the beauty that is ashore.

I’m tired.

And just going with the depression feels easier right now.

My bed is so comfy. My bedroom has been my prison since Covid; it’s my home office, gym, entertainment, and sleep location for over a year. I want to curl up under the blankets like I’m giving up the struggle of drowning and give up.

Do I have anything peppy to wrap up this article? To inspire anyone in this boat? Alas, I do not.

But I worked too fucking hard to let the Depression Beast beat me over the head and then jerk off over my exhausted body.

And so, I’ll watch an old episode of Real Housewives of Orange County (because rich people drama makes me laugh) and chug a stale bottle of diet Pepsi. It’s enough to bring me to the surface to catch a breath before I fight the monster another day.