A Day Without Depression, Anxiety, and Guilt

Three and a quarter jobs.

That’s how many jobs I’ve had for months. What’s a quarter of a job? It’s when you try to quit a job and they ask you to stay on as a freelancer.

See, I lost my job a few months ago. And because unemployment is garbage and I don’t have a spouse, I have to work multiple jobs to stay afloat. On top of that, I could only get contract jobs. Not knowing when the next gig would come along, I juggled them all. At my peak, I had 4 jobs.

Four full-time jobs. Yes, I’m in tech and I work remotely. It went down .75 when I switched to freelancing.

Last week everything came to a head. I had things due. I was onboarding and needed to remember things. I had to prove that I did things when in reality, I did nothing. I lied dozens of times that I started my work and would be screwed when I actually did start without knowing what to do (and too late to ask).

Days and nights were spent in melodramatic crying and stress-induced moments of being frozen.

But I did it. I survived. I crossed my fingers that a boss at one job would bail on our 1:1 (he did). I finished the two tasks assigned to me at another job, done incorrectly but enough for my trainer to grit his teeth and walk me through my errors. I completed the “homework” assignment at the latest job and dazzled during a Zoom call.

The last task was to complete the 0.75 freelance job. It wasn’t complete. It was complete-adjacent. Because I hate the project and the company. I did enough to gift a solid first draft and bill hours for the end of this month.

And then I quit.

And it felt amazing.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Eve. That meant a chill day at all jobs. When I wrapped up my last meetings, I kicked back and felt…relief.

I haven’t felt that in months.

Then, my ex-husband texted and asked me to watch the kids. He insisted he had breathing problems, pneumonia, whatever-ailment because he’s a hypochondriac. Fine by me, I’ll take any chance I can to watch my kids when it’s not my custody night.

It was supposed to be a few hours. After taking my kids to McDonald’s, Target, Baskin Robbins, and Crumbl, I texted my ex-husband that I was taking them to my house for the night.

I was on a high. Wrapped up work? Check. Getting unplanned time with my kids? Check. Getting to see them on Thanksgiving when I wasn’t planning on it? Check. Did I get paid from three jobs on the same day because of the holiday and enjoyed the brief thrill of seeing the number before paying bills? Check and check.

The cherry on top? My kids love IHOP. I rarely take them because it’s out of my Single Mom Budget. Guess who called and learned it would be open on Thanksgiving morning? (Thumbs pointing my way.) This chick.

I texted the ex-husband and invited him to join us for breakfast the next day. That way he could pick the kids up to complete the Thanksgiving Circle of Life.

On Thanksgiving Eve, I went to bed in absolute bliss.

…

The next day, things took a turn. We go to breakfast. Joseph shows up. He tells me that he baked the lasagna that I always cook and taught my daughter how to make. He’s cooked maybe twice for me in my life. That lasagna recipe is mine. I hold all patents, rights, and trademarks associated with that lasagna.

I don’t want my daughter to enjoy that lasagna with him. I want to be the person that she whines to when she craves and we go shopping for the ingredients together. There are barely any traditions in my life, I cling to the ones I have.

He tells me that he’s late because the cheesecloth for the turkey went missing. The guy who I had to give $500 to a few weeks ago is spending money on a full turkey feast. He’s never cooked a turkey in my entire marriage. To add, he also bought a new holiday doormat.

That angers me. You need me to lend you (which I ultimately just gave) five hundred bucks and you’re buying dumb shit you don’t need?

My son wants more turkey bacon. I’m happy to stay longer in the overcrowded restaurant. Joseph only drinks coffee in anticipation of the giant meal he’s preparing.

“A turkey?” I asked. “You could get a giant turkey breast and that’ll last you for days.”

Joseph tells me that his girlfriend’s family is going over.

Please, tell me more about how you’re making all this effort for your girlfriend when I couldn’t get you to do the dishes.

When the kids are done eating (I splurged on toast for myself, despite that I typically never order for myself when I take them out), we sit waiting for the check. They’re antsy, so I tell my ex-husband that it’s okay, he can take the kids and I’ll pay the bill (I’m frugal enough that I’d split the bill but he only had coffee).

I sat there, alone at a table at IHOP, surrounded by families laughing.

Shock to no one, I was bawling before I even got back to my car.

I went from a world of nonstop birthday parties, events, playdates, and barbecues to nothing. Just nothing.

My friends have their own families and lives. My relatives don’t celebrate North American traditions and they’re in another country. My family…

…I only have my family 50% of the time.

Without my kids, I don’t have a family. I don’t have a family.

I thought I would be the only one benefitting from the divorce. Turns out, I’m the one who got fucked over the worst. And I’m the idiot who chose this.

When I got home, I decided not to nap the day away in my usual slumber meth-like addiction. My garage desperately needed organization and cleaning, especially since I plan on getting back to working out. That took hours.

For lunch, I made a butternut squash soup stashed in my freezer from 2022. It was damn good.

I took on the task of putting a protective film on my windows, a purchase made back when I was married. I’ve got one window that has an alarm but if someone smashes it, they can bypass and get in. I have several security steps in my house because being a female alone is terrifying.

When cleaning my garage, I found loads of holiday lights I naively bought years ago. I don’t have the means to hang them up. After going outside to measure the distance from the only outdoor outlet in my backyard to the front of the house (and breaking my measuring tape because I’m a cheap mofo who buys $2 measuring tapes), I then bought a boatload from Amazon. A giant outdoor power cord, a timer, wall hooks, and an extension ladder that I’m praying I have the strength to carry. The scary part of climbing an extension ladder is a Future Me problem.

After that, I flopped down on the couch.

And cried.

After that, I cried some more.

Then I grabbed my laptop to write about it.

And cried.

And here we are. Present time and day. Feeling unbelievably alone.

I felt alone in my marriage but at least I had the facade of others. Now, I have neither the reality nor the facade.

…

The next day, I pick up my daughter to take her to the movies. I pull the Oscar-winning Enthusiastic Mom role by asking the kids about how awesome it was and did they eat lots of food?

“Dad made the lasagna wrong,” she says.

Joseph rolls his eyes. “You put too much onion in it!” she exclaims.

“Well, maybe Mom knows how to cut onions smaller than I do,” he replies.

I’m petty. Very petty. On the outside, I give a supportive I’m-Sure-The-Lasagna-Was-Fine spiel. On the inside, it was a Fourth of July parade. The lasagna remains rightfully mine.

In the car, I asked my usual questions about what she did, what she ate, how much fun she had, yadda yadda.

“I wish you had been there,” she moped. It’s very rare for my kids to want me anywhere (they lament that they want us back together but never my presence at a specific event).

My heart soars. I mean, I don’t want to be happy that she was mopey about it. But still…petty. I feel relief that my daughter didn’t have a blast hanging out with the Ex-Husband’s Girlfriend’s family.

I mention how a year ago I had Nutcracker tickets (even bought one for my ex-husband to join us) but she got sick beforehand and the night was a bust. My daughter says how much she wants to see it.

“Oh, I didn’t think you wanted to go, given your brother’s review from the whole twenty minutes we watched of it last year,” I tell her.

My daughter repeats again how much she wants to go. I grab my phone and start looking at tickets. I know the best cheap seats with the best view, but they’re all taken since we’re only two weeks away. Fuck that. I’m going to make this happen.

After the movie, I get on my laptop and review every available seat on my very low budget until I find a pair. I’m grateful that I can splurge the $133 cost for both Nutcracker tickets.

This is the exact reason I suffered through 3.75 jobs this month. So that I can buy $66-per-seat tickets without panicking about my budget.

Still on a high from the lasagna victory and the theater seats, I boldly scope out Redfin. I sock away as much cash as possible between these jobs so that I can buy a home closer to my kids’ future high school. Buying a home in that neighborhood is my pipe dream.

I calculate the monthly payments on a reasonably priced (well, for Calfornia) home. I punch the numbers in, excitedly thinking that between my meager savings and my home equity, maybe I can afford the life I want after all.

Nope. $8228 per month. I need my savings to go up and interest rates to go down. I also need a lamp and some Robin Williams. And I’ll forever be working three jobs.

Cue the tears. But in a flash of brief clarity, I stop myself. “Take the wins,” I tell myself.

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Today, it’s about lasagna and tickets. That’s better than most days.

Maybe it’s focusing on the daily wins rather than the giant big-picture loss that will get me through this phase of life. It’s like winning an Oscar for loads of categories except the motherload Best Picture.

Stop focusing on everything wrong and grasp for the positives. I don’t know how long I can sustain this mentality given my deep depression but if I focus on today, and only today, then things are pretty great.

…

If you’re in the mood to donate to my diet soda addiction to keep me awake as I juggle my hot mess of a life, I would be forever grateful: https://ko-fi.com/ninjagirl.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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