I can’t do this depressive shit

I Can’t Do This Depressive Shit

Written by Tracey Cooper
Posted in: Life

Every day, for twelve weeks, I’ve been going over everything in my head.

How I never felt enough.
Not when I cooked.
Not when I cleaned up after everyone.
Not when I played mediator between him and his kids.
Not even when I helped him follow conversations at gatherings—because of his hearing loss.

The more I did, the more he expected.
Yes, he was a vulnerable adult. And yes, I knew about his condition when I took him on.
But I didn’t really understand it until now.

I’ve just launched a Facebook group called Surviving Mania, Reclaiming Me because I cannot believe how many people suffer in silence—trapped by the fallout of this illness. Not just the person with the condition, but the partners too. The depression. The mania. The emotional withdrawal. The constant feeling that you don’t matter unless you’re doing something for them.

I spent hours—days—keeping him company, cooking for him, driving him around, shopping.
But when it was time for me to go home? He didn’t want me to.
I could be there all day… and he’d still beg me to stay.
Even though I had kids to feed. Pets to look after. A home of my own to run.

I asked him, “Please don’t make me feel bad for leaving.”
He said, “I can’t help it. I like your company.”

And I liked his too. But the guilt trip was constant.
That was the start of the suffocation.

I wanted to take care of him.
But eventually, I was just running on fumes.
Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. Done.

He struggled to support his own grown boys, both of whom are on the spectrum.
He’d say, “They should fend for themselves.”
I didn’t agree. And the resentment grew.
In them.
In me.

Looking back, I know I gave my all.
I stopped going over there. I asked for space.
Because my mental health was nose-diving.

In the end, I had to get out.

I was the mental health nurse. The caretaker. The bookkeeper. The cleaner.
The maid. The secretary.
And I still had a house of my own to run.

I was the fixer.
Just like I was for my mother.

Making her happy was my job as a child.
Managing her moods. Navigating her storms.
Fixing her relationships. Paying her bills. Sorting her debts.
And in the end, she carried on like none of it mattered.

I am done being the fixer.

The only people I will pour into now…
Are my children. And me.

I’m so tired.
This life has been one long act of service to every man who walked through it.

I owe it to myself now—to only myself—
To be happy.
To reclaim joy.
To live whatever years I have left on my terms.

Yes, I still feel guilty for walking away.
But saving yourself is not selfish.
It’s essential.

And I’m going to do just that.

MissT x

This post is a personal reflection based on the author’s lived experience. It is not intended to diagnose, defame, or harm any individual.