Tire swinging would not be complete without its dark moments. Except the monkey isn't swinging because she's fallen off and landed in a pit.
I once cried so hard that I made myself nauseous and almost didn't make it to the bathroom to throw up. I've also huddled up in a fetal position next to my coffee table because I had no energy to pull myself up to the sofa. I've cried in my kitchen, in my bedroom corner, in my sister and mother's arms.
With all of the side effects and everything else, depression happens. And life keeps going on. And that gets depressing because what the hell do you do when your finances spiral down the toilet, but you're too exhausted to work, and as grateful you are that your family is helping, you also mourn the lost aspects of your autonomy, and some days no matter how much you wish everything would just go away and life would be a bucket of rainbows you know that's just not possible. At least not right now. Not for a while.
When I was in the ER back in May, my nurse shared her mom's philosophy with me (her mom was a cancer survivor):
It's okay to cry. You have to cry. Having a pity party once in a while does not mean you are weak. It means you are recharging. It means release. Getting stuck in pity mode for too long is not good; the party has to end sometime. However, neither is it good to pretend to be happy 100% of the time.
The darkness is temporary. It always passes.