it is valuable to know that you will not die just from misery. Been there, done that. Been in so much pain that I was certain to my core that my heart would just stop. It was impossible to endure. Each heartbeat, each breath was agony so deep that I couldn’t see even with my eyes open. But I didn’t die. I wanted to die just to be free of the pain, but insisted that if I was to die, it would not be by my own hand, but rather that I would simply cease to live because it was truly too difficult for my being to continue. It was too hard, it WAS. I knew I would die, on the next heartbeat.
But I continued.
Night ended.
Misery continued, but I didn’t die. Something like hope rose from the ashes. It didn’t take the pain away, though.
Day ended.
Misery continued.
But I was still alive. And finally, being alive meant something. It meant I had gone so far down, my feet touched bottom. I had something to stand on, then, that I hadn’t on the way down. All it was was the mere fact of my survival, that my heart, mind, body, and soul had withstood the pain. That was it.
But it was enough.
{When you are} in that dark night, you can only move one heartbeat at a time. There is no light visible to move toward, but you move, eventually, when sitting is just more misery than moving. And once you move, things happen. Sometimes they’re bad, sometimes they’re good, but you find that you survive the bad ones, too. And you start to cope. You start to think. You start to feel again, things that aren’t all misery. You understand in a way not possible before that bad isn’t forever. The thinnest spiderweb of hope is more than enough - once you pass through that dark night. Until you go through, though, you will neither be able to see it nor grasp it as a lifeline.
The process of recovery from any disaster is a labyrinth. You go in, not sure of your path, just moving. Turn, walk, turn, no closer to the goal. Instead, you are farther away. Turn, walk, turn, walk, and now you are facing back the way you came. 
Turn, walk, turn, walk, and now you seem right at the goal, you can see it, feel it, smell it, taste it… and turn, walk, turn, walk, and you are as far away as you’ve been before. Things seem useless, pointless, there is no reason to go on. But it is either stay still, go forward, or go back. So you take another step. Then, turn, walk, turn, walk, and you step into the middle, there, safe, centered, done.
You rest, then realize that resting isn’t all there is, either. To re-enter your life, you must go back the way you came. You walk, turn, walk, turn. In, out, sometimes crossing paths with others along the way, unsure if they are ahead of you, or behind. You find someone beside you, pacing you, and you walk in companionship for a while, until the paths before you turn again, and you part, unsure if you are ahead, behind, or even going the same direction as that other. Eventually, the doorway opens, and you can step free, healed, back into your life. When you do, it is a threshold in a true sense - the transition is a powerful one.
You can walk in darkness, alone. Or you can turn on a light so you can at least see the path just ahead of you. Therapy is one kind of light, and might be worth it - neurologically speaking, having a human in front of you respond appropriately to your pain reduces the trauma response of the situations you are discussing - there’s really a neurological reason that ‘talking therapy’ works. Meds are another option - just because you have a GOOD REASON (or rather, a whole life’s-worth of reasons) to be depressed doesn’t mean you can’t use a phamaceutical boost. There are many options, but walking in darkness isn’t necessary. You can turn on a light. Won’t get you out of the labyrinth, but will help you see a bit where you are going.
The only error I know of is to stop and refuse to go on. If you stop in the labyrinth, indeed, you will not get out. But it isn’t a maze, there are no dead ends, no trap doors, no blind alleys. There is only one path, and it does take you all the way in, and all the way out. But it only works if you keep moving. Even if sometimes it is all you can do to crawl. And yes, it is okay to stop now and then, but you still have to pick up and move again sooner or later.
…
I had a life that kept hitting me every time I even MOVED to get up. Or even thought about it. BOOM, down again. Harder. Until I could barely breathe for the pain. {That’s what happens when that box flies open, and you can’t grab everything to stuff it back…}
But I kept on moving. And I kept on trying to get back up when I got taken down yet again. Sometimes it was a friend who said something that kept me going. Sometimes an online peer counselor or someone who had been-there-done-that. Sometimes it was a self-help book, other times it was a therapist, other times it was just glancing up and absorbing the stunning beauty of a thunderhead blowing across the sky. Didn’t matter, just kept moving, even one step. And eventually, I was into the center. Then I rested. And I moved on again, frustrated at times, feeling like I’d gone over it all before, not sure if I was really headed out, not until I stepped free of the process one day.
When I stepped clear, I wept for days, literally. Out of sheer joy. I’d never have experienced that if I hadn’t also spent an eternal night listening to my heart beat, knowing that with the next beat, I would surely die from the pain.
Again good luck!!!
I also second the ever wise hedra’s question regarding how you ended up with two little ones without having “dry spells.” My own frequency is pretty low lately (being in first trimester nausea hell and all that) but there is plenty of intimacy in my marriage.