SEASONAL DEPRESSION HAS ARRIVED EARLY

I used to think seasonal depression started when the leaves changed colors, the sun disappeared at 4:30 PM, and Dunkin started selling pumpkin-flavored diabetes. Turns out, it starts when your fantasy football team is 8th place, has the most points against in the league, three of your sleeper picks are on IR, and Preston is in first place. Apparently, the DSM-5 forgot to include those symptoms. Welcome, gentlemen, to Monday Morning Tears: The Fantasy Football Depression Chronicles I didn't ask for this. I didn't sign up for this… And frankly, I don't think I've done anything in this life to deserve this. Yet every Sunday, I wake up, make my coffee, open Sleeper, and willingly subject myself to psychological torture. THE SYMPTOMS Let's start with the obvious. 8th place. Not 9th. Not 10th. No, I'm sitting comfortably in that special middle ground where you're too far out of contention to feel good about yourself, but close enough to the middle that you can convince yourself that "one good week" will turn everything around. This is fantasy football purgatory. I have the most points against in the entire league (388.62). Every opponent looks at my matchup and apparently decides this is their Super Bowl. Guys who haven't sniffed the upper half of the league in years suddenly discover the concept of touchdowns. Bijan is apparently Barry Sanders. Isaiah Likely is prime Gronk. Josh Allen is a god. I don't have opponents… I have the weekly benefactors of divine intervention. THE INJURY WARD And then there's my roster. Dallas Goedert Alec Pierce De’Zhaun Stribling At this point, my roster is an IR designation. I open my fantasy team and it looks like the waiting room at an orthopedic surgeon's office. CMC is standing outside the parking lot just waiting his turn. Garrett Wilson is probably somewhere nearby asking if there's a specialist he can see. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here staring at the waiver wire like a schizo talking to a clock because I think its a radio transmitter to planet K2-18 b "Who's available?" Malik Washinton… "Next." "Some guy I've never heard of." "Next." "Your aunt's neighbor's kid’s friend who has transverse myelitis." "CLAIM!" At this point, if someone has a pulse and a projected points total above 4.2, I'm considering dropping half my roster for them. Hell they don’t even need a pulse. I’m looking at you Damar Hamlin. THE SEASONAL DEPRESSION INDEX Scientists have spent decades studying seasonal depression. They've identified shorter days. Less sunlight. Cold weather. Isolation. But I have discovered a sixth cause: Checking your fantasy matchup at 11:00 PM on Thursday and realizing your opponent has already scored 88 points. Oh look… another Bijan Robinson touchdown. Yaaay. There is no medication for this. There is no therapy. There is not enough weed in these damn seltzers! There is only RedZone and the faint possibility that a garbage-time touchdown can save my marriage. I've started doing things I never thought I'd do. Going outside. Getting sunlight. Talking to my wife. Considering hobbies that don't involve fantasy football (Am I okay?). This isn't a hobby anymore. This is a hostage situation. THE MOST POINTS AGAINST AWARD I would like to formally congratulate the entire league on the tremendous offensive production you've generated against me. You guys are crushing it. Career days. Breakout performances. Monster weeks. Historic statistical achievements. All apparently funded by my misery. I should honestly start charging admission. If you're playing me this week, congratulations. Your players are about to have the best game of their lives. Some running back you've never heard of is about to rush for 147 yards and three touchdowns. Your WR3 is about to catch 11 passes. Your quarterback is about to throw for 400 yards and run for 4 touchdowns. And I'll be sitting there with Alec Pierce watching from the sideline but with 156 million less dollars. THE ROAD BACK But here's the thing. I'm still only in 8th. Which means this season isn't dead. It's just currently being kept alive by machines. The playoff picture is still there. CMC could get more that 54% snap share. Pierce could rehab and come back as Jerry Rice. Hampton could stop fumbling and steal Herbert's Beer. And perhaps, just perhaps, the fantasy gods will eventually get bored of kicking me directly in the testicles. Until then, I'll continue doing what any rational fantasy manager would do: Call Anthony a bitch. Refresh Sleeper 47 times per day. Roast Ryan for the hell of it. Start the wrong guy. Piss in Steve’s oven. Bench the right guy. Beg Dylan for more IR spots. Lose by 2 points. And then convince myself next week will be different. Because that's what fantasy football is. It's pain. It's pain. It's irrational optimism. It’s pain. If anyone needs me, I'll be at the dispensary. Godspeed, gentlemen.