Generally, you can tell I am avoiding something when I am
baking simply for the sake of baking. Sounds silly I know. But Let me explain.
Baking bread weekly (because I like sandwiches and having toast for breakfast),
whipping up cakes for birthdays, or making soft pretzels for the holidays, or I
want homemade tortilla chips to go with my homemade salsa, or fresh naan bread
to go with curry night- those are all normal reasons to be turning up the oven
and rolling my hands in dough. It’s the days when out of the blue I am making
big complicated recipes like cinnamon rolls, or starting three different types
of cookies in the middle of the day that people should be addressing me with “Put
down the spoon, and tell me what’s wrong.”
Honestly, I didn’t know that baking was my warning bell, air
raid sirens blaring, red flag waving tell that I was avoiding something until
my very first semester of college. Every time there was an exam I didn’t feel
ready for, a deadline for a paper, or simply just a lot of homework all due at
the same time- you’d find me baking banana bars with cinnamon cream cheese
frosting, cinnamon rolls, or snickerdoodles (I have a thing for cinnamon). After
I realized that I used up all of my studying time to take goodies to all of the
neighbors that I liked in the dorm, it hit me that as nice as I was being to
others I was avoiding studying.
For the past two weeks, all I’ve wanted to do is bake. Not
just bread, not just the occasional brownie because I’m craving it. I mean I’m
scouring pinterest for specialty dessert breads, scones, cookies, muffins,
cupcakes, pies, cakes- if it goes in the oven it is now on my baking board.
“But Daria,” you are probably asking, “you’re not in school
right now, what could you possibly be avoiding?”
Vague and evasive me would first say “the inevitable.” But
honest and blunt me will just say “motherhood.”
Now I know that there are plenty of questions that arise
with “How can you avoid being a mother? You talk about your toddler and your
pregnancy all the time.”
Well, I’ve wanted to write up a piece about the struggles of
having depression while pregnant, but every time I started my thoughts weren’t
cohesive enough to be anything worth reading. But today I feel a balance with
my emotional rational and my logical rational that I think I can put my
thoughts into place.
The beginning is when I wanted to end. For the second time I
had just gotten out of the Behavioral Health Unit- or as I lovingly call it,
the loony bin. I had learned a lot of coping mechanisms and received med
changes so that I could step back into my life without wanting to run away from
it. I didn’t care that I had missed Christmas with my family. I was just happy
to be holding onto my husband and I was filled with hope and determination to
face my post-partum depression, social anxiety, and premenstrual dysphoric
disorder head on. Instead of getting the opportunity to see myself overcome the
monthly mental challenges, I instead got the wonderful news that I was pregnant
for the second time.
Calling your mental health doctor who you talked to only a
couple weeks ago about putting off having kids and informing him that you’re
pregnant is not pleasant. Nor is the excited congratulations from his
secretary. That week, when I was informing people who needed to know that I was
on medications and figuring out what was safe for me and the tiny little fetus
that decided to take up residence, I wanted to scream at people “this is not
something to be happy about! What is wrong with you people?”
Pregnancy, for me, sucks. I hate it. It is my literal Hell.
Now true, on average, I haven’t been nearly as aggressive or snide, but I’ve
also had more low periods that are hard to get out of. But the dread of another
bout of months of sleepless nights, trying to take care of a tiny dictator who
will never say thank you (not that my toddler, who can speak, says thank you
either) on top of caring for my other tiny dictator and myself- well wouldn’t
any sane person want to avoid that? Wouldn’t any sane person want to avoid
feeling like a slave to two unforgiving, unrelenting, selfish tyrants? But
apparently I’m the crazy one and I should be excited for having two “miracles”
in my life.
Now I admit, growing up I wanted kids. But I never wanted to
be a stay at home mom. I need social interactions. I need to feel like I am
contributing to society and making the world a better place. That’s why I want to teach. Depression and
feeling like I can barely take care of myself, let alone keep two tiny humans
alive, doesn’t exactly make me feel like I am accomplishing much of anything.
That’s why I’m jealous my husband gets to go to work and do
something that has absolutely nothing to do with repeating “We don’t throw hard
things,” or “I will give you more once you’ve finished what’s on your tray” all
day long. That’s why I’m jealous that even though we’re both parents- he’s the
one with the degree. He has all the doors open to him- grad school, job
opportunities, etc. While I feel chained to a job I didn’t want, but can’t
leave.
To put it simply, to me, everyone is a demigod on their
heroic epic journey filled with monsters and triumphs- and I am the cursed
titan Sisyphus who gets to roll a giant rock up the hill, only for it to fall
back to the base again for all eternity.
Right now, I’m miserable enough with this pregnancy but I’m
not looking forward to having a newborn, so my first instinct is to just avoid
thinking about it at all and thus bake until all the flour and sugar is gone. But
baking doesn’t remove the baby from my uterus, or whisk away the monotony of
caring for a toddler. Baking, though satisfying, sadly, does not do anything
more than having something for me to snack on while I sit here and panic and
desperately wish to run away and start life somewhere else. A life where I can
be free, without kids and without the expectations to just “suck it up” and
face the consequences of being a female with efficient reproductive organs.
I’ve been living with the guilt of not having better birth
control since I took the pregnancy test. I live with the guilt of bringing my
first tiny human into the world only for me and him to be burden because my
mind decided that it doesn’t know how to cope anymore. I am ashamed that I don’t
have the energy or the will to be the kind of mom I wanted to be and instead am
a mom who does the bare minimum because that’s all I can do.
But sadly, I can’t run away. One, I’d stick out because I am
still unabashedly pregnant. And two, I know that leaving isn’t the answer, no
matter what my emotional logic says. As a wise baboon once said, “yes the past
can hurt. But you can either run from it, or learn from it.” I will be
completely honest and tell you I have no idea what good I’ve learned from two
miserable pregnancies and facing the realities of depression. My first thoughts
are all along the lines of “Don’t have kids, ever”, “set aside money for a
really great nanny if the first lesson didn’t stick”, and “be prepared for
isolation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.”
I don’t really have a positive note to end on, mostly
because I don’t know how this chapter in my story ends. I don’t know if having
a baby will switch my hormones and what's wrong will be fixed. I don’t know if
I’ll sink lower and have another stay in the loony bin. I don’t know if I’ll
find joy or if all of my fears will come true. Whatever happens, I’m still
doing my best to avoid it because I still can’t shake this gut instinct to bake
every single recipe on my Pinterest board. I guess the one positive is that baking isn't usually a cause of concern for those with mental health issues.
