baked

Last night I baked a banana bread. Big deal, right? Actually, it kinda is. I haven't baked in a while. Truth be told, I have hardly touched the oven or the stove top for quite some time. We have been surviving on easy peasy grilled cheesey, pasta and drive-thru. I have not been myself lately and as I am starting to come around, I am appreciating the little milestones that make me, well, me. I adore baking - the smells, the way the mascara melts to my eyelashes when I open the oven door, the complaints from the children when they realize that the baked goods are not filled with chocolate chips, but instead with healthful mashed bananas. But, sadly, the thoughts of putting together a birthday cake sent me into a tailspin. I was annoyed, confused, sleeping and weeping. I was horribly, clinically, painfully depressed - again. This time, though, was different. I was not in college where no one noticed if I slept for 3 days and didn't eat for 4. No one begged me for chocolate milk and waffles at 6A or needed help on the potty. No one seemed to notice. Not really even me. But this time, I felt paralyzed and pissed. How could this happen AGAIN? How could I be in this dismal pit? This insidious sickness kicked me down, stole my sense of humor (I knew it was bad when watching Tommy Boy didn't make me pee a little), robbed me of my patience for my beloved children, forced my eyelids closed before 8P and let me leave the house in wrinkled, mismatched clothes (ok, pjs). I noticed my kids were unhappy and my husband was unhappy, my dog was spinning in circles. I couldn't get out of my own way and I was miserable. People commented on how tired I looked, neighbors (and some strangers) offered me Zanax, but I still couldn't see that I was in trouble. I despised going to school pick-up because I was anxious that people could see that I had been crying for the past 5 hours and then I cried at pick-up and didn't care if anyone noticed. If it were not for the kids, I thought, I would totally run away. Far away. And then, one day, I got furious. I refuse to let this be my life. My children deserve so much more than a mum that is a shut-in recluse. They deserve their mum - flawed in many ways, but full of life and love and creative punishments. We needed "me" back. And so, as impossible as it felt, I called someone to talk with and then I took some little pills and guess what? I started to feel better. A lot better. And each day is getting better. (personal disclaimer: I do not advocate for or against little pills, but it seems to work for me.) And, hey, looky here, another small step - a new blog post!