Friday, February 10th

171.)

"I've been thinking about what you asked," I said, playing with one of Stephanie's fidget toys. Last session we had - two weeks ago - she asked me to consider the differences between baking now and baking when I started, when I was younger.

"Yeah?" Stephanie leaned back a little in her chair. That was a "you have the floor" kind of move.

"So, I asked my mom about it," I said. "It started when I was anxious in middle school, and I couldn't sleep. My mom would get up with me and we'd make cookies."

"Mmhmm."

"But we only made one batch," I went on. "Then we would drink tea and I'd usually fall asleep before they were out of the oven."

"Do you know what kind of tea?"

"Uh, no? I could ask, I guess. Does it matter?"

"Not really," Stephanie shrugged. "I was just curious."

"Yeah, well. Obviously I don't drink tea now. And I don't fall asleep either."

"You also don't take a break," Stephanie said, recalling all of my baking stories in the past. "It sounds like, when you and your mom would bake, you had a rest period when your body was allowed to get tired."

"I don't even know how to stop," I admitted. "Once I get started, I'm just... going. And then it's morning."

"So what's different?" Stephanie asked. "You used to stop. Now you don't."

"My mom was with me?" I guessed. "She probably made me stop."

"You think so?"

"Well, I don't know. Why else would I stop?"

"Because you didn't have a next step," Stephanie answered simply. "You put the cookies in the oven. The next step was waiting."

"I guess so..." That dead time felt wrong. It felt like I was supposed to be doing something. Maybe that was why I started making more batches?

"If you were to make only one batch of cookies nowadays, do you think you could stop?" Stephanie asked.

"I doubt it..."

"Why not?"

"I honestly don't even notice it," I said. "It's like, autopilot. The next step after putting the cookies in the oven is to start the next batch. It's time efficient."

"Well, if you're measuring efficiency, you have to consider what your goal is. Are you trying to make a lot of cookies, or trying to get to sleep?"

"Sleep, I guess?" I said.

"Then making more cookies is not more efficient," Stephanie said simply.

She was right. But that didn't mean I knew how to stop. I sulked into her sofa. Her whole office was lit with low lamps, crowding out the growing darkness. It got dark so early in the winter.

"When you were younger, how much attention did you pay to the cooking process?" Stephanie asked.

"I don't remember," I said. "But my mom told me I had to be really careful when measuring the ingredients, so I probably paid more attention."

"And nowadays?"

"Nowadays, I know most of the measurements by heart. It's like second nature."

"Hm." Stephanie pursed her lips a little. Thinking. "So when you were a kid, the process was a lot more involved, so you had to be cautious. And then, when the cookies were in the oven, you relaxed and waited. But these days, it feels automatic, you don't have to pay any attention to what you're doing, and you just keep making more batches."

She did that sometimes: summarized things, so I could double check them.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," I said.

"What about when you bake something really complicated? Do you pay attention to it?"

"Uh... yes?" Like that croquembouche I made a few months ago. That was complicated. But thinking back, it still wasn't very focused. I talked to my mom about something, but I could barely remember it. "Or, maybe not..."

"No?" Stephanie asked.

"I guess not. I thought I did, but it feels like autopilot, even with new stuff."

"I think you're probably dissociating," Stephanie said.

"Like, an out of body experience kind of thing?" I asked.

"Sort of. Dissociation is a pretty normal thing we do, where we separate our consciousness from our actions. Like driving. You get to where you want to go, but do you remember every turn?"

"Not really."

"What about when you're really invested in a book you're reading, and then you come back to the real world. Does that feel strange?"

"Yeah, like I forgot where I was. That's dissociation?"

"Yep," Stephanie said. "And usually it's not a big deal. It's a way to explore your imagination, or to disconnect from mundane tasks. Sometimes it's just so you can turn off for a while."

"And you think baking is a mundane task for me?" I asked, catching on quickly.

"I do," Stephanie said. "Just like driving - you're very good at it. It's second nature. When you can't sleep or you get too stressed out, you know that baking will let you escape into this dissociative state."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because there's no stress. No anxiety. It's like a distraction, turned up to eleven. That's why you have trouble stopping; because you aren't aware of what's happening until something gets in your way. Either Blossom literally stepping in, or your body becoming too exhausted to continue."

"So... this is a bad thing?" I asked. I never really thought my baking was a healthy strategy, but it was always better than the alternatives. Better than panic attacks. Better than walking out into the ocean in the middle of the night.

"No, actually," Stephanie said. "Distraction is a very ordinary coping tool. It's great for getting in the way of thought spirals and feelings of anxiety. But like any good coping tool, excess can be dangerous. Baking until your fingers are hurt or until you pass out isn't healthy for you."

"I know that," I said sourly. "But I literally can't stop."

"I know," Stephanie said gently. "I believe that feeling of not being able to stop is not the distraction, but the dissociation."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I sighed. I couldn't keep up with her.

"Let me try again," Stephanie said, and took a deep breath. "Baking used to be a distraction for you. It kept your mind focused. But you've become very good at baking, and it's become too easy to keep your mind on. So your mind turns off. And when that dissociation happens, it interferes with your ability to stop or to feel when your body is at its limits."

"So, I need a harder task?" I asked. "Like, woodworking or something?"

"On the contrary, coping strategies like yours are hard habits to replace. Your mind knows what works, and I think we should work with that foundation."

"So I keep baking...?"

"You keep baking," Stephanie said. "But rather than dissociate, let's try using it as a distraction, like you used to."

"I don't know how," I admitted.

"That's okay, I'm going to help."

Stephanie spent the rest of the hour teaching me about mindfulness, which is like anti-dissociation. It's about staying in the moment and paying attention to the things going on around me, or the things I'm feeling in my body. But it has to be the present moment; not the past, not the future. It also has to be without judgment; that is, nothing I think can be "good" or "bad". That seemed like the hardest part.

"So if I'm doing something bad, like... hitting Blossom," I said, choosing something hyperbolic, something I probably would never do in the first place. At least not without consent. "That's not a bad thing?"

"Nope," Stephanie said simply. "You're just doing the action of hitting Blossom. And if you were to help an old lady across the street, you aren't doing a good thing either. You're just helping an old lady across the street."

"This reminds me of an assignment in elementary school, when we were told to write out the instructions on how you make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Then we were supposed to follow the instructions very literally, and everyone made a big mess."

"Actually, that's a great example," Stephanie said, and I got the feeling she was going to use it with another client in the future.

"When we are comfortable with the routine," Stephanie explained, "we don't pay attention to a lot of it. We don't think about getting the knife out of the drawer or untwisting the bread tie. We just spread some jelly or get some bread."

"And you want me to pay attention to the bread tie and the getting the knife from the drawer," I said, less as a question and more to clarify her point.

"Yep."

"So I'm just supposed to narrate my actions, but like... internally. With no value judgments."

"Yep," Stephanie said again.

"That's bad writing," I thought aloud. "It would make for a really boring story."

"Going to sleep on time is a lot less interesting than having a panic attack, from a reader's perspective," Stephanie agreed. "But from the character's perspective, I bet she'd just want to go to sleep."

"Good point." Conflict was a driving narrative force. To make a story interesting, the writer has to be mean to the character, at least a little bit. But I didn't really want my story to be interesting; I wanted to be happy. Right? If I was going to take on the role of the writer, I had to find ways to be nice to myself.

"One more thing though, because we're out of time," Stephanie said. She did that a lot: we're out of time, but here's something else. Then she said:

"You're going to screw this up. You're not going to be good at it right away. Habits are hard to change, and that's not your fault. But if you acknowledge your slip-ups and you work to do better, I promise it will become easier and easier. By next week, I only want you to try. Not succeed. Please remember that, when you feel discouraged. Okay?"

I nodded.

"Okay."