I seem to have a problem with other peoples' expectations of me.

Let me explain.

It's not about the fact that people want me to do something else than what I have planned for myself. I'm fine with that, I also have no trouble with ignoring what they want and doing what I want. In fact, I'm so good at it that this is exactly what causes a problem - I tend to flat-out reject what others say, without sparing it a thought while I'm doing whatever it is that I want to do, then I start analysing. Thinking. Mulling it over. Once I've already done it, or decided, or made my opinion so well known that everyone raised an eyebrow (not necessarily because of the opinion itself, but because of the fashion in which I did it). Then I start thinking that maybe - just maybe - that other person had had a point. And that while I still want to do what I had decided, maybe I could take their opinion on board. Maybe slightly modify my course of action. I have no trouble with actually admitting it, my ego doesn't bleed when I say "you had a point, I didn't see the other side". Sometimes I just think it over and over again, without any need nor point, just because it had annoyed me, or because I'm trying to see a different aspect to the whole situation. But I do spend so much time feeling bad about maybe having hurt someone's feelings by having rejected their suggestion, or worrying about how my "no" might fold out, what consequences it might have, that it's not much of a consolation.

But this is getting twisted.

We'd decided not to tell anyone besides our parents and siblings that we're expecting a child until the end of the first trimester. I spent those twelve weeks in utter misery - belly pain, bloating, feeling sick, migraines, dizziness, crazy blood pressure, nasty mood swings, having to lie down all of the time, in a word: hell. No exaggeration. None of my clothes fit (thanks to both the bloating and rapid weight gain), I was in constant pain, and because I spent most of my time lying down I had little to talk about. Socialising was certainly on the very end of my list of priorities. When the time had come to tell everyone that there would be a mini-us in a few months, I was slap-bang in the middle of this bog. Everyone's well-wishing smashed against a wall of misery and pain, and while I tried to do my best to smile and be nice, I was always a well-meaning hug away from bursting into tears. Or ripping someone a new one.

(It wasn't only the hormones. It was the guilt I felt whenever someone would ask "But you are happy, aren't you?" and give me a searching look. I'd nod along, say "yes, yes, I wish I'd just feel a bit better", when I knew that the real answer was "no, I'm miserable and depressed and in constant pain and I have no clue what's happening to me or my life and would you please just leave me alone and stop expecting me to be delighted". I felt guilty that I wasn't happy when it was so obviously expected of me. Not because of the child - nothing to do with the child - but because I felt so rubbish that anything beyond my own little hell was of no interest to me. Including the foetus in my belly. Then again, all the pain caused me to be constantly paranoid that there was something wrong. That I'd have a miscarriage any moment. Which made me panic. Which made my belly hurt even more. That I'd been looked at my many doctors, both during routine check-ups and a couple of emergency visits in hospitals both Polish and German, and that everyone had said that there is nothing wrong with the child, and that it's either bladder or intestine pain, calmed me down only until the next painful pang. At the same time, the constant making light or my misery made me angry. Made me want to kick and punch and scream "is this all only about the baby? What am I, a walking incubator?" The way people would wave their hand and go "Oh, don't worry, it'll pass, what's important is that the baby is okay", while I spent days and nights twisted in pain. Fuck your pain. Basically.)

I was not prepared for the onslaught of good advice and attempts to organise my life for me which occurred the moment we went public. I was not ready for the moralising and the patronising tones and every "yeah yeah, you'll see I'm right". This was not helped by the fact that we'd decided not to make any decisions regarding the future until week twelve was behind us. This meant that besides me having to take a year's medical leave from uni (because I could barely sit up, let alone complete my semester, which would require me to sit, walk, carry, spend a lot of time with paint and chemicals, stare at my computer screen for hours on end and all the other things an MA programme at an art academy requires of you) , we'd not even decided which country we were going to stay in. So, when the logical questions of "so what now?" were asked, we could only shrug and say "no idea, we've yet to work it out". Which, perhaps foreseeably, invited even more "good advice". While - you saw it coming - pissed me off. A lot.

"No matter what you do, do not name her Ewa," said Kuba. (Thanks, but your opinion will never be taken under consideration, said I.)

"Well, you'll be staying in Poland anyway, I cannot imagine you'd want to raise a child in Germany," he'd added. (Start working on your imagination, I'd replied.)

"Of course you'll be giving birth in Poland, after all, the child HAS to have it's father's proper surname, Polish letters and all," said Michał's grandfather. (I'd rather it has it's mother's surname, said I.)

"You want the changer in the bathroom? You'll end up moving it into your bedroom anyway, you'll see," said Dominik. (Saying "we have no room in the bedroom for a changer and don't want to sleep in poop-smells anyway" four times had somehow gone ignored.)

"I won't even bother showing you all the baby clothes I have, you'll want them all anyway," Michał's mother had thrown out. (I'd just shut my mouth. She'd be the one transporting them from Poland to Germany anyway, so why start.)

"So, are you getting married now, or after the baby arrives?" had been a favourite amongst family and friends. ("No plans at all yet" had to be quickly followed by changing the subject, or else questions of "But why?!" would emerge.)

"You'll have trouble feeding the baby naturally at first, I can guarantee you that," Asia had said. (I'd stayed quiet at this one, as well. Couldn't be bothered with pointing out that she'd had a C-section, which can often affect lactation at first.)

"You don't want Michał next to you for the birth? That's not a good decision. You'll change your mind, you'll see," Paulina had waved her hand. (This during the same conversation that I'd described before. Luckily I was long past caring by then.)

Every time I heard something like this, regardless of whether I'd replied or not, of whether it was stupid or not, whether I was sure of my decision or not, I'd start thinking. Are they right? Am I right? How can I tell? What are the possibilities? (Queue: film reel of all the possibilities my tired mind can squeeze out.) What do I do? Do I change my mind? Was I nice? Did I come across as stuck-up? Stubborn? What if this comes back to bite me? What if I never hear the end of it? How will I have to adjust my future actions?

It's bad enough when the questions take up my mind during the day. I can be cleaning, or cooking, or drawing, or reading, and something will pop into my head and refuse to leave. But when they arrive at night... Up until very recently I had worried myself awake, which had been an improvement over crying myself into a state of distress (and Michał into a state of confusion). Now I just lie awake and feel the thoughts float around my head. Both they and I know there will be no answers - they either don't exist or make no difference. They still tire me, but with each night I feel myself becoming more and more detached, which gives me hope that one day, I will be able to completely ignore them.