Peanut Butter and I have a pretty strange relationship. It started when my father started dating Karen. She was convinced that the glutinous globs were poisonous, and removed it from the kitchen. Until that moment, I had taken this nutty goodness for granted. After all, what person doesn’t indulge in the creamy comfort? From the yuppie who buys it at 10 bucks a pound to the homeless man with a jar of Skippy, every American has a place in their shelf (and heart) for peanut butter. Personally, I think it should be in the Constitution.*
Only when it was removed from my life did I realize the power of its sticky grip. My best friend at the time’s mom Kathy, (Remember this is middle school we’re talking about here; friends shifted as often as the hormones.) who- pity the soul- was allergic wakes some nights with spoon and empty jar on her bed, with no recollection of how it got there. Peanut butter kept the kids at school whose parents neglected to give them lunch money from being hungry. Cafeteria ladies allotted them a PB and B sandwich, which was more appealing than school food any day. One girl actually asked her devoted mother to stop making her lunches so she could have it instead.
My step-mother eventually left my life, but I still wasn’t in charge of the food decisions. Anorexia crept in, and proved to be a stricter food regulator. The thought of a hundred calories a tablespoon was appalling, and I couldn’t remember what anything other than certain fruits and vegetables tasted like anyway, so I didn’t miss it.
Then the hospital came. Or rather, I came to the hospital. Three-hundred calories a day just wasn’t enough apparently. (This would be obvious to most, but at the time it was a shocker.) Weight gain was clearly in order, so you’d think the doctors would be shoving peanut butter down my throat, right? WRONG. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again; karma is a bitch. If a body becomes severely deprived of nutrition, it slows down to conserve to energy, and hoards every precious calorie it can get. At this point, food can only be reintroduced safely at a gradual increase per day. It’s a difficult balance to figure out, and peanut butter is some seriously sticky stuff. Again I was denied the God-given right to peanut butter! I’d watch lamentably as the other patients ate it with apathy, unthankful for their freedom.
Two months pass, and then I get released from the institution. If only that meant I was released from the disorder. Somehow, I managed to loose ten pounds in one week, and I got scared as fuck. One thought only comes to my mind... I need to gain weight. My dad bought a five pound jar of Peter Pan peanut butter, and I consumed every morsel in sixty hours. It was my savior, my salvation, and I worshiped it devoutly. I even wrote a poem dedicated to the goo. Peanut butter was so much more than just a condiment. It was my lifeline, what kept my heart beating, and was constantly on my mind. I gained back the ten pounds, and felt a little regret. No longer could I drown my troubles with a spoon. I had to learn how to face them myself.
I’ve been working on that for about a year now, and things are going well. I have demons to deal with, and still use peanut butter to help me from time to time, but I don’t depend on it. Nor do I fear it. I’m able to wield its power responsibly, and occasionally allow it to consume me.
*Those who are allergic get their choice of tahini or soy butter, and a trip to Jamaica to compensate for their misfortune.
Only when it was removed from my life did I realize the power of its sticky grip. My best friend at the time’s mom Kathy, (Remember this is middle school we’re talking about here; friends shifted as often as the hormones.) who- pity the soul- was allergic wakes some nights with spoon and empty jar on her bed, with no recollection of how it got there. Peanut butter kept the kids at school whose parents neglected to give them lunch money from being hungry. Cafeteria ladies allotted them a PB and B sandwich, which was more appealing than school food any day. One girl actually asked her devoted mother to stop making her lunches so she could have it instead.
My step-mother eventually left my life, but I still wasn’t in charge of the food decisions. Anorexia crept in, and proved to be a stricter food regulator. The thought of a hundred calories a tablespoon was appalling, and I couldn’t remember what anything other than certain fruits and vegetables tasted like anyway, so I didn’t miss it.
Then the hospital came. Or rather, I came to the hospital. Three-hundred calories a day just wasn’t enough apparently. (This would be obvious to most, but at the time it was a shocker.) Weight gain was clearly in order, so you’d think the doctors would be shoving peanut butter down my throat, right? WRONG. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again; karma is a bitch. If a body becomes severely deprived of nutrition, it slows down to conserve to energy, and hoards every precious calorie it can get. At this point, food can only be reintroduced safely at a gradual increase per day. It’s a difficult balance to figure out, and peanut butter is some seriously sticky stuff. Again I was denied the God-given right to peanut butter! I’d watch lamentably as the other patients ate it with apathy, unthankful for their freedom.
Two months pass, and then I get released from the institution. If only that meant I was released from the disorder. Somehow, I managed to loose ten pounds in one week, and I got scared as fuck. One thought only comes to my mind... I need to gain weight. My dad bought a five pound jar of Peter Pan peanut butter, and I consumed every morsel in sixty hours. It was my savior, my salvation, and I worshiped it devoutly. I even wrote a poem dedicated to the goo. Peanut butter was so much more than just a condiment. It was my lifeline, what kept my heart beating, and was constantly on my mind. I gained back the ten pounds, and felt a little regret. No longer could I drown my troubles with a spoon. I had to learn how to face them myself.
I’ve been working on that for about a year now, and things are going well. I have demons to deal with, and still use peanut butter to help me from time to time, but I don’t depend on it. Nor do I fear it. I’m able to wield its power responsibly, and occasionally allow it to consume me.
*Those who are allergic get their choice of tahini or soy butter, and a trip to Jamaica to compensate for their misfortune.
No comments:
Post a Comment