My Demons Scream For Nutella

I got a little too close to the core yesterday, when I wrote here on The Writing Bull. The image of the little nude boy in a tight cage did it. I know I got too close, because I went on a mini-binge. Suddenly, my body craved, not carrots or apples, but peanut butter, which might be okay—it’s got protein, it’s not a cookie—but it’s still loaded with fat.

The problem was, my wife had, for God knows what reason, gone out and bought a tub of Nutella.

If you’ve never had Nutella, don’t. It is cousin to heroin. They eat it like mad in France, and it’s on every table and kitchen cabinet in middle class Central America. This shit is just bad for you. It will steal your soul.

What does it taste like? Beyond comprehension. It’s made out of hazelnuts, and that’s good, right? Hazelnuts? We need nuts. Almonds. Walnuts. Pecans. They’ve got all the good fat in them. But, if it’s nut-based, why the fuck does it taste like chocolate mixed with lust?

And, why is it that, after you’ve had three, four, eight heaping tablespoons of the stuff, you keep digging? I’ve got friends who passed through relatively calm childhoods, and they still can’t stop shoveling it down after that first bite.

So, last night, after I wrote yesterday’s post, a post that got closer to the black hole that was my fifth year of life, Nutella and I got together and pretty much had an orgy.

It’s the need to fill yourself, I suppose. You write about events that emptied you, leaving a hole inside that won’t fill, no matter how much you try. Or, perhaps, in my case, it’s because, after the abuse ended, I started eating a lot and ended up a fairly pudgy kid. Maybe I did that because I was trying to look unappealing to the abuser. I’m not really sure.

And I’m not up to poking and prodding the binge moments. I’m pretty tired from writing these recent blog posts, and need to step back a bit. One can look into the darkness for only so long. It’s important to visit it, to confront it, to say This happened. It happened to me. That’s a shitload to deal with in itself.

After that, it’s best to pull back and start asking other questions, historical ones. Without study, the abuse becomes a timeless thing that floats forever in the mind. With study, I’ve come to a better understanding of why it happened, what were the circumstances that allowed the abuser to do what he did. For example: only recently, during conversations with Mom—who, by the way, knows everything, and who has become another great support for me—did I learn how poor we were. And poverty is the root of so many evils.

Recognize the roots of the tumult in your life, you’ve got a better chance of living a happier one. It doesn’t cure everything. But at least you’re more aware. 

I’m going to the gym now.

4 comments

Leave a Reply