The Medicine That I Need

I could see the sparkle of dust motes moving through the air. I didn’t know what they were, but they seemed magical.

This is how it started. This is what I believe. Memory can be unreliable, but memory can also be a starting point. Even if my memory isn’t accurate, it’s provided me with clues to understanding what happened that I believe contribute to the way I am.

This is the story I’ve told myself for years. I do think it’s true. The memory is so strong, I can still feel it in my body.

I woke up in my playpen. I was 3, maybe 4­­-years old.  Still sleepy from my nap, I yawned and stretched. The living room was dimly lit, the afternoon sun slanting in through the partly open, off-white venetian blinds. I could see the sparkle of dust motes moving through the air. I didn’t know what they were, but they seemed magical. Pulling myself up to stand, holding on to the railing of the playpen, I looked for my mom. She wasn’t there. Someone else was standing to the side of the playpen, towering over me. I heard a sound, like metal jingling, looked up a little, and saw a gold charm bracelet, hanging from a wrist. Her wrist. It was Nanny, my grandmother, so big, so tall, with her steel gray hair. The smell of her flowery perfume was overwhelming.

My heart began to pound, I couldn’t catch my breath. Where was Mommy? Where was she? She was here before I went to sleep. Why did she leave me? I was frightened, confused. I could feel the burn of tears forming, and I fought to hold them back.

Nanny leaned over, reached down for me, and extended her arms to lift me up. I pulled back, away from her, moving to the furthest corner of the playpen.

“My shayne maidele!” she boomed. “My pretty little girl” in Yiddish.

I scanned the room, searching desperately for my mom. Nanny was scary, she was loud. She hugged too tightly, her kisses were wet, and kind of smelly. I inhaled deeply and then I screamed. I exhaled terror and screamed again. Then I screamed some more. And more. The tears came. They were torrential.

I stood there screaming and crying, gripping the plastic-covered railing, and something came down from above. Slowly, slowly, slowly it came into view. A bag of M&Ms. My favorite. I tried to grab the bag, still wailing. But she pulled it away, out of my reach.

Then Nanny said, “When you stop crying, you can have the M&Ms.”

I must have considered my options. What I really wanted was Mommy but she wasn’t there. But the candy was, and I wanted that too. I wanted the candy more than my fear, more than my sadness. That candy would be a comfort. I turned off my tears and sealed my fate. Feel, or eat?

Throughout my adult life, I’ve reached for M&Ms, and other foods, whenever I’ve wanted to self-soothe, tune out, suppress the feelings that are too hard to experience. I still buy those M&Ms sometimes, and eat them. They don’t taste as good as they used to. I acknowledge that as I eat them. They’re merely a symbol now. They might calm me momentarily, but afterward, I’m still left with myself, and my stuffed feelings.

What I thought once helped is no longer the medicine that I need. Learning that, knowing that, means recovery is happening.