Stealing sweetness

It’s easy to break the law. Breaking cycles is a little harder.

When I was a child, my sweetness was stolen from me. When I became an adult, I began stealing sweetness. Chocolate bars and cookie dough from the grocery store. Every single visit without fail. Dropped right into my purse without second thought, like they were mine to begin with. Gluten free and vegan, of course. Typically sweetened with monk fruit, maple syrup, or coconut sugar, but on occasion I indulged in a little cane. Only if I was feeling extra naughty that day.

You could call it cycle reenactment. My father was a thief, and I was once the sweetest little girl. Sweetie, they called me, because I had that special something he wanted to steal. He stole the sweetness right out of me. Raised by a thief, I became one. Sweetness stolen, I stole sweetness. Was it all that surprising?

I was born into sweetness deprivation, a drought of sorts. By the time I arrived, all of the sweetness in the home had long dried up, and there was none left to offer me. Lucky for me, and for them, I contained my own natural reserve—more than enough to share with the family. My birth was a gift to them, really. A life saver. Their little miracle—“I love you, Sweetie.”

They made sure to tell me all the time. I wasn’t sure what they loved exactly, aside from my sweetness, how it tasted, how I filled them up. How I readily poured myself into their outstretched cups, cutting through bitterness, balancing the flavor. How I complimented them perfectly, the finishing touch on every family meal. Sure, they couldn’t see me—it wasn’t “me” they loved—but they could taste. And oh, did they crave my taste. So they stole it. Feasted on it. All of them—Mom, Dad, and whoever else came over for dinner. I was the dessert. Well, never quite “me”, but my sweetness.

Why did you have to steal it? I would have shared it with you. I think I would have, at least, if you had asked nicely enough—if you could see who you were asking. Perhaps you didn’t want to see me. I mean, it’s a bit uncomfortable to see the fullness of the life behind your food—just ask any vegan out there. It’s a rather rude awakening. Once you allow yourself to see into their unique personhood, you can’t bear to keep swallowing them. When you let yourself see them, truly see them, you can no longer claim them as your food—at the very least, it’s a lot harder.

They needed me to be their food. They needed me to stay their food. They couldn’t take the risk of seeing me, the complexity of my being, and letting it spoil their appetites. They couldn’t risk losing their one source of sweetness. Sweetie.

My role was crystallized. Daily, monthly, yearly—it didn’t matter. Sweetie was on call, restocking the family buffet, shape-shifting into whatever dish those hungry mouths demanded. Sweetie learned how to please, how to satiate, how to keep every stomach full. Sweetie learned the value of sweetness, precisely what it took to be loved, and how to love anyone with sweet tooth in return. I learned how to be good food. Ever-preparing for the next feast to come, I made sure to package my raw self into something edible. Digestible. Sweet. So sweet that others couldn’t help themselves.

Who was I to deny a hungry mouth? I would accept my role, happily. I would learn to like it. Learn to love it, even. Learn to love it because there was no way out, so you better find a way to love it. Learn to love what you can’t escape. Learn to make the pain bearable by participating in it. Learn how to make it your choice. Give it away before they can steal it. Learn to love giving, and it’s no longer stealing. Learn to love being food. Forget it was never your choice to begin with. Isn’t that what they wanted all along? My willing cooperation, blissfully delivering myself as the main course with the enthusiasm of a waitress? A masochist is born.

Behind closed doors, I ritually prepared myself as dessert. I preemptively took the form of their cravings and handed myself over for consumption. All to avoid the pain of being turned into food—cut up, cooked, changed. I would cook myself first. I would feed myself to them, happily. And I would forget there was ever another way.

At the end of each day, I disrobed. Bite marks, hollowed, chunks taken out. I nursed my wounds, tended to the sore spots, replenished my reserves in private. Only for the purpose of feeding everyone once more. Like clockwork. I filled myself up to pour myself out when the sun rose, meeting my task with maximum efficiency, day in and day out. Sneaking a little taste of sweetness for myself, on occasion. Only if I was feeling extra naughty that day.

I was excellent at my job, and I learned to love it because I was so good at it. I loved being food. I was good food. I’m not sure when I strayed so far off course. Was it that first time I told Mom to stop calling me Sweetie? Was that when everything changed? When it all went horribly wrong? When I realized that there was not an ounce of sweetness left in me to give, that I would have to announce my resignation, albeit subtly? “Don’t call me Sweetie,” I said, but she knew what it meant. It meant my sweetness had been sucked dry. I had nothing left to give. It was my turn to take.

You could call it cycle reenactment. You could also call it taking back what was mine. When you are stolen from, you are often left with the urge to steal—to take back what was stolen from you. I never wanted to hurt anybody. I just wanted to treat the grocery store like the same all-you-can-eat buffet I was once forced to serve myself in, is all. Now, I’d serve myself from the other side. It was my turn to feast. Oh, how good it felt—to walk in like I owned the place, claiming what I wanted as my own. To take with no remorse and no fear of getting caught. That’s how Daddy always did it—entering me like he owned the place, claiming what he wanted as his own. No remorse, no fear of getting caught.

Yes, you could call it cycle reenactment. But I didn’t want to steal just anything. I wanted to steal precisely what he took from me. My sweetness. The pleasure, the love. Translation? Chocolate. Always chocolate. Chocolate when I craved love, chocolate when I wanted my sweetness back, chocolate when I wanted to give myself love and sweetness but hadn’t a clue where to begin. Chocolate as the buffer between me, myself, and I. Was it such a crime? I just wanted to be sweet again.

When the sun set each evening, I found myself sitting in my parked car, illuminated only by the glowing overhead lights of the grocery store I had turned into my private dessert buffet. There I sat, breaking open chocolate I never paid for, no concern over who might catch me. Feasting on adrenaline and stolen sweetness. Claiming it, or reclaiming it, as my own. It tasted so much sweeter stolen. I assume so, at least—I never once tried purchasing it. Why would I buy something that was stolen from me? The sweetness was mine to steal back. No wonder I walked right up to the sweets section and staked my claim, sticking them into my bag as if they already belonged to me. I’m sure Daddy’s reasoning was similar; I tasted sweeter stolen.

Could I have gotten the same feeling from buying sweetness? I asked myself this often. I regularly confessed my guilty pleasure to friends, telling them that I knew I needed to stop one day. This couldn’t go on forever. So why couldn’t I bear the thought of stopping? Why was I so repelled by the idea of purchasing sweets? They weren’t expensive, and I always bought the rest of my groceries. It was never about saving money or saying “fuck you” to capitalism, as much as I tried to convince myself—there was no financial or political logic behind it. The inherent legal risk far surpassed the reward—anyone in their right mind could see that. Why, then? Why did only stolen sweetness appeal to me?

Sweetness felt wrong if it didn’t come alongside danger. The simple exchange of sweetness was never modelled for me—only careless theft. Sweetness always came with risk. Adrenaline. Sacrifice. Secrecy. Sweetness wasn’t something I could simply gift to myself, out in the open. To let myself enjoy it, no strings attached, was sacrilege. I was never supposed to eat sweet things. I was supposed to be eaten. Giving sweetness to myself would have meant breaking the law of the family. So when I did dare to give it to myself, it only made sense to be breaking the law.

Yes, I was breaking the law. But ironically, giving myself sweetness the “legal” way would have required breaking even more laws than stealing it—internal laws. Purchasing sweetness as a simple gift to myself would mean breaking all the internal laws telling me sweetness was not permitted unless it came alongside a hefty dose of fear. And worldly laws couldn’t stand a chance against the inbuilt laws of my family system. The child desperately stealing back her sweetness would rather risk going to jail than risk breaking Mom and Dad’s rules—rules that taught her, “Don’t you dare love yourself.” Don’t do it out in the open. Keep it hidden, if you must. Whatever you do, don’t get caught. So, did the inherent legal risk of stealing truly surpass the reward? Perhaps it did by worldly logic—but not by the logic of the soul.

Stealing sweetness meant covertly breaking family rules, while also abiding to them—giving myself love, yet still keeping it hidden, feeling naughty about it all. Stealing sweetness meant working through self-induced feelings of danger, over and over again, until loving myself—giving myself sweetness—no longer needed to be a dangerous act. All this time, I was microdosing self love. Sneaking it, dangling it like a carrot. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t question why. I bathed in my own guilty pleasure, letting a mix of shame and euphoria wash over me with every bite. One square of stolen chocolate at a time—whenever I needed a taste of love.

I figured I was exploring what love felt like through a safe, controlled experiment. In a way, I was—I was exploring what love used to feel like, replicating all of the old feelings, desperately trying to retrace my steps and figure out exactly how I lost what I lost. I was trying to piece together the story of my own stolen sweetness, returning it to myself in the process. Perhaps I was reenacting the cycle, or perhaps I was trying to complete it once and for all. Perhaps stealing sweetness was merely the first step—responding to my own cries for sweetness, even as theft was the only means of acquisition my system was comfortable with. Microdosing love, slowly opening myself up to it. Stealing it, yet ritualistically investigating the feelings that came up with each heist, over and over, unravelling them until I understood them, priming myself for a day in the distant future where I might not need them—where I might be able to receive sweetness without guilt. What would it feel like in the absence of danger?

In the midst of writing this, I take a break to go pick up dinner at the grocery store. I pass by the sweets section and grab a few. Of course I do—it’s my ritual. But now that I’ve cracked my own code, I question if it’ll even feel good. I know I’ll be returning home to finish writing this, and wouldn’t a triumphant ending be nice? I can’t keep stealing sweets forever. I know I need to change. Am I ready to change? What would it feel like to buy myself sweetness today? I decide to pay for my sweets. Carrying my haul, I make my way over to the cashier. As I approach him, as if possessed, I drop it into my purse instead—only five feet away. Stealing in plain sight. Just like Daddy taught me. It’s easy to break the law. Breaking cycles is a little harder.

I return to my parked car. The spotlight from the store’s fluorescent overhead shines through my car window once more, but tonight it feels more like a cop’s flashlight. I recite family law in my head: sweetness is not permitted unless it comes with a hefty dose of fear. I rip open the sweetness I stole and take a bite. It doesn’t taste sweet. I find no sweet relief. No scales balanced, no microdose of love. Just shame, passed down like a family recipe. Carefully, I retrace my steps. Chewing slowly, I pick out the notes. The taste of guilt I no longer want to carry. The taste of a cycle I want to end. The taste of stolen sweetness. The taste makes me sick—but it tastes like I did something right.