comfort cravings: a journey of self-discovery

i often ask myself, “why am i like this?” but rarely seek an answer. sometimes it’s in jest because i’m doing something utterly ridiculous at worst and mildly illogical at best. sometimes it’s because someone else has asked the question and i’ve repeated it, earnestly wondering why i am the way i am. other times, anger or frustration or sorrow has planted a seed so dark that i have to beg the question to find light. all times, it’s because i seek to understand my quirks in a way that celebrates, rather than merely tolerates, my perfect imperfections.

today, i found myself craving pancakes and sausage from a certain fast food joint that doesn’t even specialize in breakfast. the craving grew so great, i could taste the fluffy, almost spongy cakes sopped in maple-flavored corn-syrupy richness. i could smell the mixed aromas of hot coffee, cold orange juice, bleached-soaked towels, and old mop water of the restaurant itself. i froze. the hum of the coffee maker, the gentle rumble of the ice machine, and the beeping alerting staff that time was running out sounded off like i was right there. all because of a craving. it irked me. but i didn’t feel sad. and i couldn’t remember why this was the way to satiate my sorrows. the refrain of “girl, wtf” echoed in my brain, bounding from one corner to another, like a game of marco polo, ridiculing my lack of self-awareness. and suddenly, i was stuck in a raven moment.

i found myself tracing the memory of every significant time i wanted that thing. when i got the news that my grandmother passed just moments before my final exam—the one that determined whether i’d graduate with my master’s degree—i put my last $5 toward the craving. after my divorce was final and i almost hit a guardrail leaving the courthouse, i went straight to that lil irish spot to get a hit. when that guy told me we could never be an item because i wasn’t enough, there i was again. like a fiend for a fix. each time sadness and overwhelm threatened to dry up my bones, i was back in that restaurant. “give me two, please.” tethered to the transformative power of a taste. a taste that could make me feel different. better. more like myself. 

i kept pulling the rope of my mind, checking every moment tied to the craving, and sure enough, every significantly sorrowful moment was tied to this want. moments turned around by giving into it. i’d almost gotten to the end of my rope when i noticed that there had been other senses tied to the memories that sparked the craving, once upon a time. they weren’t stored with just a heaviness and a taste. the ties that bound had been severed.

growing up, i thought my sister’s father—my mom’s husband—was my dad. he had adopted me so i had his last name. i didn’t know another man existed. especially not when he saved me. if he thought mom was being too harsh or too anything else, he was there. keeping her off my back. giving me space and grace to be a kid, to make mistakes, to be my whole self. and when tears came, he would go get hotcakes and sausage. the butter pats made for bright eyes. the smile, syrupy sweet. he would wipe my eyes and kiss my cheek and hug me warmly. he’d ask me if i felt any better. i always did. always. 

but when he and mom split, it felt like he left us all. and i kept trying to find replacement parts for the feel good. for the give a damn. nothing could, not like that craving. and one day he became less than a stranger. a ghost of a stranger. so i cut the tether to him. the only thing left was the craving. the bright eyes and syrupy sweet smile. the warmth a hug could’ve brought. the feel good. the give a damn. 

so…this is why i’m like this? why, when the world is big and dark and scary like the storm-bringer it can be, the craving rages? that’s the dope–I mean the dopamine rush? that’s the thing that chases the blues away? yea. when other people have collard greens and black eyed peas, fried chicken and candied yams, cornbread or rolls, and visions of family all around to satiate their soul on a day that’s been a day, i have my fast-food breakfast. alone. 

and as long as the cakes are hot and spongey, the rest will make for bright eyes and a syrupy sweet smile. i will feel better. as long as i remember the faith in the feel-good of that moment. always.