Binger by night

Binger by night 

    Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews were the most satisfying thing to eat. Milk or dark, it didn’t matter. This was a discovery I made around the age of maybe seven—through what, I don’t remember—and once I had made it, I couldn’t stop myself from indulging. Out of all the nibs and dibs on the market at the time (2009), I had chosen Goldenberg's Peanut Chews as my vice.   

    My scheme went as follows: I’d hustle my grandfather into the corner store, Milk Farm, impishly slapping a pack of Peanut Chews onto the counter next to whatever he was buying that day. A lot of the time, however, he didn’t need anything from the store (we had coffee, we often had the daily newspaper on hand—he wasn’t straying from those two items very frequently), and we were only in Milk Farm for my treat. He’d pay Silva, say goodbye to Butchie, and we’d saunter out.   

    On the sidewalk, he’d make me promise: “Do me a favor and don’t let your sister see, a’right?”   

    Obviously I would never. I didn’t want to hear it from her, either... and I definitely wasn’t looking to share my chocolate. I don’t remember how I’d sneak the pack of Peanut Chews up the elevator and into the house, I just remember booking it to my bedroom once we were through the front door. Being the oldest, I was the most well-equipped to meet Papa in the lobby, or even outside, by myself... the obstacle course that awaited me upstairs when we returned from our pitstop required another skillset altogether.  

    I’d breeze through the dining room and tuck into my bedroom — unsuspiciously, obviously — and use my sister’s bottom bunk as a step, hoisting myself and carefully slipping the candy underneath my pillow. I couldn’t, just wouldn’t, be able to enjoy them now, with my sister on the prowl. Obviously. I mean, she was probably still talking to Papa in the hall... but still, she had an irritating habit of looking over my shoulder. Better to just save it for later, when I could enjoy them in peace. Obviously.   

    I’d step off my sister’s bed, and walk out of the room, cool as a cucumber. Mission success, because it did indeed feel like a mission. But now, I could relax... I had a snack, Papa had bought it just for me, and he never held me to the same rules as my parents. Yes, he displayed blatant favoritism, but as the primary recipient of that favoritism, I can’t say I minded. It almost always resulted in an extra bagel with cream cheese before the other kids woke up for breakfast, or sips of his coffee despite being too young for caffeine. As long as none of the other kids caught on, whatever; I did not have to be the responsible oldest, I did not have to share.  

    The day would roll on, the whole while I’d be fantasizing about my alone time later that night. TV, chocolate-peanut confection, no interruptions... It didn’t matter if the day was spent by my mother yelling at me --“Enough, Gianna, with the showing off, or he’s going home.”--or by my dad and Papa playing Super Mario Bros. Wii—and failing to make much progress—I had something of my own to look forward to that night.   

    We’d be sitting at the dinner table, wrapping up. Peanut Chews. We’d be sitting around the living room tv watching Dancing with the Stars (if it was a Monday)... Peanut Chews.   

- 

    “Alright G,” Papa would be leaving. “Try and be good, a’right?” This part of the night would always make me emotional. I was trying to be good, it wasn’t my fault I was my mother’s punching bag and he noticed. It wasn’t like I was trying to show off, or talk back... by my mother’s “disciplining” you’d think that was all I was doing. It felt corny to say, even then, but I didn’t have to say it because he knew. Be good. Peanut Chews.  

     “Bye Papa,” I’d be hugging him around his middle, he smelled like a pair of jeans, waxy almost. There’d be a burning sensation in my sinuses as we stood in the threshold. I’d thank him in my mind. I thank him in my mind now. Every punching bag needs something to look forward to. “Love you.”  

    “Love ya, string bean.” This, I always thought was sweet, while ironic and mean at the same time. I was really only ever called things connotatively opposite from a string bean—I mean, my nickname for years of my childhood was “Mini Marg” because I looked just like my mother... the vitriolic alcoholic that yes, was obese, and yes, was unhappy about it and made it everyone’s problem—or nothing at all. It felt nice to be called skinny in this indirect way, even if he was the only one who thought so. Even if he was being sarcastic. Peanut Chews. Peanut Chews!  

    Hopefully, if I was lucky, it’d be a night in-between showers. That way, I could sooner get down to my business. Bedtime would (finally) roll around and we’d shuffle into our bedroom, our parents right behind us. My siblings and I would settle on a tape to slip into the VHS (Looney Tunes or Monsters Inc.?) and my parents would kiss us goodnight. They’d leave the room, and the tape would roll, and I’d be deliriously calm now compared to the daylight hours leading up.   

    Now, some nights I’d fall asleep for a little while, some nights I’d get right into it. I didn’t want my siblings to hear or be sleeping light enough to be woken up by any noises the wrapper made.  Courteous, I know.   

-

    Peanut Chews come are the most satisfying candy that come in a pack of six. I would gnaw, then thickly swallow each one. I don’t remember ever making a mess, crumbs or saliva. I don’t even really remember what I’d do with my garbage in the morning. I mean, presumably, I threw it out myself: I never got caught because one of my parents found the brown and red wrapper in my bed.  

    I did get caught eventually, though. And it might of even been one of two times. And I don’t remember why, I just remember my dad standing in the doorway while I was mid-Chew. That’s when I registered the slobber sloughing down my chin, looked down and saw chocolate crumbs dirtying my pillow. Before he had even said anything, I felt so disgusting, so wrong stuffing my face in the dark like this. This wall of emotion washed over me in the blue light of Merrie Melodies. I remember my cheeks feeling full and cramped, like I had gone too far, because I had. It felt very metaphorical, even then... eating under the cover of night and lying about it by day. It was nighttime, but I was awake. There was something I was feeding, but it didn’t really feel like myself until my dad walked in that one night, and I felt the brown wad in my mouth.   

    And he was probably confused, saying something along the lines of, “Um, Gianna... what are you doing?” He wasn’t screaming or yelling, he was really asking. Before he would head out to work, he would often poke his head into our room and check on us. This had slipped my mind then.   

    He had to have taken away my leftovers. I had gotten too big for my britches that night and I literally have not touched a Peanut Chew since.   

-  

    I wish there was a singular person I could pin all of this on, but when I look back, I see that this behavior was encouraged from every side. My dad worked at a vending company (some of my earliest memories with him are splitting a pack of pink Sno-Balls), my mom was an avid watcher of The Biggest Loser, and both of them had minimally undulating weights since I was born. All of my cousins and friends were thinner than me, or at least they felt thinner than me, because their parents were thinner than mine... but everyone in my big Italian family loved food despite it all, both sides, as many generations as there were. There was no winning. For the latter six months of the year, I could definitely be found eating.   

    They say to not write about something until it’s something that’s over and done with. They being me. They being me, always, and come to think of it, it’s probably why I have so much trouble keeping a diary. I am a completionist... allegedly. Because I thought I was fairly new to this eating disorder game, I thought there were things I haven’t done yet in terms of how low I could go. Unfortunately, this affliction is not the five years old I originally thought, but instead 16-- Let’s throw a party, invite everyone you know!   

    It didn’t start with anything depraved-and-serious-sounding, like food insecurity. Or even with anything teenage and trivial, like an ex commanding me to send her pictures of my meals during Covid (so that she knew I was eating), or with my mom telling my sister and I that we looked like we should be working the corner like fat hookers (because she didn’t like our outfits), or with my dad declaring that women should never eat in public while simultaneously encouraging my brother to gorge on literal pounds of pasta (chewing with his mouth open) or with my sister being hospitalized and everyone bending to her anorexic will, while I suffered from the same sickness, and it went unchecked for far longer...   

    The Peanut Chews were hardly the problem. It’s a shame that I could never stomach one again.