A Cup of Pudding

A couple of days ago, I had one of those single-serving cups of pudding. You know the ones, the really cheap ones where you don't really recognize the brand name. The sign on them at the grocery store has at least two exclamation marks to help highlight what an amazing bargain they are. Quite frankly, it tasted pretty bad. Not quite terrible. There wasn't enough synthetic crap thrown into it to quite overpower the sugar. And the texture wasn't quite like half-dried shower caulk. But it wasn't all that great, either. Then again, I didn't eat it for the flavor.

I ate it to prove something to myself.

I was aware as I wrote that last sentence how insane it sounds. Proving something to myself...with pudding?? Actually, yeah. See, I've had a problem with the stuff for the last three years. Something that was found in the hotel room with my wife was about a dozen of those single-serving cups, about half of which had been opened and eaten. And, in the information she'd printed and taken with her, it stated very clearly that one of the drugs would go down well with pudding, the one that'd be loaded up on hourly for about a day before actually taking the lethal meds. It'd help make sure they'd work, that she would be much less likely to throw the lethal ones up and just wind up really sick. So she took a bunch of pudding with her. And used it.

Ever since I'd found that out, I'd had a hard time with pudding. I'd see it at the grocery store and I could feel myself flinch. At first, it was a physical thing, something I'm pretty sure people around me saw. I'm not even sure what they were thinking, seeing a full-grown man twitching away from a display of a snack sold for children. But that's what it was. Even after the physical flinch faded out, though, I could still feel it inside me. It was still something that hit me whenever I saw the stuff. At the grocery store. At a park. At work. Anywhere.

And I finally got to the point that I wanted to prove to myself that pudding wasn't going to win out over me. I knew it wouldn't taste good. I was pretty sure the consistency would be kinda repulsive. I knew it had slightly less nutritional value than road tar. And I still wanted to prove to myself that it was something that I could handle. Not that it was something I would ever HAVE to handle. It's not like having to go to a grocery store again (which had also pushed buttons almost regardless of the store). Survival depends on eating good food. It thankfully doesn't depend on eating cheap pudding. But I wanted to know for myself.

It's hit me since then that maybe that's a sign of moving through this kind of grief, too. Sure, early on there's plenty of stuff we HAVE to face. Buying food. Cooking food. Paying bills. Sleeping. Those are all necessary. But at some point or another, I think we all get to the point of running across something that was take on because we WANT to, not because we HAVE to. I can't help thinking that's a sign of getting some strength and confidence back. Of having gotten tired of living within the constraints we initially needed to in order to survive. Of feeling enough energy and life within us that we're looking for challenges to take on. Maybe they're little ones. Eating a cup of pudding certainly isn't running a marathon or building a car from nothing but parts or writing and publishing a successful book.

It's still a step. Maybe I'll still have the internal flinch when I walk by there. But at least at this point there won't be the question in the back of my mind of whether or not the pudding will win. It might catch me by surprise. It will never win. It's been face down, and I walked away.

If I ever have to walk through that particular area of Hell again, there'll be no question it's one I can handle. I've already tested myself against it...and won.