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Pravin Kumar
Age: 60 Zodiac: 
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 Posted: Mon Mar 17, 2008 11:23 am |
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I hate to admit it, but I’ve sunk to an all-time low. Stealing—and from my own children. Wait, it gets worse. Stealing from my own children and then trying to cover my tracks. And worse still. Stealing from my own children, covering my tracks, and then repeating my hideous actions for nearly two weeks.
As a Sunday school teacher, I need to come clean.
At least I waited until after they had all gone to bed, and with eight children in our home, that is no easy feat. While the full moon cast iridescent shimmers of light, I quietly crept into their bedrooms, my breathing shallow, and scanned their little havens for their secret hiding spots. Because most mothers are also part detective, this wasn’t too hard to accomplish.
Once I had homed in on the goods, I executed a swift heist, and slithered out their doorways, with the pale moonlight dancing on my back. As any thief will tell you, practice makes perfect, and if you don’t get caught, who’s going to know it happened in the first place?
The first couple of nights were the hardest, but once I was able to navigate their bedrooms in the pitch-black, each lift became a little bit easier, and by the end of the second week, I was operating like a professional cat burglar. I discarded the evidence each evening and defused my guilt by justifying that I was only borrowing from my kids, not stealing, and that I would repay them gradually, just as soon as I was able. My conscience bought into this rationalization for the entire duration of my loathsome behavior, which should have told me then and there that I had a serious problem and desperately needed to seek rehab.
My husband was the first to become suspicious of me because of all the extra time I was spending in our bathroom. I thought I was clever running the tub while I hid there, eating my stash, but raising eight kids had never afforded me the luxury of an hour-long soak prior to this, so after the seventh night, things just weren’t adding up.
Soon after, my preteen children started asking if their younger siblings had been allowed in their bedrooms without permission. “Absolutely not,” I reassured them. They bought into that for a couple of days but then started interrogating one another. Their bickering and raunchy accusations followed with fingers pointing in every direction except toward yours truly. I believe this is when my guilt first made its appearance. Watching my loving children tear one another’s heads off for something that their sick mother had done started to take its toll on me. Not so much that I stopped cold turkey, however. No, I managed to put those hurtful images to the back of my head for several more nights as I shamefully continued to nourish my appalling habit.
By this time, I was afraid there was no hope for me. I was desperate to cry out for help, but too ashamed to admit what I’d done. I’d hit rock bottom. I could search the yellow pages for a support group, but what if it was too late? Could I be saved? Could I redeem myself to all eight of my children without any permanent damage?
Good news—yes, I could and I did! I gathered everyone together in our family room and made a full confession. Hard as it was, the tremendous sense of relief I felt once the burden was lifted felt much more exhilarating than the temporary highs I had been experiencing for the past two weeks since Halloween. That’s what a chocolate obsession will do to an otherwise levelheaded, honest, and disciplined person.
Chocolate is indulgent, decadent, sometimes even intoxicating, and completely necessary to keep my senses alive and passionate. I know I can never live without it, but I also know I need to be a better role model for my children. I’ve promised them that next Halloween will be different. I won’t steal from their hard-earned bags of candy, I will simply don a costume and go out and get my own. Trick or Treat!
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