In Search of the Sweet Spot

By Brittany Lieteau

Nutter Butters hold a sacred place in my heart. This cookie symbolizes my family dynamic. Two crunchy beige cookies, with four striations running along the top, and intersecting jagged lines to imply the texture of a real peanut. These are my parents, my foundation. Two light-skinned African American individuals who grew up post-civil rights era, but still faced adversity while growing up Black in South Central Los Angeles. They both persevered and carried the wounds to prove it. The roles of the two crunchy cookies were to protect the innocent, soft, smooth peanut butter filling from adversity…me. The beautiful illusion of crunchy and soft peanut butter coming together to offer sweet satisfaction to taste, only to be met first with a tinge of saltiness. See, my foundation was broken, and the crumbs permeated my existence as a child, which left me subconsciously wounded. The hint of saltiness was subtle; I did not realize the impact it had on my taste buds until later on in my life. 

My mom and dad were sixteen years old when they met at Crenshaw High School. The trend in the black community at the time was Afros, bell-bottoms, black power fists, and Soul Train; signifying an underlying tone of black love. My mom was the captain of the cheerleading squad, and my dad was an everyday student. After high school, they were married at the age of twenty-two, had my brother, Benjamin at twenty-four, and me, two years later. Unfortunately, when I was six months old, my father split from my mother to be with another woman, Fiona, and raised her kids who were my brother’s and my age, respectively. I was never blessed to see a healthy family dynamic. My mother never remarried or had any other man around us. Instead, her focus shifted to providing a life for my brother and me by making sure we had food on the table and a good education. Despite my father walking out on us, my mother never kept us away from seeing him, when I look back on it now, I wish she had.

Growing up, I watched my dad be a better parent to Fiona's kids than his own. There were numerous occasions where he called our house phone to say he was coming by to see us, and never showed up. He became consistently inconsistent; you never knew when he would keep his word about anything. When either my brother or I would ask, “What happened?” He would simply respond, “I was busy.” Though I wanted to be mad at him, I forgave him. After all, I was young and wasn’t accustomed to holding grudges. Though later on, it was apparent that I was holding on to every bit of hurt that was served to me. Looking back, I longed for my father to see and hear me. I wanted to be validated by him in some way. Unfortunately, that never happened. Instead, I received the unconscious message that I was not special to him.

 For my sixth birthday, my dad bought me a predominantly white bike adorned with pink accents. Pink streamers hung from each side of the handlebars to give it an extra spunk. I loved this bike. It was my first "big girl" bike. I was so excited I never wanted to be without it. One day, my dad was coming to pick my brother and me up, and he told us to bring our bikes. Overjoyed with excitement, I brought it without hesitation. We got to Fiona’s house and kept the bikes in his truck for a moment. I think it's natural for girls to gravitate toward girls and the same with boys. With that being said, even though her daughter, Adriane, was a couple of years older than me, she was typically who I played with. After about an hour, we brought the bikes into the garage. Adriane had an older bike, so when she saw mine, she wanted it. She asked me if she could ride it, and I let her. She took it for a spin a few times and brought it back. 

As the day went on, she kept riding my bike. She ended up crying to her mom and my dad that she wanted a bike just like mine. And guess what? She got it. My dad put us kids in his truck and drove us to Target to get her a bike that was identical to mine. Not similar… but identical. He never asked me how I felt about it; he just jumped up and did it. I was crushed. That bike was special to me. It was my birthday gift. It was bad enough she had my father full-time, now I had to share my personal moments with him too. I didn't say anything. I didn't know how to properly articulate what I was feeling. It left me wondering. What did he see in her, that he didn’t see in me? His own child. If I asked for something, I always had to wait or come to the grown-up conclusion that I would never receive it. 

I started to develop a habit of shutting down emotionally, so I didn't have to feel the hurt. In addition, I couldn't stand going over to Fiona's house. She acted one way when my dad was there and another when he left. One particular day, my dad picked us up from my mom's house and dropped us off at Fiona’s. It was the same rotation; I played with Adriane, and Ben played with her son. Later in the evening, we took baths and, I don’t recall quite what happened, but Adriane got us in trouble. I didn’t do anything, but I was guilty by association. Fiona yelled at us, and our punishment was to sit on the khaki color couch in the living room, me on one end, and Adriane on the other. I cried because I knew I shouldn’t have been in trouble. 

“I didn’t do anything,” I said as I looked at her with tear-soaked eyes. 

"Shut up! I can’t wait until your dad gets back. Then, you are really going to get it!” 

I couldn’t understand why she was so angry with me, especially when I didn’t do anything. At that time, I felt like she wanted me to talk back or be belligerent so she could justify hitting me. But I was too sensitive for that, no matter what, if you told me to do something, I would do it. 

 I didn't want to get in trouble. Sobbing even harder, I cried out, "I want my daddy.” My chest heaved in and out while trying to catch my breath, my t-shirt soaked with tears.

 She continued to yell at me, “Shut up!”

After about 15 minutes of crying, I told her I had to go to the bathroom. She said, "You're lying. You just want to get up. Sit there until your dad gets home.” 

I wasn’t lying. I sat. I cried. I rocked back and forth, squeezing my muscles so I wouldn’t urinate on myself. In agony, I pleaded, “I have to pee. Please let me go pee.” 

I pleaded over and over again, only to be met with, “No.” 

I didn’t understand what I did that was so wrong that I wasn’t allowed to go pee. If she thought I was lying, she could have stayed outside the bathroom door and listened. Instead, she let me suffer. The cries started to subside, as they turned into more of an "mmmm" sound, while I continued to rock. I ended up urinating on the couch. I was humiliated. Adriane laughed at me, and Fiona grew more furious. She didn’t tell Adriane to stop laughing at me. She didn’t offer to get me new clothes and tell me to take a shower. Instead, she said, “Sit in it until your dad gets home.” 

When my dad came back, he didn't come to my rescue; he never asked me what happened. He asked her what happened, and I was further reprimanded. That was the last time my mom allowed my dad to take us over to Fiona’s house.

By the age of sixteen, I took the approach of being more of an observer rather than being open with my dad. Since it seemed as though I was invisible to him, I studied him to find a commonality between us, so we could bond. To my surprise, we shared a love of Nutter Butters. I'm not sure how or when I was introduced to them, but I knew I had eaten them in front of him numerous times. Each time he saw me with them, it became a topic of conversation. Based on our conversations, I developed a fail proof way of eating them, that I was sure he would love. One Saturday, my brother and I were at his house, in the living room watching cartoons. My dad was sitting at the dining room table behind us, looking through papers. I looked back at him and asked if he had any milk. Though I went to his house numerous times, I wasn't comfortable going in his refrigerator. 

He told me he did and he got up, poured me a glass of milk, halfway the glass, as I sat at the table. With pride, I took out my little red pack of cookies. I was excited to share my method of achieving sweet satisfaction. He looked at me with a big Cheshire Cat smile and said, “You like Nutter Butters?” 

I looked at him, stunned. I was caught off guard by his question. I didn't see him every weekend, but we have talked about this before, numerous times. The pride I felt taking out the cookies, quickly went away as disappointment set in. 

“I do,” I responded, trying to sound excited the best way I knew how. 

“I wonder who you got, that from?” He proudly said. I chuckled.

 “Yeah, I wonder who?” I said under my breath.

At that very moment, I understood that though we were two feet away from each other, it was as if I was viewing him through a telescope. He seemed close, but in actuality, he was unreachable. 

This realization didn't make me stop loving Nutter Butters. To the contrary, I became more intrigued as the years progressed. I studied them, just like I studied my father. Subconsciously, this was my way of being close to him. By the end of high school, I graduated from the small four-pack to the large pack, which held two columns of seventeen cookies for a total of thirty-four. Even though I never got a chance to show him how I perfected my process, I still practiced the same ritual, just in case the opportunity presented itself. 

I paired my cookies with a glass of whole organic milk, filling the glass halfway, no matter the size. I dunked my cookie until the milk reached its hourglass frame, which is about half the cookie. I watched my cookie drown in the milk as bubbles rushed from the sides. I knew it was time to flip the cookie and do the same to the other end, when the bubbling subsided. The goal was to have the outside slightly soggy, but still achieve a crunch in the middle when I bit into it. I noticed the process was analogous to the relationship with my dad. I was soft on the outside, but the wall was forming around my heart as I tried to abandon my feelings. In one sitting, I typically ate about eight cookies; each devoured the same way. After a few cookies, I drank some milk and continued on to the next cookie until I felt satisfied.

At twenty-seven I began reflecting on my life, and decided I needed a change of scenery. I moved to Orange County to redefine, who I was because a part of me was lost. At the time, I was still mourning the loss of my brother, to a car accident, two years earlier. I never thought I would lose the person who was my first best friend. Especially two days before Christmas and three days before his twenty-eighth birthday. The loss of Ben made me look at life differently, and forced me to be a little more daring. So, I pushed harder to reach my goals and to experience life fully. This was the first time I was living on my own, at a respectable distance from my mother. I was proud of myself. By this time, I had graduated from college, and accepted a new job with a decent salary. Most importantly, I was providing for myself. I even had a boyfriend at the time.  

We will refer to him as Jack, short for, well… after this, you will understand. We were best friends in high school. He was a football player who was known for his athleticism, being a twin, and he wasn't bad looking. I, on the other hand, was in the band, my focus being more academic than boys. He was five feet nine inches, chocolate complexion with the most beautiful smile you could imagine. He had a crush on me in high school, but I turned him down. I wasn’t attracted to him, romantically. We still kept in contact during college. He even came out to visit me at Cal State Fullerton. When he got back to his college, he wrote me a lengthy message on Myspace. Once again, professing his love. I again turned him down. We lost contact for a while but eventually reconnected after college through a mutual friend. He and I ended up getting together one weekend, and he asked me again to be with him. This time, I gave in.  

We started dating three years before I moved, but we had known each other for eight. Our relationship was never secure because his ego had been shattered once his NFL dream didn't come to fruition, in addition to having no backup plan. In contrast, I was steadily trekking along accomplishing the goals I set out for myself. The more I accomplished, the more our relationship started to fall apart. I don't think he really let go of the football mindset even when it came to our relationship because I wasn't viewed as a companion. Instead, I was treated as a competitor. He couldn't compete with my goals, so he did the next best thing; he tried to ruin me emotionally. I always heard that typically your spouse ends up mirroring the relationship that you had with your opposite sex parent, but I never thought I would fall victim to it. I thought I had a handle on the relationship I had with my father, until it showed up in the form of a boyfriend.

I should have known he wasn't the right person for me when he broke up with me six months after my brother had passed away. The reason he gave, “Your acting differently.” But I didn’t know. He was partially right. I wasn’t in my rational mind. So, I forgave him. This resulted in our relationship pattern being “breakup-to-make up.” 

Each time he came back and drilled me, “Did you date anybody else when we weren’t together? Did you sleep with anybody else? What did you tell people about me when we weren’t together?” 

I asked him why he would want to know, and he stated, “Because this would tell me how loyal you are to me.” 

This was his tactic that kept me attached to him while he went out and did whatever he wanted to do. I never asked what he was doing. It was none of my business, and I honestly didn't want to know.

When I moved out to Orange County, the relationship became more volatile. He spent the majority of his time at my house since I lived alone. He criticized me for everything. I had too many guy friends for his liking. So, I stopped hanging out with them. Though I had the essentials, after being in my apartment a month, I still didn’t have a bed set. I was criticized for that too, "See look, you have been in this apartment a month, and you still don't have a bed set!? If it were me, I would have had it by now." 

At this time, he still lived at home with his mom and had no job to fund his lifestyle. Despite his obvious short comings, I never criticized him. We argued almost every other day about something petty, mostly because I wasn’t living up to his expectations. Though he criticized me heavily, I allowed him to stay at my house while I went to work. I never questioned what he could be doing in my apartment while I was gone. I thought I was doing a good deed by letting him come and study in peace since his mom's house had about, six other people living there, not including himself.

He started to become distant, so he stopped coming to my house as frequently. I would ask what was wrong, and he would lash out at me in some way, which unconsciously made me want to fix what was wrong with him. I went to his house one day to check on him. He was locked in his room, playing video games. We started talking, and I could tell the conversation was strained. He got up and began sorting his dirty clothes for laundry, and out of the blue, he asked me have I ever talked to one of my college friends about him. I rarely spoke to my college friends, so when he mentioned this particular person, I said, “No.” 

He looked at me and yelled, "You're fucking lying! I knew you couldn't be trusted, you fucking liar. How are you going to look me dead in my face and lie?!" 

I looked at him, confused as I told him I wasn't lying.

He looked at me with a furrowed brow and voice filled with anger, “Yes, you are! You know how I know? While you were at work, I went through all of your stuff in your apartment, and found all of your journals. I sat there and read each of them." 

I felt like I was gut-punched. My journals weren't in a place that they could easily be found. They were underneath my bed in a space-saver container underneath a bunch of other stuff. I wrote the most intimate details in my journal, from the anxiety attacks I used to have, to things that simply bothered me. Of course, after this conversation, he broke up with me, again. 

No, that wasn’t the end of our relationship. I internalized every insult that he dished my way, and started to believe him. The verbal abuse got worse, and who I thought I was started to become lost at the hands of a person who didn’t love themself. My witty personality became mundane. I began to hate myself on the inside. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, because I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. My skin had become pale. I lost a significant amount of weight in two months. My eyes were sunken in. Every bone in my body was pronounced. I stopped eating because I felt worthless; a part of me didn't want to live anymore. I knew in my heart I could never do that to my mother, she already lost one child, and I knew she couldn’t take losing another. I suffered in silence since I was isolated from my friends and family. Jack ended up breaking up with me because he felt like I was mistreating him. Go figure.

I, again, was crushed. My mom called to check on me, and she convinced me to come out to Los Angeles to hang out a little bit. I agreed. Her eyes were wide when she saw me get out of my car. 

As soon as we got into the house and sat down on the couch, she started questioning me, 

"What the hell is going on!? Are you eating!? When is the last time you ate!?" She put her hand on my shoulder. "Come on, Brittany, you, are paper thin! You’re gonna to have to fight!" 

I just looked at her and hid behind my emotional wall. I didn't know what to say. I felt like if I tried to explain myself, I would’ve broken down and cried. Something about being confronted by your parents just doesn't feel right. Aside from feeling like I let myself down, I felt like I let her down. She started to rattle off several foods that I liked to eat. 

"What about Nutter Butters? You do like those." 

I did. I told her I would grab some on the way home. 

I stayed with her for a few hours, talking and watching movies. Afterwards, I drove home in silence. When I got closer to my house, I picked up the cookies and a half-gallon of organic milk from the Stater Brother's around the corner from my apartment. When I walked into my apartment, I put my purse on the counter, walked over to the cabinet, and grabbed a small glass. I took the glass, milk and the cookies to my dining room table. I poured the milk to the middle of the glass. I opened the large red pack of cookies. I took one out and dunked it halfway into the milk, as I thought about what my mom said. When the bubbling stopped, I did the same to the other side. I took a bite and immediately, I started crying. The cookies that I once enjoyed eating tasted like metal. I felt nauseous just eating them. I cried, thinking, “How did I even get to this point?”

 I couldn't disappoint my mom. So, I forced myself to eat five cookies that night. Every day after, I forced myself to eat more than the day before, and eventually, I put on weight and went back to a healthier lifestyle.

I learned the hard way that I was trying to repair the relationship I had with my dad through my boyfriend, at the time. I held on so hard to him because I had made the subconscious agreement that if you love someone, you don't let them go. I believed this because my dad abandoned my brother and me, and I didn't want to do the same, especially to someone that I cared about. The lack of knowledge about what a loving, happy relationship was, kept me in a cycle of codependency. For the record, I don't hate either one of them because they each taught me many lessons. I learned the importance of self-expression and the acknowledgment of my feelings, even when they don't feel comfortable. I learned how to allow myself time to grieve; to heal past wounds, so patterns don't repeat. Most importantly, the value of loving yourself first before venturing into another relationship. I cannot love someone into loving me. I’m grateful to be vulnerable enough to learn these lessons. To arrive, at the sweet spot.

Nutter Butters. The beautiful illusion of soft peanut butter. Two crunchy cookies, four striations running along the top, and intersecting jagged lines, to imply the texture of a real peanut.

By Brittany Lieteau