Candy WAS dandy

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” my mom asked, standing in my bedroom doorway, alongside a petite, but bloody vampire.

“Nah,” I said, barely looking up from my book. I was thirteen, officially too old to tour the neighborhood with my mom and little brother, and all of my friends had retired from trick-or-treating.

As soon I heard the door slam, I dropped my book and sprinted to the living room window. Behind the curtain, I watched them turn right at the end of the driveway and disappear into the darkness. The silence of the house filled me with anticipation.

Back in my bedroom, I changed my clothes: black leggings and a black sweatshirt. I ripped the pillowcase off my pillow, grabbed the cat mask I had dug out of storage a few hours earlier, and laced up my running shoes. I snuck out the front door, undetected by my dad. At the end of the driveway, I turned left and burst into a full sprint.

The purpose of Halloween is candy. It’s not about visiting with your neighbors, or spending time with your friends; it’s about collecting the most candy. That year, I decided I was going to collect the most candy ever. Goodbye pokey family and doorstep chitchats. My mask would give me the anonymity I needed to speed up my hustle. I did not walk door to door. I ran.

I ran like a thief in night. Literally. I took more than my fair share of those unattended bowls of candy left on doorsteps. I learned to time my approaches perfectly, sliding into other groups just as the homeowner opened their door and the kids held out their bags. I rarely had to press the doorbell and wait. Sometimes I didn’t even say trick-or-treat.

Only the weight of the pillowcase could stop me. I returned home cradling my 20-pound pillowcase in both arms. I dumped its contents on my bed, admired the assortment, and congratulated myself. I rewarded myself with my favorite kinds first, but it didn’t really matter. I was going to eat it all anyway. It was just a matter of time.

Thirty minutes later, my mom and brother returned home. When my mom opened my bedroom door to tell me how I had missed out, she found me grinning wickedly surrounded by wrappers.

******

Skittles were one of my favorite candies. Particularly the purple Skittles. I think I started buying them from the office vending machine to try to beat the afternoon slump. This was four years ago, when my digestive issues were beginning to get severe. I was avoiding dairy and soy, so Starbucks was no longer an option. I had cut out gluten, and was resorting to all fruit smoothies for lunch, but my gut and butt were still angry.

A bag of Skittles seemed harmless given my current state. At least it would help my mental health, I justified. I spread the tiny spheres out on my desk, admiring their bright colors, as if it would slow my consumption. As soon as they were gone, I wanted more. My coworker caught me with the second bag and warned me I was going to be sorry. Maybe, I said, but I was going to be happy first.

One hour later, the Skittles started punching me in the stomach. I continued to work at my desk, accepting my punishment and accustomed to digestive pain. Suddenly, a sharp, overwhelming urge rushed me to the bathroom. I pooped the entire rainbow for the next 30 minutes.

If you know me well, you know this did not discourage me. In fact, they next day, I ate two more bags of Skittles and again, pooped my guts out. I wasn’t surprised by my belly ache, but the ferocity of the Skittles shooting through my system was terrifying.

I googled my symptoms and discovered fructose intolerance. People with fructose intolerance can’t digest foods like corn syrup, which is in everything! I refused to believe I could no longer eat my beloved candy, so I keep eating the Skittles for a full week. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom that week.

Eventually, I realized not only were the Skittles making me sick, but my lunchtime smoothies too! I thought all fruit smoothies were the ultimate health food, but I was wrong. It turns out a lot of supposed healthy foods make me sick. Soon after, I discovered the low FODMAP diet and have stuck with it ever since. My hypothesis is mast cell disease destroyed my body’s ability to create many enzymes necessary for digestion.

Now I binge on corn syrup free jelly beans. Sometimes by the package. You can take the fructose out of the candy, but you can’t take the candy out of me.