Forgotten Candy Bars

There was a candy bar I used to eat growing up in Oklahoma called a Zero.

White fudge outside.
Nougat inside.
Caramel and peanuts under all of it.

It belongs to that strange category of candy bars that somehow survived modern life.

The forgotten ones.

Zero.
Chunky.
Mr. Goodbar.
Bit-O-Honey.

Forgotten candy bars feel like artifacts from previous lives people used to live.

Before optimization.
Before everything became protein, energy, efficiency, branding, and algorithmic adulthood.

They belong to gas stations, faded grocery stores, old cash registers, and small towns that still have a little friction left in them.

During my relapse, I’d buy Zero bars at the 7-Eleven on Mission in Fremont almost every time they actually had them, which honestly wasn’t often. Maybe one out of every ten stores carried them.

I don’t even think it was about the candy bar.

I think some part of me saw a small glimmer of normalcy in them.

Something unchanged.
Something familiar.
Something connected to my mom, Oklahoma, childhood, ordinary life.

Funny what the brain reaches for when everything else starts breaking apart.

Not always drugs.
Not always escape.

Sometimes familiarity.

Sometimes proof that a few things in life still exist exactly as you remember them.

The older I get, the more I think recovery is partly about figuring out which things are actually trying to pull you back toward yourself.

Some things destroy you slowly.

Some things quietly remind you there was a version of you long before all the noise started.

Mine apparently came wrapped in silver foil.