Rob Lustig calls the United States "the drug capital of the world," and he isn't talking about cocaine, heroin, or methamphetamine, nor even mass-marketed opioids like OxyContin. He is referring to sugar, a substance that, in 2013, the chief health officer of the Netherlands declared to be "addictive and the most dangerous drug of all times." "Addictive" is not too strong a term. A Harvard Medical School study found that people ingesting foods with a high glycemic index -meaning, in practice, junk foods that rapidly elevate blood sugar levels- got hungrier faster. On fMRI scans, they showed activation of the same brain regions stimulated by drugs such as cocaine or heroin. Never missing a profitable beat, multinational corporations vigorously market sugar-laden resignet concoctions to children, and prey on people who, owing to trauma, penury, and grinding oppression, are especially vulnerable to addictive substances.
The mind is a meaning-making machine. It will generate stories that "make sense" of the emotions that, at a vulnerable time, it could not contain and perhaps still cannot. Yet in the individual's unspoken history, the emotions were real, and therefore still are.
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Nothing in Nature "becomes itself" without being vulnerable: the mightiest tree's growth requires soft and supple shoots, just as the hardest-shelled crustacean must first molt and become soft. The same goes for us: no emotional vulnerability, no growth. Even our "tougher" qualities like resilience, determination, confidence, and bravery, if authentic and not mere bluster, have that softer state as a necessary precursor.
Children often receive the message that certain parts of them are acceptable while others are not -a dichotomy that, if internalized, leads ineluctably to a split in one's sense of self. The statement "Good children don't yell," spoken with annoyance, carries an unintended but most effective threat: "Angry children don't get loved." Being "nice" (read: burying one's anger) and working to be acceptable to the parent may become a child's way of survival. Or a child may internalize the idea that "I'm lovable only when I'm doing things well," setting herself up for a life of perfectionism and rigid role identification, cut off from the vulnerable part of herself that needs to know there is room to fail-or even to just be unspectacularly ordinary- and still get the love she needs.
The longer I endure, the more vulnerable I become, he thought.
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Fight it, he willed her, sending the words down the bond—the mating
bond, which perhaps had settled into place that first moment they’d become
carranam, hidden beneath flame and ice and hope for a better future. Fight
her. I am coming for you. Even if it takes me a thousand years. I will find
you, I will find you, I will find you.
Only salt and wind and water answered him.
Rowan rose to his feet. And slowly turned to face them.
But their attention snagged on the ships now sailing out of the west—
from the battle site. His cousins’ ships, with what remained of the fleet
Ansel of Briarcliff had won for them, and Rolfe’s three ships.
But it was not those boats that made him pause.
It was the one that rounded the eastern tip of the land—a longboat. It
swept closer on a phantom wind, too fast to be natural.
Rowan braced himself. The boat’s shape didn’t belong to any of the
fleets assembled. But its style nagged at his memory.
From their own fleet, Ansel of Briarcliff and Enda were soaring over the
waves in a longboat, aiming for this beach.
But Rowan and the others watched in silence as the foreign boat crested
through the surf and slid onto the sand.
Watched the olive-skinned sailors haul it up the beach. A broadshouldered young man nimbly leaped out, his slightly curling dark hair
tossed in the sea breeze.
He did not emit a whiff of fear as he stalked for them—didn’t even go
for the comforting touch of the fine sword at his side.
“Where is Aelin Galathynius?” the stranger asked a bit breathlessly as
he scanned them.
And his accent …
“Who are you,” Rowan ground out.
But the young man was now close enough that Rowan could see the
color of his eyes. Turquoise—with a core of gold.
Aedion breathed as if in a trance, “Galan.”
