A Quesadilla Without Cheese

I am learning to accept the fact that I used to have an eating disorder. From the ages of eleven-ish to thirteen-ish I would obsessively count the calories and fat of everything I put into my body. It began with a notebook I would carry around with me at all times but eventually transformed into the math I could just do in my head. I’m not good at mental math. I was just eating so few calories that I could put them together in my brain while I went about my day. This didn’t seem disorderly to me. This seemed like what I had to do. This was how I could stay skinny. And by staying skinny I could be what I wanted to be more than anything else in the whole world, happy. 

I learned how to count my calories in the summer between seventh and eighth grade at fat camp. When we attended fat camp, they asked us multiple times not to call it that. It’s called weight loss camp. Fuck that noise. It’s fat camp. At fat camp, we learned to track every piece of food that went into our body. No strawberry, piece of lettuce, or sugar packet went unnoticed. We actually only were allowed to use Splenda but I forgot that since I have permanent brain damage from only being allowed to use SPLENDA for a few years in my life. 

The fat camp I went to was very focused on maintaining our weight loss. They wanted us to  continue our journey after we left camp. They kept saying shit like “this isn’t a diet, it’s a lifestyle change”. Aka, you’ll be writing down your food until you die. Yeah, now I hear how that could be an eating disorder. We had group therapy sessions, one-on-one therapy sessions, cooking classes on how to make grilled chicken using spray butter and Lawry’s seasoning, as well as nutritional classes. Now, I am not entirely sure who was running these classes. I don’t remember her name or her qualifications but I don’t know if she really knew everything about nutrition based on the one, extremely vivid, memory I have of one of our classes. 

Our nutritionist stands in front of our class warning us about the dangers of going out into the world after we’re done with camp. Since we’ve arrived, all of our food has been carefully made for us with as little fat in it as possible. When we’re out in the real world, that won’t happen. What do we do if we’re out at a restaurant? What can we possibly order? The sun beams in through the windows and bounces off her bright blonde hair. It is early. I am tired. I’ve already made up my mind about never eating in public again. Lauren, I don’t remember her name but she feels like a Lauren, asked us all what we were thinking about ordering at this pretend restaurant she made up for us. “A salad?” Someone suggested. Lauren approved. “A sandwich?” Someone else chimed in with. Lauren liked that answer too. These were such boring answers. Lauren didn’t seem too excited about our selections. And then, her eyes lit up. “Can I tell you guys about a meal that we discovered in my other class?”. We agreed, like we had a choice in the matter. She stood tall and proud, as if she was about to regale us with the secret of life. Instead she said this bullshit. “One of the girls in my other group suggested a quesadilla. And I, of course, was like oh absolutely not! All that cheese and bread, no thank you! But then she said, wait no, what about a quesadilla without cheese. I couldn’t believe it. You see, if you normally order a quesadilla it comes with all that fatty, oily cheese and bread that's full of hidden calories and fat,  it’s so terrible for you. But if you order...a quesadilla without cheese then you have a beautiful assortment of grilled chicken and fresh, steamed vegetables. I mean, wow. That would be perfect for your meal”.

I didn’t order that “quesadilla”. I don’t think I’ll ever order that “quesadilla”. No one should ever order that “quesadilla”. It’s hard to unlearn years of shitty thinking and lies I told myself. Like I needed to be skinny to be happy. Turns out starving myself didn’t make me happy. Or that cheese will make you fat. I’m trying really hard to be better about finding a love for myself while allowing myself to eat the foods I was once told were horrible for me. It’s hard but I know I can do it. I wonder how “Lauren” is doing. I really hope she’s not eating “quesadillas”.