Dear Ana

04. restaurant

Dear Ana,

my parents took me and my sister
out to dinner tonight,
at a fancy restaurant.

while the three of them ate
cheesy quesadillas,
flaky, pink salmon,
a juicy burger between toasted bread,
all i ordered was a glass of water.

my parents think that i eat "healthy" now,
that the fact the only five foods i eat,
even though i'm "recovered" now,
is because i'm getting better.

that the 1/3 cup of oatmeal,
that the chicken i grill for myself by pressing it against the hand-held grill so hard so that no fat or excess calories remains in the meat,
that the broccoli and cauliflower rice i eat for dinner
is all because i'm "recovered."

but because i'm actually eating,
and my parents want to avoid
another screaming match,
they don't push anything,
simply allowing me to take my chicken
and vegetables in Tupperware containers
everywhere,
with me refusing to let eat anything that is
not organic or containing GMO's,
containing a large amount of calories from fat,
containing vegetable oils,
containing artificial sugar,
containing preservatives,
containing any ingredients that aren't natural.

so i can't even remember the last time i ate at a restaurant,
the last time gooey cheese touched my lips
or ice cream melted on my tongue.

sometimes i dream about food,
about gobbling up a chocolate chip cookie,
and i wake up panicked
because i expect you to start yelling at me
for breaking the restrictions
and eating rules you'd enforced.

and strangely, i'm obsessed with cooking,
with standing in the kitchen,
soaking in the aroma
of sizzling beef and bacon,
of sweet onions and melting butter,
even though i never eat anything i make.

so no,
i don't eat at restaurants
because you don't like it
when i don't know the exact number of calories,
the ingredients,
the portion sizes.

because if i start eating junk food,
which i haven't done in two years,
you're afraid i'll never stop.

i thought you'd be proud of me that i never break your eating rules,
about the foods i can and can't eat,
never.
that the most i do is eat a couple more strawberries than you wanted.

you're not proud, though,
because i am still disgusting and
i shouldn't be looked at.
in fact, i don't like to be touched by people,
even if it's my family,
and i always shy away from hugs,
because i don't need anyone feeling
my oozing fat in fear that they'll be just as repulsed by me as you are.

                              - from, me