When Bananas Were Sacred

(TW: Eating disorder)

I remember the odd way that I used to eat bananas. Every time I ate a banana, I would pull the peel down about halfway, then, beginning at the exposed end, I’d break off small chunks and eat each one, one at a time. As I pulled apart the banana, I enjoyed seeing its hidden structure. I had never heard anyone mention the banana’s three distinct sections, so after my discovery, every deconstruction of a banana filled me with excitement as if I was viewing a secret marvel. Additionally, I felt that my process made bananas taste even more delicious, because it allowed me to truly experience and savor each bite. I can’t minimize the significance of that belief. During that time, I was trying to savor every bit of food I put in my mouth. The reason was simple: I didn’t allow myself to eat much, so I wanted, no needed, to truly experience everything I did feed myself. Essentially, I was always trying to extend the eating process. This intention coupled with my need to eat as few calories as possible led to many strange meals. For example, my go-to lunch—when I was forced to eat that meal—consisted of one thin slice of low-sodium turkey meat, one Quaker Rice Cake, and one sugar-free tapioca pudding. Then, of course, the actual ritual of eating the food was quite unusual, as well. I always started with the turkey. I’d tear off tiny, tiny pieces, each of which I relished individually. I’d slowly chew every turkey sliver and roll it around in my mouth while focusing on the salty taste as much as possible. Once I’d finally finished my turkey, which could take a half hour or so, I’d move on to the rice cake. I’d follow a similar time-consuming process with that crunchy indulgence. The sugar-free tapioca pudding always came last, and I was probably the most careful to take my time with this item, which I considered to be a delicacy. I’d take my teaspoon and rest its bottom on top of the pudding, in order to cover the spoon’s curve with a very thin layer of pudding. Once I was satisfied that the spoon was adequately, but not excessively, coated, I’d slowly lick the pudding off. And then I repeated this process and repeated it and repeated it until the pudding was gone. It took a very long time. After I had finished my lunch, I would tell myself that I was satisfied. I would tell myself that my ritual had made the meal both physically and emotionally filling. I would tell myself that I loved the way I ate. But I was lying to myself. Although I created my painstaking process to hide my suffering from myself, it couldn’t make the fact that I was depriving myself of food any less significant or consequential.