There’s a picture of a two-headed creature that once circulated around my Facebook newsfeed. One head was a mouth wide and gaping. Its eyes were a voiceless cry for help. The other head muttered, “Be strong for mother.”

It was a Pokemon fusion between Weepinbell and Doduo, and I thought it summarized my dieting experience quite perfectly.

Day Zero: A deep breath before the plunge

At some point, I came across a Buzzfeed Food post about a two-week cleanse. Admittedly, the food photography, so neat and rich in color, was motivation enough to take on the challenge.

Eating clean and green in the Philippines isn’t so hard if you know where to look. That and if you know how to substitute for ingredients not grown locally. Unfortunately, I know the grocery like I know algebra—barely.

I acquire my groceries for the first week of the diet. The last supper is a large bowl of beef bulalo. I mash three bone marrows into maybe two cups of rice. I melodramatically feast on meat for what feels like the final time.

Day One

I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I will fear no evil because I have a pretty darned good kale-banana smoothie by my side.

My stomach should be clean enough to wash dishes within a fortnight.

I burn a pot of quinoa. A YouTube tutorial informs me I’ve been pronouncing quinoa (which is apparently keen-wah and not kee-no-wah) wrong for the longest time. Dinner is delayed, yet more or less filling. It yields leftovers for the following days. I end the night with an apple and almond butter—which tastes like peanut butter, kind of, but drier.

I may yet survive.

Day Two

Overnight oats give me life, and the illusion of a full stomach in the morning. Unfortunately, in school, some devil’s advocate offers me a bite of a Mallow Puff as I eat my salad.

I maintain my sanity until I challenge myself to stuff as many cabbage wraps into my mouth as I can during dinner. Do not attempt this. It is not fun to accidentally deep throat things that fall apart.

In other news, oranges are a pleasant scent to fall asleep to.

Day Three

The only blackberries I could find in this country are the call and text variety, so I substitute them with mangoes instead. Yogurt parfaits are a sweet way to start up any morning.

There is also more cabbage in this “Asian style” salad than there is dressing. (An open remark to Buzzfeed: Just because something has soy sauce doesn’t make it Asian.)

Today, I skip my snack because avocados are not meant to last long enough as packed snacks. Again, I am offered Mallow Puffs.

My cauliflower steak dinner is a joke. In what cruel world would anyone call this stiff roasted vegetable a steak?

Day Four

Tonight is Cannan’s second to the last night. Tonight, I mourn the Si2 and Alipustarice bowls (which ran out of stock, to my bittersweet shock). Tonight I watch as friends, both old and new, drink and feast on things I have to abstain from.

When I get home, I serve myself dinner at midnight.

Day Five

Ah, cauliflower. We meet again. Except this time, I toss my newfound nemesis into an omelette with a dash of Spanish paprika. The wide range of flavours in my breakfast relieve me until lunch time.

Cannan closes tonight. I drop by to bid farewell. Okay. You know what? I’m sorry. I have no excuse. I down a beer. And a fry. And another beer. I also had a spoonful from a rice bowl. Make that three beers.

I have failed today.

Day Six

My throat feels funny.

Sunday lunch is a ludicrous display. The family decides to eat lunch at—of all places—Nolita. If you don’t understand how painful this is for me, this place is known for its New York style pizza. The slices are huge. My sister orders a chicken-pesto pizza all to herself. I can smell the classic cheese come out of the brick oven as orders are announced by the lady behind the counter.

I resist crying into my gluten free pasta with steamed broccoli only because I’m in public.

Come bedtime, I’m too tired of chewing to take my nightcap. Also, I feel a cold kicking in.

Day Seven

I wake with a fever and a migraine that knocks me into bed for most of the morning. With nothing to do, I check social media. Roughly halfway into this diet and I’m considering quitting my obsessive scrolling through the #food tag on Instagram. I force myself out of bed to cook.

I eat an extra orange during my snack period. Maybe this additional vitamin C will make my progressing flu go away. It doesn’t. Please just punch me in the face tomorrow if I’m still sick.

Day Eight

Mother is convinced I’m sick because of this diet. My frail body yells, “I am literally sick and tired of your green stuff!” But momma never raised me to be a quitter. I am strong. I will get through this. I can survive!

I have strawberries and almond butter for snack time. I dream of the days long past. I try to remember what bread feels like in my mouth. Or the warmth of a bowl of steamed rice cupped in my two hands. My body remembers nothing but static.

My dinner—roasted eggplant, chickpeas, cauliflower (why?), and lemon-parsley yogurt—also looks like it’s drowning in a bodily fluid I’d rather not mention. It tastes good though. Probably because being sick means feeling perpetually starved.

Day Nine

In German, today means “no,” which is exactly how I feel while eating my sweet apple omelette to the news of Die Mannschaft screwing the Selecao with seven goals.

These eggs taste a lot like the Chinese New Year fave, tikoy. Sadly, I’m not a big fan. Sweet omelettes are an abomination.

Day Ten

Highlight of my day is that I made a scrambled egg so perfectly round that people thought it was something called pita bread. I’m not entirely sure what pita even is anymore.

My stomach’s contents are 99% gluten free, organic free range hipster cult meeting munchies. Kale me now.

Day Eleven

My flu, wrongly diagnosed as some infection by WebMD, is nearly gone. I taste the sweet remedy of a kale-banana smoothie. My semi-satisfied sweet tooth rejoices.

I eat no mayo tuna salad for lunch—which is, if you ask me, pretty much just plain canned tuna.

Eating has, for once in my life, become uneventful. Three more days left.

Day Twelve

If you listen to the song “Lucky” by Britney Spears, it’s about a girl who looks perfectly photogenic but is in truth incredibly sad. If you listen to my strawberry yogurt parfait’s monologue, you can vaguely hear it asking why tears come at night.

I’m also going to have to eat leftover black death chilli for lunch.

Dinner is half a large fillet of salmon (recipe says cod, sorry) baked “Asian style.” Again, it’s really just soy sauce. There is nothing remotely Asian about this dish. What defines cultural food stereotypes anyway?

Day Thirteen

Overnight oats in the morning just made my day. Watching Jon Favreau’s Chef on a semi-empty, salad-filled stomach, however, kind of dampened my mood.

I’d highly recommend watching said movie if you enjoy food porn and are a masochistic diet-doer.

Day Fourteen

Today might just be the day my life begins anew. I’m celebrating my last day on this salad-infested metaphorical island along with another World Cup title to Germany’s name.

The menu for the day spoils me. The thing about Portobello mushrooms is that they’re juicy enough when cooked. You don’t even have to pretend it’s a burger patty.

My stir-fry dinner and two squares of Malagos dark chocolate (not together, God no) ends the longest two weeks of my life.

I feel the joy and energy returning to my bones. I am alive. I am free. I am totally going to splurge on some deep fried, carbo-loaded cafeteria food tomorrow.

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Pros:

My skin feels like a baby's butt (meaning you do feel healthy and clean afterwards).

The food tasted great at times, with minimal seasoning needed.

Recipes were easy to follow.

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Cons:

Time consuming because I did everything myself.

Not cheap if followed to the letter because some ingredients aren't locally grown.

No carbs or red meat (read: Sadness).

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