Ritambhara Dhungana
As I was walking home from college after missing my bus, my stomach grumbled, and each step felt heavier with hunger. Then I saw a restaurant and stopped, drawn by the warm smell of food.
At a table, a girl was shouting, “I don’t want to eat. Don’t force me. My life, my rules.” She pushed her plate away aggressively, shaking. People stared, some annoyed, some uncomfortable. I didn’t see anger or rudeness. I saw fear and pain speaking in the only way she knew. I could feel her. I’m always going to include her in my prayers.
Seeing that girl, I felt a strong urge to reach out. I walked over to her table and talked to her for a while, gently listening to her words and fears. Later, I spoke to her parents, carefully explaining that their daughter might be struggling with an eating disorder. I told them it wasn’t really about food, it was a coping mechanism, a way to manage feelings that felt too big to handle.
I hoped that like me, she could someday find understanding, care and the courage to seek help without shame. .It reminded me of myself a few years ago. There was a time in eighth grade when I went to school early for extra classes, surviving on nothing but strong black coffee with no sugar. I skipped lunch and quietly hid the food I was given for dinner, later throwing it away when no one was watching.
I would throw away the food in the school’s washroom. I remember my Nepali teacher was the only one who would eat that particular dish. Some of the girls started imagining that he must be sneaking into the girls’ washroom every day just to dispose his food. They even called him “shameless” for it and he had no idea about it. I felt bad for him but I wasn’t ready to tell him all that. I later revealed everything to him after I was in a better condition the next year. He took it as a joke and that revealed how kind he actually is.
There were times when my mother and I would have serious arguments about my eating habits. I would throw immense tantrums, and people sometimes called it “drama.” However, it was never drama. I would genuinely start shivering at the sight of food on my plate, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. Once, my family discovered the food I had been hiding in my bag. My bag had torn, and my dad took it to a tailor to get it stitched. That’s when the spoiled, smelly food fell out.
My Dad came home furious. He shouted at me, called me ungrateful, and reminded me that my grandmother had cooked that food with love. He said there were people starving in the world and what I was doing was utterly sinful and disgusting. I was shattered from the inside. I felt misunderstood and even thought of leaving home forever. I packed my diary, my phone, a couple of cosmetics, earrings, and two pairs of clothes, and walked away without telling anyone. Later, my father came looking for me in his bike, found me and brought me home. Looking back now, what I packed makes me realize how innocent I was. I wasn’t running away from my family; I was running from pain I didn’t yet have words for.
At school, there was a lunch attendance system. A lunch observer marked who had eaten and who hadn’t. That’s when my teachers noticed my patterns. Instead of punishing me, they sat with me and made me eat with them, patiently guiding me through each bite. Shouting at me at times, but out of love and care. Sometimes, the guilt became unbearable, and I would rush to the washroom to induce vomiting just to escape it. Even so, I still admire the care my teachers gave me. I will remain grateful for that love for as long as I breathe.
My parents even hid the weighing machine. It’s still hidden to this day. I am not well aware of what my weight is now, its better that way, but I’m healthy, and that’s all that matters to them. Back then, I thought the entire world was against me. I thought, nobody loved me. Now, I understand, it was love. Clumsy, scared, imperfect love, but love nevertheless.
Of course, I cannot forget the friend at school, the one who offered me what felt like free therapy before I ever received medical help. She didn’t have certificates or sessions planned, didn’t charge a single penny, but she had patience, listening, and a quiet understanding that made the world feel a little less heavy. I believe, healing begins not in clinics, but in the simple presence of someone willing to sit with you while you’re going through a tough time.
I suddenly lost a lot of weight and was barely thirty kilograms. I wasn’t skinny during the lockdown; I was perfectly fine on the outside, but the disorder had already begun quietly, taking hold of my thoughts and habits. Social media had some influence. The unrealistic bodies posted could make anybody feel inferior. By eighth grade, I realized I could not do it alone. I sought proper help, including medical attention, and began attending sessions that slowly taught me how to care for myself. Years of patience, guidance, and understanding have brought me here today, standing alive, learning that surviving is difficult and it is not weakness, seeking help is a quiet courage in itself. I still struggle in being patient, not regarding food but regarding other things. Those who are patient, are the most successful people in my eyes.
I used to check my weight on the weighing machine every day, sometimes three times. Every meal felt scary , every bite was a choice between control and fear. Back then, I thought discipline meant denying myself, and that my worth could be measured in grams. I believed I could be “beautiful ” only if I restricted myself. Now, I understand that my body was never the enemy. Hunger was not a failure, and needing help was not a weakness. Anybody who asks for help isn’t weak, but is brave! I’m proud of my younger self for choosing to seek help back then.
Eating disorders are not all the same. It is different for every individual. Anorexia nervosa is when someone restricts food, trying to control weight or hunger, often hiding pain behind discipline, as a coping mechanism from stress or other issues. Bulimia nervosa involves cycles of overeating followed by purging, a push and pull between guilt and relief. Binge eating disorder is when food becomes comfort and escape, often accompanied by shame afterward. These are just the most common types. There are many more types of eating disorders we don’t even know that exist. Most importantly, these disorders never truly go away, they stay within the individual in one form or another. The individual can learn how to cope with it but can’t ever get rid of it.
Slowly, I gained weight. People who see me now say, “Ritambhara, you’ve gained weight since then! You’ve finally become fatter.” I’m used to it now, but there were times in my recovery journey when even small comments like that would trigger me. Those comments were hurdles in my recovery journey. One must be cautious about what they say, especially about someone’s appearance or condition. You never know what the other person is going through. Body shaming, whether fat shaming, skinny shaming, comments on height, weight, skin color, or skin condition, is never okay. Every individual’s struggles are different and nobody’s struggles should be termed as “drama” or “tiny”. Judging is easy, experiencing is not.
After medication and counseling, I am alive. I have learned the true essence of beauty, not in numbers on a scale, not in the perfection of meals, but in being present in my own life. I eat normally now, with more junk than healthy food, like most people my age to be completely honest. I don’t measure myself in grams or guilt anymore. I strongly believe that every individual is beautiful, I measure myself in moments of gratitude, in my experiences and in the love I can finally see around me. I’m still childish and immature for a girl who is almost seventeen years old, but I’m wise enough to understand who cares about me and who doesn’t. . Experience gave me the skill to understand that.
Sharing this story, I hope the reader reading understands that psychological struggles are just as real and valid as physical ones. Not being okay is absolutely okay. Some people simply need support, understanding, and a safe space to heal. Therapy, medical help, or just someone willing to listen, these aren’t signs of weakness. They are steps toward life, toward survival, and toward learning that you are never broken, no matter what you have endured.
