"To eat" or "not to eat"

 In the dimly lit bar of Jhamsikhel on a Friday night, I engaged in conversations with friends about the constant monotony of life. I shared a bottle of Lindeman’s Bin 35 Rose, which contained 110 calories per 100ml and had a fruity and crisp flavour. As the hours passed, a friend cheerfully ordered another bottle, oblivious to my turmoil. With it came an astonishing amount of guilt within me. While he happily cheered for the lives we all shared, I sat across from the ghost that had haunted me for so long: the possibility of disordered eating. With every sip I took, I felt like I was fighting a silent battle—a battleground where everything edible around me started to become a wielded weapon against my own body. The maddening pursuit of achieving perfectionism echoed in the corridors of my mind, it was like a ball was constantly hitting the corners of my mind and with each bang, I mercilessly judged how my body looked in the mirror of the bar’s bathroom while simultaneously tearing my reflection apart.

Ever since I was in the third grade (also the heaviest I had ever been), the pressure to conform to a certain appearance weighed heavily on me. It felt as if my 9-year-old self carried a burden from which I could never be free. Every swimming session starting from that moment, I watched my peers dive carefree into the pool while I stood on the sidelines, completely paralyzed by the thought of exposing my body, as it was a scary thought to be dissected by those eyes that viewed me.

Every day before I ate my lunch, I found myself standing at the intersection of past and present, grappling with the intricacies of my existence. Each bite brought more calories, and with those calories came a sea of uncertainty that left me adrift, surrounded by insidious whispers of never being enough, never achieving the “perfectionism” I sought. While I looked for solace amidst the haze of intoxication that accompanied me throughout the night, I discovered not freedom but shackles forged of my own making. Every drink I carefully sipped became a calculated decision, and every sip was a strategic move, setting the stage for the inner turmoil brewing within me.

Yet, as I struggle to nourish my body, the constant blackouts and bad trips have become my “best friend,” as any Gen Z writer would put it. They neatly package my life, tying it with a bow filled with sparkles and rainbows. In the darkness of the same bar, I now seek comfort, and the pulsating beat temporarily respite me from the chaos within. It was at that moment my day started to bleed right in front of me, and the simple act of feeding myself transformed into a Herculean task—a war between appetite and hunger with each hesitant swallow, making it increasingly hard for me to breathe.

Trapped in this cycle of limitation and indulgence, I swing like a pendulum between extremes, grappling with the demons that lurk within. I feel overwhelmed by the expectations I’ve set for myself, suffocated by the relentless pursuit of perfectionism. I’ve become a prisoner of my mind, shackled by the chains of unattainable standards and unrealistic goals, which have nearly flickered my spirit. However, I cling to the belief that there lies a light at the end of the tunnel—a beacon of hope guiding me toward a better tomorrow.