Growing up, after I had moved to Australia from Sri Lanka as a child, I was constantly comparing myself to the people around me in a bid to ‘fit in’. I was the outsider for a number of reasons; the colour of my skin, the way that I spoke, and even the food I brought to school for lunch. In primary school, I remember a teacher gave all the other students in my class a stamp on the back of their hands for good work, but refused to give me one, saying that the stamp wouldn’t show up on my skin so I didn’t deserve one. I felt so embarrassed… as if I wasn’t part of the class. As if I wasn’t good enough. I grew to feel ashamed of my differences, and being the problem solver that I was, I decided the best way forward was to be like the people around me. For a young boy with his heart set on being included, it made more sense to just follow the crowd.

And when I was at home, I’d be surrounded by more reminders that I wasn’t good enough. These came from my dad, who was the main male role model I had in my life at the time. For him, being a man equalled physical strength, but in ways that were unhelpful and often harmful. I felt unsafe in my own home, always trying to prepare for how he would use his power, and who would be hurt in the process.

In high school I sought connection through school and social life. During this time, I was also overweight. This was something that played on my mind for all my childhood, but at the same time I was still comfortable, and I was still happy.

Through high school and then university, I found myself struggling under the pressure to do well. The thing that helped at the time, however, was my connection to my friends and peers. I thrived off connecting with others, especially through university – I was able to form a bit of a community of care made up of people who I cared about, and who cared about me. At home, though, I would be a completely different person – I was reserved and withdrawn, which was a complete turnaround from the extrovert I was in the past. When I was at home, I wouldn’t talk to my family and I wouldn’t talk to my friends like I would have done in the past. I’d instead surround myself with ideas and thoughts on how best to create Tharindu 2.0, and how to do it quick. I put so much time and energy into this that I just didn’t bother doing the things that I genuinely enjoyed.

At this stage, I had started to have an unhealthy relationship with food, and it came to the point where thinking about eating made me feel worried and scared, and I began to monitor the food I ate. As a result, I started to lose weight.

During this time, I became an incredible liar – because I’d be lying to my family about what I was eating, I’d be lying to my friends about why I was too busy to hang out, and of course, I’d be lying to myself about why I was doing what I was doing, and who exactly I was doing it for.

I remember feeling three things all the time. I always felt cold. I always felt scared. And I always felt alone. Every single day. Without fail.

I knew something was a little off, but I refused to acknowledge it to the extent of seeking help. I kept thinking that other people would view me as weak, or as less of a man. It felt like I had an illness that wasn’t made for me.

It came to the point where my mum took me to the family doctor – we had a really good chat, and it was that day where I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa. I was referred on to a psychiatrist, and at this stage I was on two sets of medication; to help me cope with anorexia, and something that had since been diagnosed by my psychiatrist – bulimia and depression.

I’ve been to a few mental health professionals over my time, and when it clicks when you find the right fit, it can feel like two friends just having a chat. I didn’t feel alone anymore. And it was through these discussions that I was inspired to sit with those uncomfortable thoughts of feeling like I didn’t belong. I learned to sit with the shame and identify the lies I’d internalised about body image and what being a man meant, and chose to replace them with what I know now to be true about self-respect.

I’ve not always felt safe at home, but I now realise that this body – the one that dances, the one that smiles, the one that cries – this body is my home too… this is where I live. It kept me safe during some of the darkest times of my life, and it continued to care for me when I didn’t know how to care for it back. It guided me to realise that asking for help and accepting support doesn’t make me weak. When I look in the mirror I’ve always wanted to see someone happy staring back at me. And even through the days where I don’t feel like I’m at my best, I realise now that it’s okay. Because I know that a past version of me would be proud that I exist, just as I am.

Contributed by Tharindu