I am fat. I would not use any other words like chubby or plump to sugar-coat my physical appearance, because people see me as fat, or "fatty" – a word I hate with a vengeance. In fact, it is a trigger word for me.

I have been called so all my life, even when my collar bones used to stick out; old photographs are lying, maybe? As far as memory goes, I remember being called "fatty," and a distant grandmother sweetly calling me "roshgolla."

Read more

The story of my mobile phone addiction

Fat or roshgolla, I have been body-shamed since childhood – directly or indirectly. Back then, the concept of not hurting the feelings of a fat person did not exist. It was not even a thing to register. What's body-shaming? And what does it mean to go into depression because of it?

These fleeting comments were not given the consideration or second thought that they might have a traumatic impact on a child. It was cruel. As an adolescent, I could never wear a mini dress for fear of my tummy sticking out. It had a detrimental effect on my confidence level during puberty, a time when, because of my hormonal changes, I was taller and fatter than all my cousins. I hated myself for being well-developed, as everyone around me reminded me.

Being fat is a curse that you do not want to live with. You want to look as pretty and feel as accepted as the rest of your flock. It is almost like the ugly duckling's story, except fat people never become the swan. Their self-esteem and confidence level are so battered that, by the time they face adulthood, the scars are too deep to heal. You either become the jester of your peer group at the cost of making fun of yourself, or a sad listless being. Do not think it is a women-only issue – fat men, too, face all sorts of complexes about their bodies.

The repercussion of body-shaming is a real deal; it's not a made-up trauma in my head. I fight with it every day when I dress for work or a night out with friends, which actually put me in a better state of mind than meeting families and aunties.

Very recently, I had a bad episode of unexplained bingeing disorder. I believe it was aggravated because of my depression or anxiousness. The eating made me feel guilty, and that in turn made me eat more until I wanted to throw up.

These are real issues, my own demons I have to deal with. But my husband, who is otherwise a very caring partner, brushed it aside by trivialising it as some theory I must have read in a magazine that depression triggers eating issues, and thus I am practising that. It was a hurtful comment. But knowing him, I know he loves to pull my leg. Nonetheless, I was deeply hurt. Instead of helping me chalk out a healthy plan to come out of it, he passed callous comments that did not help me. My doctors suggested healthy bingeing. So, my chips packets were replaced by carrot and cucumber sticks.

Don't get me wrong, I am not trying to go on a diet. Dieting is not for me. I enjoy a good meal, and my bakery snacks, and sugary treats. Even now, when my knee hurts, I adopt a devil-may-care attitude towards my obesity. The only reason being that it is a battle I have fought all my life; no one ever appreciated my healthy and fit self. I was always the fat one for the naysayers, whose comments devastated my ability to love myself.

Read more

It's time we talked about menopause

The repercussion of body-shaming is a real deal; it's not a made-up trauma in my head. I fight with it every day when I dress for work or a night out with friends, which actually put me in a better state of mind than meeting families and aunties. I cringe deep inside when I think I will have to meet the social aunties at family gatherings and weddings. "Tumi mota hoye gechho" ("You've put on weight") and "Eto kalo lagchhe" ("You look so tan") are some of the comments with which they greet you. Or "Have you met your cousin? She is into Pilates now. She looks like Barbie!"

Well, okay, I am Ursula, the sea witch from The Little Mermaid.

Accept me the way I am. It is time you left the issues of my well-being to me. Stop body-shaming, because it actually hurts.

Raffat Binte Rashid is features editor at The Daily Star.