Hunger

“I’m hungry.”

These were my first words on the first morning after my first full eight-hour sleep in 10 months. The words felt foreign in my mouth, almost fragile, like something I had not allowed myself to admit in a long time. I propped myself up, switched off my lamp, made my bed with unusual care, and opened my bedroom windows. The morning air slipped in gently, cool against my skin, carrying a stillness I had not noticed in months.

I headed to the kitchen for breakfast. I was about to grab a piece of bread and a glass of water, my usual rushed and barely-there meal, when it dawned on me—I have no classes today. No deadlines. No reason to rush.

So instead, I reached for a bowl, filled it with rice and leftover spam. I poured myself a cloyingly sweet glass of milk, watching the white swirl and rise. I sat down and chewed my first bite unhurriedly, tasting the salt from the spam, and the softness of rice that did not have to be swallowed whole. For the first time in 10 months, I felt the food settle deep into my stomach instead of just passing through me like a formality.

I took another bite, slower than the first. And the third, even slower. After my last bite, I stared at the empty bowl and cup, waiting for fullness to come. It did not. I was still hungry. So, I ate more.

This went on for days. Even after three full bowls of rice, I would still feel hungry. The sensation was not sharp or painful. It was dull and persistent, like something knocking softly but endlessly on a closed door. I added more portions. I told myself maybe my body was simply catching up on lost meals and sleep.

Yet, the hunger remained.

One morning, after convincing myself over breakfast that I didn’t need more food, I stepped outside and went for a walk. A part of me was afraid—afraid of gaining weight with how strong my appetite had been lately. But more than that, I needed space. I wanted space to look back and process the past three years of my college life.

Before I entered the university, I was deeply grounded in my reasons: why I chose the university I am in, why I decided to study psychology, the kind of friends I wanted to meet, the organizations I planned to join, the goals I hoped to achieve after four years, and who I was achieving them for. Over and above that, I promised myself I would make it out happy, healthy, and alive. I was grounded.

But nearing the end of my college years, I felt like I was also nearing the end of me. The trail of quizzes became unending. The mountain of readings kept growing. The boat of reports began to sink. I had to keep up. Because if I didn’t, I’d end up lost, buried, or drowned. Maybe all three.

I chased my obligations. I chased the pressure. I chased the image of excellence.

To be fair, I’ve done well. I would not be surprised if other people find me absurd for being frustrated after reaching the very thing I once declared as my clear goal. But when I look down, I see what I left and traded away just to get here.

I left the love that once fueled my choice of university and course, and now I have grown to simply want to finish. I left the connection I hoped to build with new friends and reduced them to academic alliances. I left the dedication I meant to give to organizations, staying only for the certificates I could trade for a plaque. I left the people who once inspired me, and instead became obsessed with proving myself to those who didn’t believe in me. But more than anything, I left the little things that kept me human: checking in on my people without glancing at the clock, wrapping myself in warm and restful sleep without guilt, and eating my meals without multitasking my worth.

Maybe that’s why I am hungry. I was not only living with the kind of hunger that food could not satisfy. I was living with the hunger that comes from living only on the surface.

After the walk, I went straight to my room and reached for the notebook I had poured myself into passionately and tirelessly three years ago. Its pages were slightly worn, with ink pressed deep into the paper. Back then, I wrote because I loved to write, not because it would prove anything. For the first time in what felt like forever, as I wrote these words, I slowly began to feel the ground again. More than that, the hunger shifted, not gone, but understood. I surmise I’m not the only one this way—who lives, has lived, or still might stray.

We let ourselves starve for scores that mock us by half.

See Also

Talk of the Town: The ICI’s swan song

We bear sleepless nights, only to lose our senses in the middle of daylight.

We set aside our artworks just to cross the line of our paperwork.

We skip the joy on holidays, in search of work and extra pay.

We shelve emotions day by day, until we get used to the weight that won’t go away.

And so we’re left with our hearts, souls, and stomachs emptied by our own thief.

After writing, I ate.

—————-

Jan Anthonette D. Repomanta, 22, is a senior psychology student at the University of Baguio, born and raised in the mountains of the Cordillera.