Have you ever been so fat that people make fun of you? Have you ever hated yourself, wishing sometimes that you weren't born into this world? Has the thought of trading souls with the devil just to look good cross your mind? It all did for me.

It's funny how some people scorn with disdain at anorexia or bulimia, it's funny how they think it's the stupidest thing anyone could do to hurt themselves. What they don't know is the pain of everything a person has to go through, the struggle of self-hate and worthlessness of one's own body.

Watching the film ' To be Fat Like Me' made me revisit those memories, those haunting memories. People you love, people who love you telling you in your face how fat you were, making snide remarks about weight gain or flabby thighs. Even the well-meaning remarks like "maybe you should exercise more' or " try to eat more healthy food" never failed to feel like daggers, stabbing the measly enough self-esteem in me.

With all the pain and pressure, whether self-inflicted or not, how could anyone wonder why wouldn't anyone end up with an eating disorder. The pain of hiding that eating disorder would seem far less severe that going through the taunting or any comments related to weight. Hearing words like " Oh you look thinner now" felt better than winning a lottery and the feeling of fitting into smaller size clothing? Priceless.

All that obsession stemmed from the unwillingness to feel the pain of being sneered and jeered. Is it still as funny now? Is it still that unbelievable that one would resort to methods of harming the body just to lose weight?

Think again people. I am over this phase now and yet it pains me so much that the haunting memories can leave me distraught. The next time you poke fun at someone being overweight or fat, realise what you have done.

Sometimes, that damage can never be undone.

I don't want the Singaporean dream. That's all I know.

I hate to admit it, but the feeling of being 'old' sets in when scenarios around me just had to prove it. It doesn't even have to be extreme situations, even random moments when you realise, 'oh crap, I'm not young anymore.'

Of course I don't mean wrinkles ( but heck, I've already started on anti-aging products) or white hair, saggy skin or aching bones. It's like a state-of-mind, of what's acceptable or what's not.

When I was a younger, daikon, spring onions or any sort of onions were definite no-nos. I would meticulously pick them out or stubbornly refuse to allow them any contact with my body. Yet recently, I find myself craving for them, appreciating the wonderful complex taste of these 'awful' veggies.

Take the two door cinema club concert for example, preteens and teens were moshing together, and it was helluva discomfort. Probably my worst experience at a concert though the music was good. The thought of staying at home blasting the music while sipping a cup of tea comforted me, yet jolted me back to reality. My oh my, sounds comforting to someone awfully old.

And then playing the album now with the lyrics ' We're not kids you know" blasting in the background. Obviously I'm not a kid, I probably haven't used that term to my parents since, 18? Yet when the fans around me during the concert sang along, it felt as if the feeling resonated in their hearts. All I could think of was " Pffft. duh?"

Did I mention how I find it comforting to have seniors and post graduates in my class, even though the classes are definitely much harder this semester. Enough of freshies already, annoying little gits.

I was thinking on the way back from school one day, when was the happiest time of my life.

So many happy incidents of course, but a period which was truly memorable? A period where I felt so carefree and happy, being away from it all, being in a place where there was no politics, no anger, no unhappiness and where life was just simple and fun.

Then I realised it was the AME period in Chiang Mai.

Sleeping in sleeping bags on the floor, showering in a toilet where flooding was perpetual, seeing huge lizards (sometimes frogs) and without the internet for 2 weeks.

Yet I was so happy, I didn't need my comfy bed or 2000 threadcount bedsheets. I didn't need a gorgeous shower and I didn't need high speed internet.

I always wondered, how come I was so happy then, even happier than now when I'm in Seattle, with my own apartment, with a relatively high speed internet and a nice bathroom.

I still haven't figured why. But all I know is that suddenly I miss those times. Every new person met was a brother or sister.

Maybe, the older one becomes, the harder it is to be happy. Or maybe my eyes have become clouded, that only shiny new things would be able to catch my attention.

Whatever it is, I have decided. During my graduation trip, I probably would take a month off to go back there again. Things would be different, but we'll see.

Maybe right now, I just need to be away from it all.

invisible

A thought could be a scary thing. A thought infiltrating that volatile mind, unleashing a thousand of different scenarios in your head. The self-fulfilling prophecy, or in this case the self-fulfilling thought. Things go awry, tears flowing down, bridges broken.

And there you stand alone, far from everyone else. Breaking down, unseen and unnoticed.

All from a single thought. Scary isn't it? How a thought can be.

Musings of a (lonely) girl in America

One thing I think I have definitely learnt while being here is to be, well, alone. For the independent, free-spirited people out there, how difficult can that be, right?

Well, let's just say that it felt weird to be eating alone, walking to and from school alone, travelling alone. Ever since the boyfriend became part of my life, doing things alone just seemed.. well there was never a time for it. So long walk to school? He walked with me. Coming home after dates? Check he sent me home. Eating at random timings? He would eat with me, or if not there would be tons of people around.

Being in NTU and being in hall for about 3 years, I can safely say that I do know a decent number of people. To the point of walking around school and not seeing a familiar face would seem VERY weird. But right here in UW, it's the complete opposite. Seeing a familiar face makes me happy, because, well, it hardly happens.

Before this trip, the thought of being alone repulsed me. It scared me into believing that when you're alone, you look like some sort of a social pariah who just wouldn't fit in. Then I thought again, when was the last time I was alone? Maybe it occurred so long ago that I probably forgot how it felt like to be alone.

Well, the sense of independence is starting to creep in. It's not that big a difference but I feel it. I feel this sense of, "hey look! I'm not scared anymore and I am the independent free woman!"feeling. Grocery shopping alone, eating alone, taking flights alone, it made me spend time with myself. To get to know myself better and sit down and reflect through things.

I'm glad I'm here. Much as I miss home, I think I am growing up.

I know that this is slow, but I've only started to read about the tiger mom and have taken an interest to the issue. To be frank, whatever portrayed in there does seem scary and unreasonable, but I know somehow it isn't what it was made out to be. Why so? Because I think I had a similar childhood.

I remember, since as long as I could remember, my mom would prepare the assessment books for me to complete while she was at work since my grandma took care of me. I had two cousins living with my grandparents then and we were playmates for most of the day. Well, not most, because they did not have the work which I had to complete. I remember dreading Barney because I knew that when the show ended, my mom would be back to pick me up. And I remember dreading the punishment I had to go through when I failed to complete the work. I got caned.

When I reached primary school, my mom would continuously drill me, preparing worksheets and assessment books, cutting out newspaper clips to increase my vocabulary as well as cloze passage skills. I remember the different coloured files which contained the different exercises. I remember heuristics, fabian lye and preston books. I remembered that getting bad grades ( meaning below 91) would mean getting a scolding and being called a failure.

Then came the piano lessons, I remembered Ms Mah, my piano teacher would assign a grade, ranging from A to E for every piano lesson. Anything below a B was unacceptable, and it would result in caning. Even preparation for piano exams, while my parents were at work, they prepared a timesheet for us to fill in to complete the quota of 3 hours of practice. I remember the testing of scales and arpeggios and having to repeat each one whenever it was not perfect. I remembered the terror of each piano lesson, having known that I had not practiced enough. I remember wanting to give up and mom's response was " No you can't, you have to finish your grade 8, whether you like it or not."

Sounds like a terror right? I used to think so, perhaps until now. You see, behind every action, no matter how tough or harsh it was , there was love. Yes, I got caned. But mom would cry everytime she caned us because it hurt her so much. Yes, I got bad results and a bad track record for handing in homework, but mom did the most unthinkable. She left her high paying jobs just to stay at home to monitor me. Because I'm worth more than that. And the piano lessons? Well, I managed to achieve a grade 8 at age 14. And I'm glad she never let me quit, because whatever learnt and put in would have gone to waste. She never let me ' play for fun' because it's true, piano is not fun until you get all the techniques right, because only then you'll be able to easily master songs you like. Being called a failure for not doing well? Well I was. Every child will take that opportunity to skive and I think my mom knew that being lazy was inherent in me, if not for her pushing, I don't know if I would be where I am today.

Mom always told me that it was easy being the nicest mom and giving in to everything I wanted, not pushing me or trying to make me better than what I was. But she did not choose that route, because it would only mean resting on my laurels and being easily satisfied. Every step I took, she took that with me. And I think she worked so much harder for me than I did for myself.

And for that, I thank you mom. I think I never realised how much you have done for me until now.