Returning Home

School officially ended on Thursday and I packed up my dorm room and with my Dad’s help, we drove home the first batch of my ridiculous amount of luggage. I swear, if I stay in hall again next semester, I’m not taking that much nonsense with me. I brought home the second batch today. I was in the middle of packing up my bedroom at home and figuring out where some of my extra things would fit my drawers when I had a small moment. I was changing things. It’s a simple, natural action to reorganise for the life, the interests you grow into. But for over a year, I chose to stagnate.

This isn’t the first time I’ve thrown out old stuff since I’ve begun to move on from my grief over N. However, I held that small thought for a moment when I was tired, hot and slightly surprised with myself at how it didn’t occur to me that I didn’t even consider what was happening the day before and all the way till the middle of my packing today.

I like being home again. Now that my parents know and have gotten more used to my habits, everything is easier. The situations where I am agitated, usually because of food, has been dramatically reduced. I like my bedroom. I love the soft sheets of my comforter and I like my orange and green walls. I like turning down the temperature of the air conditioning and snuggling under the covers. I like writing in my WordPress at my own desk. I like everything about being in my room.

I loved home.

It’s always been my safe house. When I was a kid, home was where I was safe from fear. I was scared of my grandmother but my fear towards her was nothing like my social phobia. In high school, a strange pang of extreme sadness always hit me when I had to leave for school when my mother waved me off from the door, as I waited for the escalator with my Dad. I would feel as if I giving up precious time with them when they’re still alive. It always almost brought me to tears. Is such a feeling strange?

It’s becoming easier to love home the way I used to again. I’m not sure what I look forward to. I wonder if I will love home for being able to be with my family again. That’s a rhetorical question since I am after all a family-oriented person.

The people around me always seem to have someone to return to. Their special someone. Many of my schoolmates seem to be broken people. This makes me envy them more for having someone to return to. But at least I am content to be with myself again, I think.



‘Ed’ by Migin Chua (photo from @ms_dreamway)


Title: Ed

The idea behind this installation is based on my personal experiences with eating disorders. I like that the skele is gender ambiguous. The weighing scale and the use of cutlery represents the constant struggle between the body’s primal instinct to nourish and the mental desire to be bone-thin. The scale is rigged to a normal, healthy weight relative to the skele’s proportions to portray that even people with normal weights can have an eating disorder. So although the skeleton conforms to the public perception of the anorectic, this installation also encompasses a range of eating disorders, for it is so complex and there are so many. 

This is my installation piece for my 4D Final Project for the semester. For this class, the semester began with us creating a world in Tumblr for us to practice writing different narratives. Mine is about eating disorders at Depths of Her Mind. The subsequent projects were based on the world we spun out and the final project is to create an installation art piece on it. This is mine. 

It was tedious. Even installing my skele was tedious and hanging it up in school took me four hours from midnight to four in the morning (and yes, I soon regretted not hanging it earlier). I worked with plastic on another project just before this one for my 3D class and it was hell. I used plastic bottles for it and I had to sew them together with fishing line to form a cube shape. Fortunately, the plastic cutlery I used for this installation sticks with hot glue, though not for long. I drew my inspiration from Carlos Bonil. The skull, I modelled last and it was the toughest part. It came out looking like a Star Wars mask initially. Or a bug king.


See what I mean? I dismantled it and reglued the thing and my friends started to tell me what a nice brain I made. A senior we know came into the room again and gave me some thoughts on how I should create the jaw separate and then join it to the head to make it look more human. That helped lots. The skull now has a demonic shape. I’d say that’s a big improvement and though not ideal, I was too worn out from being stuck at the head for days to bother anymore. And soon I had this.


This is the first time I’m posting my work on my WordPress. I took my photos from my Instagram, which is where I usually post my work if you’d like to see. (:


I’m not sure if it became tough after the eating disorder or after Uni. I never had such problematic relationships before, or at least for so many years that I don’t recall.

It makes me hate people.

What tiny, insignificant problems I’m writing about. But they hurt again and again.


I wonder why it matters to me to continue to befriend these people who give me so much hurt when they are not the important friends to begin with. I don’t want to anymore. The next time these people bring me pain again, they will know I’ve had enough.

I tried to tell him. No, I did but it somehow just didn’t register with him. And to her, I did what I’ve always done. Told her the other point of view. Loyalty? That’s me being loyal by hoping she’d stop seeing things through her absolute perspective. Narrow. Judging. It is not a character problem as you keep saying. We simply have different characters, different beliefs. It was hard to get over the first episode. And I know you felt just as hurt because you tell me each time this memory involuntarily arises in our conversations. But what happened yesterday still cuts. Even though we resolved that we would continue talking happily about unimportant things.

I would talk to my friend who asked me to share. About? My sadness because I put full stops in my replies. Oh. I wish I could but she and I agreed just for this once, I won’t talk about it. I don’t know how the rumors started. I don’t talk about you that way. And the people who know what happened that first time wouldn’t breathe a word. They have no need to. No urge. It doesn’t matter to them. I’m sorry but I only believed the rumors started from me because why else would a stranger tell you to come to me for your answers? But I’m also upset. With you. And that smothers my guilt for I’m not even sure what (since your stranger didn’t even tell you what the word about is). It crushes the guilt that would’ve killed me again. But the sadness. It stays. With a shadow of guilt.

And again it’s just me and meaningless tears.

Whispers and Shouts and My Screams

Lighter, she whispers.
I want to throw food to the ground.
But it’s already in my belly
so it’s my belly I hate
and the rest of my body with it.

Rain is pouring, pelting outside.
I wish it were daggers falling to the ground.
I’ll stand outside.
Cut the flesh off my bones.

I cannot touch myself
but even then I can feel myself.
My hand resting on my keyboard, heavy.
My bum sitting on the chair, heavy.

Everything carries too much weight
and this weight is a burden on me.

Long, Straight Line

But scars
show who you are,
she says,
when I ask,
Can you see?

I think, to me
it’s no scar.
I made sure.
Just a superficial cut.

I strip off my
floral flannel blouse
because she hadn’t noticed
my new cut
until I asked.
And raised my arm
to show her what he had said
just looks like a long,
straight line

Perspiring from this humidity
I try on another shirt.
I decide no one will notice.
Because no one bothers
to look for what is hidden.
They didn’t then.
They won’t now too.
Even when it’s as obvious as this.
Once, my wound looked them their face.
They asked
and I dismissed it.
Even then, they didn’t know.

How easy it is, I now think,
as sleep eludes
these tired swollen eyes,
for us to live with our darkness
because no one looks.


At times I wonder if we will sit outside
Under my bright night sky
If I will ever clutch
Your arm as I giggle from the liquor
If I will lean against
You as I search out the stars
I wonder then will I feel whole for a while
Whether I’ll feel bittersweet sadness
From not feeling alone
Because maybe you’re acquainted
With grief as well

I Actually Cry A Lot

I cry easily. I’m sensitive and I don’t like people to know that. I’m also not a happy person but I like it when people think I’m simple and carefree. I’m embarrassed when people know that I feel. I’m embarrassed when people see this vulnerability. While it irks me when people say that I can get over something because I am strong, I also don’t like it when people associate me with weakness. Once anyone sees you as weak, you’ll never be the foolproof human being in their eyes again. You’ll never be wholly strong. That’s what I believe for myself. 

And I wonder if anyone realises I often cry to myself. I wonder if my friends realise that I cry a lot. I wonder if they ever wonder what I am doing on this night or another. I wonder this about my friends who I’ve told about my ED and who have seen my wounds. 

I wonder if whoever I text when I’m desperate enough to pour out pained thoughts ever wonders if I’m weeping hard - behind the steady tone of my replies. I don’t always mean to hide it but I do sound detached even when I read my own messages afterwards.