Disgusting Creature

One exhausting night after a long day at work, I fell asleep on the MRT on my commute home. When the train stopped at the next station, I woke up to find several people staring at me strangely. Later, I learned they had called security. They thought I wasn’t asleep — but dead.

That incident should have been a wake-up call. But instead of feeling shocked or angry, I just chuckled lightly. Ironically, I felt a strange sense of relief when I heard their reasoning: my body was so thin they thought I was lifeless. In my messy head, it felt like validation. See? I’ve succeeded in being so thin, thin enough to confuse people.

Thinness as Pride

When I was a child, I took pride in my thinness. In middle school, I often joked that my weight matched my shoe size: 10 in US sizing. For context, US size 10 translates to 28 cm in length, and I would deliberately ensure my weight in kilograms aligned with it.

When my shoe size was 28 cm, I needed to weigh 28 kilograms. When my shoe size was 30 cm, I needed to weigh 30 kilograms. And so on, I followed the rule for years. It became a quirky benchmark, one I carried with pride from middle school, possibly even earlier, way into my university years.

My friends found it amusing, often laughing when I shared this “fun fact.” Their laughter felt like validation. In my small world, being thin wasn’t just normal, it was exceptional. It set me apart and gave me something to boast about when I didn’t feel I had much else to celebrate. Not many girls could make such a peculiar claim, and that uniqueness made me feel special, even proud.

But pride is fragile. As my body remained small while others around me began to grow and develop, the perception of my thinness shifted. Compliments faded and were replaced by concerned glances or, worse, expressions of pity.

“Do you even eat?”

“Why are you so thin? That’s unhealthy, you know.”

At first, I brushed these comments off, unsure whether they were genuine expressions of concern or veiled criticisms meant to underline how frail I appeared. The ambiguity unsettled me. Were they worried about me, or were they judging me?

At home, things were no better. My mother’s disapproval of my appearance added another layer to my insecurities. She had strong opinions about how a young woman should look, and in her eyes, I was too plain, too indifferent about my appearance to be truly feminine. “A woman should be beautiful. You don’t need to be this skinny,” she would say, her tone hovering between reproach and resignation.

She often tried to “help” by suggesting — or more accurately insisting, that I try on more feminine clothes. I vividly remember standing in front of the mirror, awkwardly clad in dresses she picked, feeling more alien in my skin than ever. What she saw as motherly guidance felt, to me, like relentless criticism. Her words and actions, though possibly well-meaning, only deepened my feelings of inadequacy.

This clash between how I perceived myself and how the world — including my mother, saw me marked the beginning of a long, complicated relationship with my body. My earlier pride in being thin started to erode, leaving behind a growing sense of confusion and frustration. What once made me feel unique now made me feel wrong. And I didn’t know how to fix it.

A Mirror That Never Lies

When I entered my teenage years, the mirror in my room transformed from a silent object into my harshest critic. It seemed to reflect not just my appearance but every insecurity I carried. Every time I stood in front of it, I didn’t see the slim body I once took pride in. Instead, I saw a collection of flaws staring back at me. My protruding bones felt grotesque, my dull skin lifeless, and the clothes that once felt like an expression of my personality now seemed to dangle off me, shapeless and uninspired.

The world outside that mirror wasn’t any kinder. At school, the comments from my peers were casual but cutting.

“Don’t let a strong wind blow, or you might fly away!”

“Do you not eat rice?”

They said it with laughter, and at first, I joined in, pretending the words didn’t sting. I convinced myself it was harmless teasing, a way to fit in and keep the mood light. But over time, the jokes started to weigh on me. They stopped feeling funny and began to feel like accusations. The more I heard them, the harder it became to ignore the implied message: There's something wrong with me.

I started to view my body through their eyes. Every sharp angle and visible rib became a reason to feel ashamed. Even everyday interactions became tinged with self-doubt. When someone glanced at me for a moment too long, I would assume they were silently judging my appearance. Did they think I was too thin? Did I look sick? The questions piled up, and no answer was ever comforting.

I didn’t realize at the time just how much those words and glances would linger. They weren’t fleeting moments. They became etched into my mind, transforming into a voice that accompanied me everywhere I walked. Long after the comments stopped, that voice whispered, echoing my worst fears about myself. It followed me to every mirror I stood before, every photo I avoided, and every outfit I hesitated to wear.

The scars weren’t physical, but they were real. And they shaped how I saw myself for years to come.

Twenty Years and Still Lost

By the time I reached my twenties, I felt like I was drifting in a void, watching life move forward for everyone else while I remained stuck. My friends were building their lives — falling in love, getting married, climbing career ladders with pride and purpose. Meanwhile, I was still standing in front of a mirror, trapped in the same cycle of doubt, asking myself the same question over and over: Am I good enough?

The pressure of this question came to a head when I decided to try dating. Desperate to move forward, I downloaded a dating app and arranged to meet someone for coffee. I thought this could be a step toward something new, a way to bridge the gap between where I was and where I wanted to be. But the preparation for that meeting was a nightmare.

I spent hours sifting through my wardrobe, trying to find “the right” outfit. Something that might make me look desirable, something that could disguise all the flaws I believed defined me. Nothing seemed to work. Every dress and every blouse felt like a mask that didn’t fit. When I finally settled on something and caught my reflection in the mirror, a familiar wave of despair washed over me.

“Who would want to lay with this disgusting creature?”

The thought was deafening, as if it had a voice of its own, whispering directly into my soul. My reflection, with its sharp angles and hollow gaze, seemed to confirm every fear I had about myself. I stared into the mirror, unable to shake the certainty that no one could ever see me as attractive, let alone lovable.

I canceled the date with a hastily constructed excuse, and the relief I felt at avoiding it was immediately drowned out by shame. That night, I retreated to my room, wrapped myself in the silence of my loneliness, and cried until sleep finally took over.

When the Body Becomes an Outlet

Over time, my body transformed into a physical representation of my inner turmoil. It became the battleground where I fought against everything I hated about myself. My eating habits, once a point of pride, turned into a form of quiet rebellion against my worth. I didn’t restrict my food intake because I wanted to be thinner; I did it because I felt I didn’t deserve the simple comfort of feeling full. In my mind, this body — this thing — didn’t deserve care.

This self-punishment became a reflex, especially when life threw challenges my way. Every time I failed, whether it was a project at work or a misunderstanding with a friend, I turned to my body as the scapegoat. I would eat even less, pushing myself deeper into a state of deprivation as if punishing my body could somehow make up for my shortcomings.

Eventually, my body began to break under the strain. I fell ill, the consequences of my neglect manifesting in ways I couldn’t ignore. Simple tasks — getting out of bed, walking up the stairs, even holding a conversation felt like monumental efforts. My body was screaming for help, but I was too caught up in my self-loathing to hear it.

Even in the face of these warning signs, I couldn’t fully acknowledge that there was a problem. Part of me still clung to the belief that this was what I deserved that my body was a reflection of my failures and, as such, wasn’t worth saving.

Learning to Make Peace

Now, in my late twenties, I can’t say I’ve made peace with my body. The scars are still there, and bad days still come. But at least I’m beginning to realize that this journey is about learning how to live alongside my imperfections.

I’m trying to listen to my body more, not to transform it into something “more beautiful,” but to give it what it needs to stay alive. I’m beginning to understand that being thin isn’t a goal but simply a part of who I am.

When I stand in front of the mirror now, I still see that disgusting creature. But there are days when I can see more than that — a human being who is hurt but keeps trying, who survives even while stumbling, and who, despite being full of wounds, dares to move forward.

A Journey Unfinished

I’m not writing this to provide some grand inspiration or a story of dramatic change. I haven’t suddenly become a confident woman who loves herself. There are still days when I feel like that disgusting creature, especially when I’m in front of the mirror.

But I’m starting to learn that maybe it’s not about completely erasing that feeling. Perhaps it’s about learning to live with it, about accepting that there are wounds that may never fully heal but can still be tended to.

The beauty of an unattractive woman isn’t about changing beauty standards. It’s about finding something more meaningful, even though the journey there is full of tears and fear. And for the first time, I can say that despite how hard this journey is; I’m still here, trying.