Last year I had put up a casting call looking for someone to let me use ice on them. Little did I know that this session would yield so much more than just the opportunity for me to do something out of the norm for me. Instead, Miss K and I talked about body image and she divulged her experience with eating disorders (she also participated in the Empowerment Project for that). During her session, I could see that Miss K had so much passion and the movement of an artist as I directed her and she made it her own. It was AFTER the shoot, however, that I realized just how much this gorgeous babe was struggling internally. While we had talked about body image, we never really talked about the source of it or the life experiences that led her to that place. When I realized that it was because someone tried to claim her body as his own, this shoot mean oh, so much more. On the surface, this shoot was a fun time, me learning new lighting, posing, and styling, but underneath all that, this was an opportunity for this babe to give herself permission to continue on her journey to healing, self love, living a passionate life, and reclaim the body that is HERS.Here is her story (TW: sexual abuse, eating disorders, etc.)
Please forgive me, as this may be a long and winding road to get to the end of it.
I have never felt comfortable in my own skin - and it was something that I was taught from an early age, between restrictive dress codes for schools and summer camps and the way the other girls would talk about themselves - and others - in the gym locker room. I dealt with (and still struggle with) disordered eating as a teen and young adult. It's been tricky, of course, it's difficult for everyone, but I was making progress on accepting the body I was in.
Then last year, on a warm jazz-fested evening, I was sexually assaulted by someone who I had counted as a close friend, an integral part of my personal and professional community. My progress stopped.
I won't walk you through the gory details, I relive them often enough. The situation was grey in a way that I knew would never be conducive to legal use and justice, so I buried it in my head as much as I could. I underwent the appropriate testing immediately and six weeks after the event, and was thankful to have escaped with as little extra baggage as I did. I started attending an Anglican church service on Sundays, and sometimes couldn't physically say the words, “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” but that was okay. I was okay. It was over, I was okay.
I saw him again, about a month ago, at a social gathering to celebrate a friend's birthday. She didn't know, I hadn't told her. I hadn't wanted to break up the community, and so not very many people know it happened, much less who was culpable. I didn't know that he was going to be there, and it shook my sense of safety, my sense of okay. I barricaded myself in the washroom, texted my best friend, and cried. She told me that I could stay or go, that either was okay, that I needed to prioritize myself and my safety, and so I decided to stay - to consciously decide to put my own will first. I got lucky: he had left before I came out again, but that decision to prioritize myself lingered, and it was as a result of that that I put my hat into the ring when Teri offered a casting call for a model for a shoot.
I never used to feel completely comfortable in my own skin, but I'm making progress again. I recognize that my body is my own again. I'm learning to love it and to live in it again.
