I sit in child’s pose on the carpet, my back inches away from the heater in the wall, cradling images of the girl I used to be. I cup her many faces in my hands, like water droplets threatening to spill through laced fingers.
In each picture, I am the result of another person, their needs, opinions, objectives, desires. I came across this stack of photos tucked inside a wooden jewelry box while searching for earrings to wear for my evening performance.
The contrast between the girl visible and the tales beneath fell me to my knees, to curl against this wall hoping to feel warm again.
Here I am at 18. The Bangkok sunlight warms my skin with its unique humidity and heat. I am being photographed by a friend for a prestigious contest. I want to be beautiful for her, to help her win. I hope my face doesn’t betray the story I carry.
It started a few months ago. My high school psychology teacher has been sending me letters. He writes entirely capitalized, in red ink. He knows my class schedule, and calls me on the classroom phone.
“I’m recording these calls,” he says.
This for him is sex. Power. Hunting. Tracking. By age 18, life has shown me enough to know that the trapping of girls’ voices in small boxes, metal or otherwise, is a favorite pastime for many men.
The lie pictures tell: an ex-model on the truth behind her perfect photos | Fashion | The Guardian