I have noticed the circles and mirrors in my life. Cyclical happenings, reflections of past moments returning to the present, replaying interactions and relationships. These a-ha moments are often prefaced by something monumental, or even simply notable, and usually, there are emotions attached. Big, small, indifferent or otherwise, it usually means I am transitioning somehow, between worlds, between my selves, peeling back a new layer, forgetting who I was and remembering who I’m becoming. Woven in with my manic moods and crushing lows, these moments usually mean a mix of tears, self-doubt, hyper-activeness, hibernation, attempts at new resolve and recurring impostor syndrome.
One year ago this month, I quit modeling full-time. I was so fatigued that if I had continued until the end of the year, I believe I would have been in the hospital. And the exhaustion was more than just physical. It was eating every creative cell in my body. I couldn’t stand the work, the people I was working for, the mind numbing predictability of cliche, accompanied by the instability that never wavered either. Freelance modeling is not an easy thing to do. You are your own agent, bag boy and stylist, and unless you begin finding ways to scale up your rate, without losing clients, it will nickel and dime you to death.
That’s where I was. Delivering the best work I had produced as a model, working harder than ever at all facets of the job, but not progressing. Not working with the people I wanted to be working with. Realizing many of those people were just wasting my time, realizing many things about the industry that sickened me, and acknowledging that to most, I was a dime-a-dozen model. None of them saw me in the light I wanted to be seen in.
The travel and work became so taxing, I started to feel disoriented. There were moments I would be sitting in a public space, and suddenly look around in brief confusion, not remembering where I was for a moment. The joy had been drained out of things I once loved, and I dreaded work. Every. Single. Gig.
I began to feel body dysphoria and emotional detachment on a daily basis. And I knew I had to get out. I was dead. Emotionally, creatively, spiritually – DEAD.
I gave myself time and space to rest for one year, to step out of that life that died, and be patient with myself while I came back to life. Yes, some things will never change, I am still the person who lived those moments, but what has changed is the purpose behind it. I want to maintain my vision and creative ownership of everything that I create, and before, it didn’t feel that way. My image was not my own, and I let others use it with trust, not realizing they were taking without returning anything to me.
The purge of removing this from my life was not as simple as just quitting a job. The energy in the residual emotional ties that resulted from giving of myself creatively was not easy to call back. It took this past year of gentleness, reflection, and separation to give me any kind of broader perspective. It has renewed my creative drive, and slowly, those negative thoughts that permeated every moment have begun to dissipate. I recognized that my recent emotional low point, while based in some current events, was in many ways a reflection of the time that has passed – and my body memory acknowledging that fact.
Celebrating the death of my former self, and honoring my ancestors in this time of Dia de los Muertos, and the thinning of the veil, I am coming back from the dead.