Note: I wrote this in 2017 after I had already quit acting but impulsively agreed to work as a photo double on Netflix ‘Jessica Jones’ for the night
They kept checking to make sure my painted-on bruises were fresh, saying they’d be ready for me in five minutes. They’d been saying this for hours. When they finally asked me to lie down on the hospital gurney I thought, “This isn’t too bad,” but that’s when they strapped me down.
They told me to thrash around. They wanted to see me in pain, to see me struggle.
It’s not easy being a superhero.
Gingerly slipping off the ugly white socks they gave me earlier, showing my pale — desperately in need of a pedicure — feet, I felt exposed, as though my shirt had been lifted off instead.
Having all four of my limbs chained up like this triggered something primal and protective. My breathing became shallow as I desperately fought back tears. I will NOT cry in front of these people.
One of them must have noticed the ugly distortions my face was making:
“Are you okay?”
I avoided eye contact, trying to focus on calming myself as I answered, between shallow breaths, “I wasn’t told I’d be restrained like this.”
