A WORK OF ART
Posing naked for art students helped me love my body…
Justine Martin, 53, Vic.
Sitting at the dinner table, aged 10, I reached for the ladle and scooped a second hefty portion of lasagne onto my plate.
“Haven’t you had enough, garbage truck?” my mum teased.
Garbage truck was the nickname given to me by my family due to the amount of food I ate. I used it as a way to drown my emotions.
At school, I was called ‘tank’ because I was the tallest and widest kid amongst my peers.
By Year 6, I was 161cm, towering over my mum who stood at 155cm.
Mum tried to help by taking me to Weight Watchers but it never worked.
By 16, my height had reached 180cm, and I’d developed an eating disorder, making myself sick after meals.
I also regularly took laxatives in the hope that they’d trim me down.
It was only in 1993, aged 21, I stopped torturing my body, when
I became pregnant with my son Zak.
e morning sickness was so bad that I actually lost 8kg during early pregnancy.
I was 101kg when I fell pregnant and I went into labour at 99kg.
But a few years later, I entered a toxic relationship and my weight went up again. is time to 124kg, meaning I wore size 26 clothes.
In 2002, I began dating a powerlifter.
He helped me build a rigorous exercise regime and I started competing in weightlifting competitions to change my body shape. I also started following Weight Watchers again.
While I lost 46kg, my body shape didn’t change. My legs were still very thick right down to the ankles.
“is is so frustrating,” I vented to my partner.
en, one day, I was scrolling through Instagram, when I came across an image of a woman whose legs were like mine.
On her bio it said that she had lipoedema.
I went to my doctor. “ere’s no such thing,” he said. “You have lymphedema.”
He referred me to a physiotherapist for a lymph massage drainage.
ankfully, the physio knew about lipoedema and con rmed that’s what I had.
I burst into tears, relieved to nally have answers.
Back home, I went onto the Australian Lipoedema Association website and began connecting with other people who had the condition.
Like me, they’d been shamed for how they looked, and struggled to lose weight.
I learned that liposuction was an option for treatment, but I su ered from MS, so I felt it was too much of a risk.
Instead,
I chose the path of self-acceptance.
I started going to Point Impossible nudist beach in Victoria.
e rst time I stripped o in public I was a bag of nerves but once I’d got over that hurdle I found it liberating.
I realised everyone was in their own bubble, doing their own thing.
ere were no stares or sly comments from other women, which I’d had on clothed beaches.
My insecurities and fear of judgement washed away.
en, in 2013, I had a thought. I’d been to a few life drawing classes and remembered how they loved curvy women to pose for them.
is could be another way to boost my body con dence, I thought.
Being paid $40 an hour to lie around naked didn’t seem too bad a deal either!
I was on a disability pension at the time, so every cent helped.
I found a local group in Geelong, Vic, and called the coordinator.
She was thrilled to have me on board.
“When can you start?” she asked.
A week later, I entered
My body shape didn’t change
the studio. My heart was going like the clappers, but I tried not to let it show.
I changed into my dressing gown and the coordinator instructed me on posing.
As I took my place in front of the class and dropped my gown, I tried not to make eye contact with anyone.
We’re born naked and everyone else is naked under their clothes,
I told myself.
An hour into the twohour session, we had a break. Putting my robe back on, I walked over to have a look at the portraits.
I was shocked by what I saw. e smooth lines and the curves that shaped my body were amazing.
“You’re so easy to draw, and your curves are beautiful,” one student told me.
For the rst time, I wasn’t criticised for the way I looked.
It helped shift how I saw myself. I realised the faults that I saw in me didn’t exist in these drawings.
I continued posing around Geelong, three times a week for the next ve years and started to love my body even more.
en, in 2018, during the Bellarine Arts
Trail, I submitted some of my own artwork and attended with my daughter, Elly, 21, and about 300 other people who’d come for a look.
Walking into the gallery, I got the shock of my life.
“Oh my God,” I said. “ose are my boobs!”
Hanging on the wall was a very life-like image of me lying naked.
“Oh, Mum, how embarrassing”, my daughter remarked.
We spent the rest of the night avoiding standing next to it!
Nowadays, as part of my self-care, I see a counsellor every three weeks, eat an anti-in ammatory diet and get weekly massages. I also dress for my curves, and thanks to the Kardashians, my big booty receives a lot of compliments from men. I’m planning on writing a book that will reveal women’s real-life experiences of living with lipoedema to raise awareness. Hopefully, people will become more compassionate to those of us who struggle. I already have a book called Whispers of Resilience: Our Stories of Multiple Sclerosis, which is for people with MS, so I know how empowering storytelling can be. I’ve now learned to stop comparing myself to others and that I can live a full and rewarding life with lipoedema.
If you need support, visit butter y.org.au
I wasn’t criticised for how I looked
Molly Cunningham Jones, 42.
Aformer police o cer and military man, my dad, John, was my hero. So when my hubby called me with some news one night, I panicked.
“I think your dad’s having a heart attack,” he said. “We’re on the way to the hospital.”
“No, no, no,” I cried. “I can’t lose him, too.”
It was just three months since we’d lost my mum and we were all still grieving.
Please don’t take my dad. Please... I prayed on the way to emergency.
He’d been devastated after losing Mum and had moved in with us so he wouldn’t be alone.
Mum had polycystic kidney disease, and while on dialysis, she’d passed away from heart failure.
My grandma had also had the disease, and it had been passed down to me and my little girl ViviAnne. But, so far, our kidneys were working ne.
At the hospital, my husband said he and Dad, 65, had been on the way to the pub where they both worked, when Dad started having chest pains.
“I pulled over and luckily we met a paramedic,” he explained. “She drove us here, but his heart stopped on the way.”
She’d jumped into action, performing CPR.
“Not today, John. Not today,” she’d told him, before managing to restart his heart.
Now, Dad was unconscious, but alive.
Finally, after three hours, he woke.
At his bedside, it was amazing to see him looking remarkably well. And it was thanks to one person.
“e paramedic who saved you,” I said. “Who was she?”
“Her name was Kristi,” he said. “She was wonderful.”
ankfully, Dad hadn’t su ered any major heart damage, and after having a stent put in, he was allowed home with us.
Seeing him potter about the place, a spring in his step, I smiled.
I still had my father and ViviAnne still had her beloved pop.
“I wish I could nd Kristi and thank her for saving you,” I told Dad.
en, one day, Dad told me Kristi had sent him a friend request on Facebook, wanting to check how he was doing. Talk about going above and beyond!
As Dad lled her in on his progress, I requested her as a friend, too.
ank you for saving my dad, I wrote.
You don’t have to thank me, she replied immediately, this is just what I do.
Before long, Kristi and I were chatting regularly and sharing jokes through Facebook.
I told her about ViviAnne and Dad, and she told me about her husband, kids and grandkids.
e following year, Dad moved into his own place.
Not long after, I began su ering bad headaches and chest pains. Tests showed I had stage 4 kidney failure.
I was put on dialysis, but the doctor made it clear it would only buy me some time. What I really needed was a kidney transplant.
I had stage 4 kidney failure
“e wait for a donor is around ve years,” the doctor told me. “But you won’t live that long.”
I was only 41. ViviAnne was just 15. My mind was reeling with terror. e thought of leaving her and missing so many of her milestones was too much to bear but it looked like a very real possibility.
I told her as gently as I could.
“Are you going to die?” she asked.
“Nope, Mum’s too stubborn to die,” I replied with a smile.
I told Dad over the phone and hearing him cry was heartbreaking.
In the hope of nding a donor, I posted on Facebook, and was ooded with support. en I got a message
from Kristi. I’ve got your kidney here, it read.
I sat there in shock. e angel who’d saved my dad’s life six years earlier was now o ering to save mine, too.
I’d never even met her in person!
Incredibly, we were a match, but as I waited for the op, I went downhill fast.
Don’t you quit on me girl, keep ghting, Kristi messaged me constantly.
Some days, I became so lost in my dark thoughts, I even started planning my funeral.
Finally, four months on, we got the call that the transplant could go ahead.
A week before, Kristi and I needed one nal blood test. Dad came with me to the hospital, where
Kristi was waiting.
Spotting us, she ran towards us and Dad and I both wrapped her in a hug, tears running down our faces.
“What can I say?” I told her. “You’re our angel.”
“I’m just happy I can help,” she replied.
Waking from the surgery, I instantly felt healthy.
Later, a nurse brought a beaming Kristi into my room in a wheelchair.
“ank you,” I said. Next day, I was walking around – something I hadn’t done in months. It felt like a miracle. Within three weeks, Kristi was back at work.
I’m planning to go back to coaching football and going to concerts with ViviAnne.
Because of Kristi, I’m going to see my daughter go to college and graduate, and see the woman that she grows up to be. I don’t know how you thank someone properly for that.
Now that we’re bonded for life, we see each other as family and talk every day.
I have my dad because of Kristi and now she’s saved me, too – I love her beyond all measure.