Aside from the fact we were starving ourselves as a social activity, the meal went really well. After breaking the ice over, quite literally, water and ice, people began discussing the individual pressures they’d faced from our team of bookers.
All of us had been told to lose weight – including the 5-foot-11-inch girl who was a size zero, and the girl who could have been a Victoria’s Secret model – in fact, she was so beautiful that she did model for them eventually. No one was spared the harsh comments. It appeared that no matter how much money you made, or however beautiful you were, you were not exempt from criticism.
It also transpired that all six of us were terrified of going into the agency alone. I wasn’t the only one whose legs turned to jelly or who felt physically sick before I’d even arrived. This news made me feel slightly more sane – it wasn’t my insecurity speaking; other people felt the same. All of us were made to feel victimized or uncomfortable, whether it was being told to lose weight we didn’t have, or instructed to buy expensive handbags so that it appeared we were more well off and successful than we actually were, or told to change something about our hair/make-up/clothes every week. And so we made a vow that we would try to go in in pairs or as a group to support each other, and to help make the experience less nerve-wracking.
I couldn’t possibly risk going over my daily calorie allowance, which was now a mere 1,100 calories a day or less. How I came up with that number I don’t know, but in OCD-terms it just felt ‘right’: 1,100 calories was ‘healthy’ to me. It was more than I’d eaten when I’d first starved myself in a bid for a modelling career, so it must’ve been OK. Right?
I stopped going out for social occasions. I became a total recluse, keeping myself to myself. People just wouldn’t ‘get’ my absurd diet, or understand what I was going through, assuming I was being difficult. I knew they thought I was crazy, because I was. Besides, the Brain Deviant told me I’d be a nuisance and annoy them.
By dinner, I’d usually be left with 200–300 calories. I’d feel shaky and wobbly, my hands trembling and my mood irritable or snappy, but nothing could prepare people for the wrath they’d face if I went over that calorie allowance. Half of me knew I was being neurotic; the other half refused to relinquish any form of control. I would measure foods and sauces perfectly, googling the exact calorie amount in a spoonful or cup of something and rounding it up to the nearest whole number so as not to go over my calories for the day.
Scott tried to be as sympathetic as possible to my situation at first. Like most, he didn’t see this as an eating disorder – rather, someone just being difficult. Despite me being a pain, he’d plan meals around me and my very specific diet, making sure we ate ‘healthily’ (i.e. gluten free, low carb, no dairy – despite the fact that we were allergic to zero of them). Recently, he’d also got into healthy eating, so this worked out perfectly. Around 4 p.m. every day, my blood-sugar levels would drop, so I’d eat two or three extra-sugary penny sweets to get me through to dinner. Scott would call me immature for having sweets in the drawer. ‘What are you – a kid?’ he’d say. ‘No one should eat them past the age of twelve.’
I’d categorically refuse to eat a meal if Scott sprinkled an ounce of salt on top of the food. If I could taste it, I would go mental, getting tearful and angry, like he was deliberately trying to sabotage my career. I know that makes me sound ungrateful and mean, but I was a woman possessed. More correctly, I was ill. Well and truly mentally ill.
Food containing gluten would send me over the edge. Because I had cut it out completely, it would leave me with severe stomach pains if I ate it. I’d read all the ingredients on packets of food, seeing if they contained gluten. Do you know how many foods it’s in – let alone dressings?! Well, if you’re an anorexic, you’ll know.
‘ARE YOU TRYING TO RUIN MY LIFE?!’ I’d scream, and he’d start yelling back, saying how modelling was spoiling everything – which it was, though I wouldn’t admit it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been happy. Food was so unenjoyable, and yet, as it had at so many other times, it completely dictated my life.
At the time I thought I was doing a great job at masking my anxiety, which had gradually got worse and worse, but my nervousness couldn’t have been more obvious. Whenever I went to my agency or to castings I was plastered in tiny, glistening beads of sweat. What will they say to me today? What will I end up obsessing over until I see them again?
Polaroids were the worst. They’re physical photos taken on a digital camera to send to clients and show them what you really look like, without Photoshop. I’d stand there, shaking in my underwear while sucking in my tummy, thinking of how morbidly obese I must look and what a let-down I was.
‘Your body is fine for a normal girl’s, but for modelling … they like thin,’ my agent once said, like she was doing me a favour. I didn’t want to hear the words ‘normal’ or ‘healthy’. I didn’t want to look healthy. I wanted to look thin and elite, like the rest of the girls.
Polaroids became an excuse to berate me even further, to tell me how my hair needed to be changed, or how my clothes were bad, or how disappointing it was that my skin had flared up again.
Oh yes, my skin. How could I forget that?! It had been improving bit by bit, but recently it was slowly getting worse again. Perhaps it was down to how nervous I constantly was, or the low-calorie diet I was on, but my skin felt like it was bubbling beneath the surface: itchy and sensitive and raw. I downed litres of water. I didn’t eat junk food. I’d cut out dairy. I wasn’t on any hormonal contraceptives. And yet it was getting worse, all along my jawline, which is where hormonal acne shows up on your face.
Anxiety sent my hormones into overdrive, as did my low-calorie diet. I’d survive on caffeine to stay awake and this would make my anxiety worse. My mind would start spinning, my heart pounding, and I’d start worrying about being dropped, or what the agents would be saying about me behind my back, or thinking about how skint I was (which, by the way, was very. I made no money at all). The low-calorie diet was screwing up my body – I knew this because my periods were so infrequent – but I didn’t care because this meant I was losing weight. And because my hormones were so all over the place my skin would flare up again.
Weirdly, if I had a ‘bad day’ – which, to me, consisted of eating in the region of 1,500 calories – my skin would improve drastically overnight. Spots would disappear almost instantly. I knew my diet was destroying my skin, but I cared so much about my weight that I would’ve rather looked like a pepperoni pizza for the rest of my life if it meant being size zero.
And so I kept dieting and trying to reach this unattainable size, because no matter how many times my agents picked something wrong with me, I was desperate to hear the words, ‘You’re perfect.’
But they never came, because perfection doesn’t exist.
Meanwhile, Scott and I were now arguing every day.
We were driving each other mad. My eating disorder made me impossible to live with, and his ridiculously high standards for tidiness didn’t help.
I did try my best to tidy up, but my attempts were never good enough for Scott, as though we were living at The Ritz. If a glass had a water stain on it, I’d get a lecture on how I disrespected the place, or didn’t take pride in how I lived. I was so anxious all day (if I even had a job that day), and home was just as stressful. At least it distracted me from admitting that I had a problem.
Mental health issues do NOT improve when one is surrounded by arseholes, and there were plenty of those people in the fashion industry. As a model, you learn to appreciate that not everyone likes your face or ‘gets’ you, including some of the agents. But there was one particular guy who made me, and tons of other girls, squirm, relishing the fact he could juggle your career in the palm of his hand.
There were so many men like this – so why didn’t we tell them where to go? Well, it was difficult. These idiots often had the power to mould your career or push it in a certain direction. With a thirt
y-five-inch hip, I still didn’t feel like ‘model material’. Ever heard of the phrase ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you’? I may not have bitten a chunk of their hands off (can you imagine the calorie content?!), but considering these people favouritized girls they wanted to send to the top castings, I didn’t want to ruin any chance I had of making it. So, like a coward, I kept quiet, eagerly trying to please them.
One of the worst offenders was often in our agency, so just like we’d agreed in Nando’s, we kept our promise of trying to go into the agency in pairs or as a group. Someone set up a Facebook thread, and we would message each other to see if someone else could come in with us on the day we were needed. We would make an excuse about why we also happened to be in the area, like, ‘Oh! I’ve run out of cards and need some new ones,’ or, ‘Can I see what my schedule is like?’ Honestly, it softened the blow.
My comments were always, always about my weight.
My bookers wouldn’t outwardly say, ‘You need to lose a stone’ or, ‘You’re too fat,’ because that’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. I began noticing that they never, ever wrote those comments down in an email; it was conveniently said on the phone or in person. They’d make out like they wanted to help me; that they wanted me to look ‘the best I could’.
Oh, f***ing do one. I was a size six, for God’s sake.
They’d say things like, ‘Those inches will come off if you go to the gym more,’ or, ‘You’re a model; you’re meant to be the person all girls want to be, with the body all girls want to have,’ or, ‘I’m going on a diet now, actually – why don’t we embark on one together, ha ha?!’ But losing weight when you’re already thin is easier said than done.
In fact, these agents probably knew perfectly well that an already slim person cannot lose inches as easily as that. You’re not going to lose three inches in a month, not unless you’re clinically obese. So they kind of expect you to read between the lines and come up with another way of making the weight drop. Besides, if you don’t get rid of it, there are plenty of girls ready and willing to take your place.
Once, I was told to only eat vegetables for breakfast, lunch and dinner. ‘By all means eat, but just make sure it’s vegetables! They’ll keep you fuller for longer.’ So I did, and, rather unsurprisingly, quickly became bored (not to mention moody) following this bizarre diet.
I’m sure you can guess what happens when you try to lose weight and it doesn’t work the way you’d like. You begin to hate yourself even more. You hate your body for not being able to morph itself into other models’ bodies, who seem to make the whole thing seem so effortless. You forget that all bodies hold weight differently, that not one body in the world is the same as another. You beat yourself up over something you can’t control. You try desperately to be someone else.
Yet agents, who as far as you’re aware hold the key to your dreams, tell you it is possible. ‘It’s only a couple of inches!’ they repeatedly say, holding their fingers apart to show just how easy it allegedly is. ‘That’s it!’
And they’re right. That’s it. A measly couple of inches. A couple of inches, and then your dreams are in reach. I’d heard it long enough – ‘We’ll send you to see [insert top brand/designer/casting director here] once you get your hips down. They won’t see you otherwise.’ But no matter what diet plan you follow, it just doesn’t come off. You may be able to lose weight, but you can’t lose bone.
One agent told me to do squats to lose the inches. And so I did. I did around 150 to 200 squats a day until the backs of my thighs felt like they were on fire. I did this for months. But when I measured myself the number on the tape was going up, not down. Huh?! My bum looked toned and Kardashian-worthy, better than it ever had, but it wasn’t thin. It was disgusting. Beauty was measured by a number, and a peachy bum was not beautiful. Curves were repulsive.
I began to run instead. Despite the fact I had no energy from lack of food, I ran until my legs turned to jelly and my head pounded. I had to go for a run first thing in the morning, because just after waking up was the only time I’d have energy to get up and do it. Aside from attending the odd casting, I’d have absolutely no energy to leave the house in the afternoons, let alone run. Once I’d run a few miles, I’d have no energy for the rest of the day, so the majority of my afternoons were spent watching things like Jeremy Kyle or Homes Under the Hammer. What a glamorous life!
You may think sitting at home doing absolutely nothing is a dream. It might be, for a couple of weeks, but gradually you start going brain-dead. This is what happened to me. I was slowly beginning to lose my mind and sense of purpose. My life revolved around mealtimes or runs. I’d refresh my emails constantly, partly hoping an email from my agency would come in, while also hoping it didn’t. I was starting to dread anything modelling related.
Not only that, but my mind was genuinely starting to go. I was becoming forgetful. I’d go into the kitchen and forget why I’d gone in, or would put my phone in the fridge by accident, or would have to stop talking midway through a sentence because I couldn’t remember what I was talking about. It didn’t frighten me to start with, but it did begin to happen more and more frequently. I don’t know if this was down to not eating properly, or down to not using my brain, but I’m sure it was a bit of both. Humans are designed to have a sense of purpose, and yet I was so hell-bent on becoming a model that I began to forget I had other things to offer – other things that made me a good, interesting person.
Scott would find this frustrating when he got home in the evenings, and ask why I hadn’t done anything all day, and I wanted to explain that I physically couldn’t – that I was too weak – but the words wouldn’t come out. It was like an invisible force (cough, the Brain Deviant, cough) was stopping me from speaking. Besides, I knew he’d tell me to stop modelling, and I didn’t want him to lecture me on that yet again. Even walking upstairs to the bathroom would leave me breathless, my heart palpitating, and I’d have to take a minute to breathe and hold myself steady in case I fell over. Admitting I was too tired and weak was like admitting I wasn’t model material, and I couldn’t possibly let him know that I was struggling.
Running, I assumed, would get the weight off. But it didn’t. I was running five to six miles a day, six days a week, losing my mind with worry and regret if I missed a day. After a while, the weight stalled, or on a particularly ‘bad’ day (mainly around my period) the measuring tape would say I’d gained inches. How could that be?! I began to panic. They’d drop me from their books, I was sure of it. Despite the fact I was barely working as a model, the last thing I wanted was to let go of my model status. I cared too deeply about modelling for that to happen. Without modelling, I had nothing.
I’d incessantly google things like ‘Gaining muscle from running’, ‘Does muscle make you weigh more?’, ‘Do squats make your bum bigger or smaller?’ and ‘Why am I not losing weight?’. If my agent said running and squatting were the key to losing weight, then why the f*ck weren’t they working?
Here’s why it wasn’t working. My body isn’t designed to be thin on the bottom. I am a pear shape – I have a smaller upper half and curvier bottom. Not only that, but the people giving me this so-called ‘advice’ WEREN’T HEALTHCARE PROFESSIONALS. They were people who came out of uni or college, sometimes even school, with barely any knowledge of how their own bodies worked, let alone somebody else’s. They weren’t original enough to think, Hey, guess what, we could make a star out of someone who isn’t as small as other girls. No one is going to buy something advertised by a person who weighs a healthy amount, are they?
Or are they? In reality, despite what some high-end fashion houses believe, there’s absolutely no correlation between using bigger models (like a size ten/twelve up) and selling fewer products. What I’ve discovered since then is that women are drawn to pretty women of all different shapes and sizes. Having a size-fourteen woman modelling clothes doesn’t put people off buying something, as long as she’s photographed in a beautiful, aspir
ational and high-end way.
But, according to agencies at that time, when girls couldn’t lose weight like they expected them to they weren’t taking their jobs seriously enough.
In fact, this was said to me one afternoon.
‘Do you just not care at all about modelling?’ one booker said in reference to my apparent lack of weight loss, and I began to sweat.
‘No!’ I spluttered. ‘No! No, not at all. I want to model more than anything.’
‘Well, it doesn’t look that way,’ he said, eyeing my body, and then he returned to his desk, his back turned to me.
The only way the numbers did go down on the measuring tape was if I didn’t exercise. Weird, I know, but that was the only way. Want to know why? Because my muscles were physically wasting away and eating themselves. Isn’t that an attractive image! But when you crave thinness the way I did, you don’t give a damn if your body is eating itself to survive. It’s great, if anything. You turn a bit flabbier, but the numbers on the measuring tape are down. You weigh less on the scale because there isn’t any muscle – an important part of your body that keeps you healthy and strong. But who cares about being healthy when you can be thin?
11
A Nightmare in Paris
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Me.
Me who?
Me, your good old friend anxiety!
Yep, it was back, and with it my bulimia – but this time with a vengeance. If I didn’t have enough on my plate to deal with, I was now continually throwing up whatever was on my plate, too.
Numbers, numbers, numbers. My life revolved around them. If I wasn’t weighing myself up to ten times a day, I was obsessively measuring myself, desperately hoping my hip span hadn’t gone up, typing my daily calorie intake into the calculator on my phone and saving it into a special ‘dieting document’, or giving myself dates on the calendar to lose weight by.
Misfit Page 15