Imagine you make it to the top. You are chosen to walk the runways of Europe, modeling fashions from the top designers , your images will be seen and admired from people around the world.
All eyes are on you, this is a moment of a lifetime, a dream come true.
This is how you look. This is how you feel. This is how your family sees you.
You go back to your model’s apartment, shared with the others, and sit alone, starving, hoping you can make it through the night with out “cheating” on your diet.
A diet that consists of baby food, cigarettes, and mandarin oranges by the pound. You have willpower, you don’t binge like the others. You watch them devour an entire cake at the kitchen table, laughing as they stuff their faces, rich chocolate frosting covering their lips. Their high ends as quickly, as they walk down the hall together towards the bathroom to vomit.
“Step on the scale. Let me see your body,” are the words of my Paris Agent as he ushers me into his office. “Just a few more pounds. This is a big job, try not to eat over the weekend.”
I won’t forget these sickening words uttered to me at 16 years old, working as a model in Paris. My agent running his old hands over my skinny frame, as we both face the huge mirror covering an entire wall of his office.
“Build up your shoulders, this is important,” he tells me as he puffs out his chest to demonstrate. He looks out the door and calls my booker in to take a look.
“Implants would complete your body,” my booker says. Ahh, yeah at 16, 5’9, 125 pounds I have exercised my body to the bone, what I had of any boobs are gone.
“Not an option,” I say. That ended that conversation. As I look back I despise these people, but at the time they had control. If I could go back in time, I would kick both of those two perverts in the balls.
As my agent and booker complete their weekly review of my body, they move on to my face. Can’t get out the door without more instructions on how to improve my look.
“Keep up those face exercises, we need to get rid of that baby fat,” my agent says as he kisses me forcefully on the cheek. Face exercises. Does it get more ridiculous that that? The sad part is we all did them.
Anything to be viewed as better than the next girl in line.
Need help? Reach out to me.
Other organizations and blogs that can help:
Back in Skinny Jeans Blog