Retired Model Daires

The only thing I truly love is tumbling. It is the one time I feel my happiest. For years I was not able to do it, which made me feel trapped, not myself. Now I can. I just have to limit myself to one session per day. I love the sweat, the way my body feels and moves, the way time disappears.

I am lucky to have a Russian coach who is strict, older but still fit, with an accent and an attitude that has zero tolerance for whining or nonsense. He believes I can do it. And guess what? He is right. I remember my first time meeting him. Fifteen minutes in, he had me doing handstands. Me? Ok then. My wrists are weak. I used to wrap them, but I forgot because I did not think I would be able to do anything anyway. Then my hands turned inward. I was looking down at them from above, midair. He was right. Old habits die hard. I point them inward for more control of the weak parts of my wrists. (they need to be forward)

Then one day, I started to spin and split my legs like a propeller, legs in the air, my hands planted firmly on the ground. I could move back and forth, around and around, holding a handstand. It felt like butter. The foam pit, oh how I love it. He has you in rotation constantly. Time is up, and you move on to the next thing. When you are in the foam pit, whatever routine you have, you go for it. Back handspring, double layout, kick out. You run, you push, you flip, you land in the foam squares, sinking deep into a ditch. You have to crawl out. It looks fun and easy, right?

Then you look up and see the preteen girls watching from the bars above. They are waiting to see if you will crack, waiting to laugh at you. You cannot back down. There is no cheer national, no gold medal, no audition to train for. It is just you. And maybe that is why it matters. Because for the first time in a long time, it is not about proving anything to anyone else. It is about proving it to yourself.

I have never understood why I like being upside down or in the air so much. Maybe that is why tumbling feels like home. Ballet is different. Ballet is only fun to me because of the people. The friends I have made, even now, keep me coming back. The way my body feels light and happy.…gives me a balance between two parts of myself.

I adore my ballet teachers. I have two. One is the owner of the small studio, and the other is a man who has spent a lifetime in dance and brings so much joy to it. We do one hour of barre, then dance thirty minutes more that we always push to forty five, and then we just jump. It is quick. It is focused.

In ballet it’s not really counts of eight. However, the vocabulary of the French words is still linguistic. If you understand the language. Especially if you understand the language it is ironic. Entrechat means “between cats.” Pas de chat means “cat’s step.” Brisé means “broken.” Piqué means “pricked.” Ballotté means “tossed.”

Then you dance the words, floating and jumping, and I feel free. There is no competition, no pressure. Just sweetness.

⸻

My hair is blonde as heck now. Honestly, I think I have turned myself into a blonde bimbo. Since I fixed the testosterone, my body is smaller and my boobs are so much bigger. Unfortunately, it looks like I got a boob job. Now I feel like people think I am one of those plastic surgery blond bimbos. I do not have anything against it if others choose that, I do not judge, but I feel judged.

I hate the male gaze. I hate the attention that comes with it. My boobs are so huge now it feels like someone taped a weight to the pencil body I have created.

When I feel hungry and go to bite something, I cannot eat it at all. It feels like pins and needles. When I do eat a meal, it takes me hours to finish small bites. I get dizzy. Fainting is nothing new to me. In extreme heat, if I walk too fast or too long, I have to stop, catch my breath, and wait until the dizziness passes. With not eating, I have learned how to mask it all. But do not worry, I eat. I just have to force myself.

I have zero family history of poor health. None. The majority of what I went through came from stress and eating disorders. You would think I would be happy to be a size 2 to 4 again. Most of my clothes were hidden away in those sizes waiting for this moment. People question how a fashion girl has nothing to wear, and then all of a sudden it is a whole closet of Loewe. Yet even fitting into those clothes, I still felt caged by old voices telling me I was never enough.

I do not have acne anymore. My testosterone was high and my vitamin D and zinc were low. Once I corrected that, the breakouts stopped. You would think I would be happy to have clear skin, but the truth is I had nothing left to pick at. Picking became my vice. I remember a model a friend I've known for maybe 17 years, when we were 14 showing me how she picked the back of her hair. I thought she was crazy at the time, but it was better than cutting, the way Jasmine did. That same girl now works in urban planning in New York, a long way from those teenage years. When we get lunch, as adults, I never expose her…I just listen.

I may have never had Lyme disease at all. I have zero antibodies, which means I was made sick by proxy. My mom created illness in me. I have a large family who truly cannot understand my mother, and truly, every single one of them, on all sides, is still shaken by it.

My spine is corrected now. I worked with chiropractor weekly and also took care of it at home. Being able to do handstands and backbends again makes me feel whole, alive, and happy. For so long I could not bend, stretch, or move the way I wanted. I felt locked inside myself.

When I saw blood in my urine last week, I knew what it was. But yesterday it was black at first glance, Pepsi-cola colored they call it. Shocked, I called my primary doctor and was told to go to the ER. I passed a stone. At the ER, the doctor and I laughed at the absurdity of it all. I was honest with him.

When I was nineteen and modeling, I worked out like crazy and barely ate. That was the first time I peed blood as an adult. Kidney infections and stones followed. Really, it began when I was fifteen. Eating disorders have a way of breaking you. A little dehydration, no food, and extreme workouts, and suddenly your body gives out.

After many tests and even a colonoscopy, most of my stomach problems came from being lactose intolerant. For years I tortured myself without realizing why. I thought there were nine other reasons, but it was really just milk.

I have not had a migraine in months. They were never random. They came from extreme stress.

I do not drink coffee anymore. Instead, I squeeze seedless lemons into my water just so I can make myself drink it. Honestly, I would take Ozempic, but I did not want to risk losing my eyesight.

I grew out my hair and had it permanently straightened with a Qiqi treatment. I recommend it to everyone. It does not take away the volume or the soft waves, but it removes the frizz and curl. On the surface, I look polished. I wake up and it looks flawless. No more hassle, no more tools, just wake up with nice hair.

I found out last week have a deviated septum and both nostrils are distorted skugkty underneath. For years, whenever I got sick, the pressure in my head became unbearable. I would flip out because I could not breathe and thought I was being dramatic or attention seeking. In reality, my nose was blocked. I never understood why breathing felt so wrong until now. Next week it is finally getting fixed. No pressure in my ears.. Will be a big change for me and the left side of my face will finally not be puffy which you can only see the past few years ever so slightly.

⸻

Then I sit in a chair and think, I look good on the outside but why do I feel so lost.

So I lasered everything off. The only hair left is from my eyebrows up.

So I just focus on the things that make me happy. My family. My work. My passions. And dance.

⸻

I remember holding up folded pieces of printed-out paper, MapQuest directions from my agent. By the time I was flown to New York and Milan, at least we had Google Maps. Still, how many times did we get lost trying to find studios scattered across cities? Modeling was my escape. Literally. I couldn’t be hurt there. I was safe. With girls who felt like home. Our agents would line us up in a row in their office. We’d stand on the red tape line in tiny black string bikinis while they measured us. And honestly, that torture was ten times better than getting slammed into walls by my stepdad. Let’s call him Daddy Dearest.

I remember being thirteen or fourteen in the schoolyard when the popular girls asked me to come right up to them. Me? How honored I was.

They huddled around me. The short one crouched beside me and adjusted my legs just to see if my thighs would touch. Theirs did. Mine didn’t. My god, these stick thighs were light years apart.

She looked up at Lauren, the one everyone looked to, and said, "Seeee, they don't touch." I saw the waves of their faces crashing. I felt so much guilt that their bodies weren’t like mine. Little did they know, I was already in Paris weeks before. There was zero food in the fridge back home. I was already pressing my legs together so my knees would touch. A nervous tic.

I didn’t have the heart to tell these schoolgirls that my mother was starving me. I’d rather not give them ideas.

I think that’s why I stayed in the industry for so long. I didn’t feel ugly or weird anymore. I felt like I could say or do anything and still be loved. With them, I felt normal. The only time I belonged was with our group of tall, scrawny girls who towered over me. Our matching stick-thin bodies were what we were supposed to be. My lanky body, the one boys made fun of. One called out, "You have no curves," and it soul-crushed me. The next day, I came back in a tight shirt and said, "See?" He laughed. "Nope. Still no curves."

But in this industry, we were worshiped. And left unsupervised in cities where we needed parents.

I wasn’t let into the popular crowd until high school, and I pulled off most of my own braces with pliers. I was traveling too much for work. The DR called my dad to stop sending payments anyways. But after that, something changed. My braces were gone. People started to notice that I was gone for months for jobs and go-sees. Suddenly, I was getting invited. Noticed. Boys started paying attention. Girls started inviting me places. It was like the world had flipped and I had finally become someone outside the fashion world.

People like to hear stories of how models fight. The drama. But what they miss is, we always forgave. We always came back around. We were family. Competition didn’t mean anything ugly to us. Not projecting, I really mean it. We had moments, maybe an outburst on set, sure. But by the end of the day, we let it go. The real rejection came from designers. From photographers. From our agents.

I used to hate how agencies manipulated us. They could’ve just been honest. But it was always a game. I thought to look at the bright side. At least I was safe from that house.

My biggest insecurity came later. After I moved to New York, a photographer got obsessed with one side of my face. Only one. You can barely see it in photos, but my right eyelid droops just slightly. Now I hate mirrors. I can’t stand looking at them.

It was the same mirror where I learned everything. I’d watch the older models teach me how to put on mascara, their hands steady like grown women. Paige would sit cross-legged on the floor, flattening her hair with an iron and passing it to me. I’d let it burn mine stick straight.

We were only invited to things so people could take advantage of us. So instead, most nights, we stayed in watching movies when we should have been finishing homework from online high school. Twilight Saga. Probably a hundred times. I was Team Jacob. I’m Team Edward now, obviously. I had a black tote with Taylor Lautner’s face on it. The New Moon poster where he’s shirtless as a werewolf.

Don’t worry. I stopped bringing that bag to castings after graduation.

Hospitals weren’t a big deal to me. They were frequent. I had it down. Where to go. Who to see. Some model friends weren’t so lucky. For them, a hospital door was the end of their careers.

Hospitals were the only place I felt safe. The nurses had heated blankets. And my parents were monitored.

I remember my mom watching my stepdad, Daddy Dearest, six foot seven, drag me across the floor, restrain me, and throw my body into walls. Because he was SA’d and I wasn’t, I guess I was supposed to be grateful for the version of abuse I got. That’s how he presented it. He’s the reason my disc slipped. One time, my right leg got hurt so badly I would wake up in searing pain for weeks. I used to cover my bruises with concealer in school bathrooms. I iced them on flights before international castings. Told people it was from ballet. My best work was with theatre makeup I got from a friend who used it for recitals, the same kind they use on the deceased at funerals.

One day, I said I was going for a walk. Walking was my safe word to be left alone to collect myself and let things cool down. But I guess they thought I’d run away again. I barely made it down the steps of our Victorian home in San Francisco, now rotted to its bones, before Daddy Dearest followed. He pummeled me in the street. Broad daylight. Pinned me. Crushed me. I was a small, frail-boned girl.

Neighbors screamed. She told the cops Daddy Dearest was helping me, and I fell. I agreed.

The ambulance came. I refused a gurney. There was no way I’d suffer that embarrassment. I dragged myself into the back of the truck. It sounded like a zombie scraping along the floors from The Walking Dead. That sliding sound. Cuts. Bruises. My agent would be mad. I’d say I fell skating.

I wished I could stay in the hospital bed forever. So cozy. So warm. My mom, scared Daddy Dearest would be arrested, came into my sacred hospital room and said if I spoke, she’d 5150 me. So I made a deal with the devil. My mom is very good at getting her way, and she and her lawyer always manage to win.

After that, I only returned to San Francisco by plane. For appearances. Prom. Graduation. Weddings.

For context, we moved to SF when I was nine. I’d been doing commercials since I was one. My first cover, maybe four years old, framed at my dad’s house. I still remember the peanut butter cup rhyme he made me rehearse for a commercial I booked.

My mom spun out. Ayahuasca. I believe it was the number one reason she lost her mind. Burning Man. Her doctor said it was healing. The year she finally took me, I was sixteen. I was taking a nap and looked up. The father of the girl I babysat exposed himself to me in the RV right outside the Playa. I flipped out. Went home. Small private aircraft. Pilot flirting with me. I got to sit in the passenger seat since it was a short flight. And right back to school.

The next week my mom came back and was outraged when she found out a teacher had a crush or obsession over me. Insert eye roll. Rubbing my shoulders in class. Yelling in the halls when I was removed from said class. Writing letters I threw away in class. I thought he was gross. And I actually did have a boyfriend. Pinching me when I pulled away. Paige made it funny. Called it Hot for Teacher.

They say when you crumple a piece of paper, then unfold it, the ripples stay. I’ve been holding on with tape since Paige. Who else was going to make my trauma feel less torn? Now that she’s flown to the angels, who holds that space? That hole? I mess up death now. Funerals. Condolences. Since she died, I always get it wrong.

Any woman who’s modeled knows the joy and sorrow of not getting her period with an eating disorder. For me, it was relief. For others, it was hell.

I had so many kidney infections. CityMD got sick of me. Now I suffer the consequences. A UTI isn’t a one-and-done. It’s weeks of pain. I usually end up back in the hospital pretty quickly if not lucky.

As an adult, I struggle with tasks that should be normal. But if people always picked up after you and bought your groceries, how would you know how to shop? Every store I go into, I panic. And not because of my ED.

I had this driver in high school in the down seasons of the fashion industry. He was in his late twenties or early thirties. I always made a point to sit up front. I’d be running late and then rush down the Victorian stairs of my home, seeing how many ways I could get him to flirt with me. I thought it was entertaining in a slick, teasing way. I just wanted to flirt, see how far I got, and then do the whole "Oh, sorry, I have a boyfriend" or "Oh, sorry, I have God." And you know what? He didn’t. I wish I could thank him for not flirting back or taking any of that bait.

I recently had to walk through that house again. Horror stories. We went into the basement unit. The front wooden door still had white plaster prints of my hands scratching it, with the words 'Help me'. Everyone still thinks it's a joke.

The floors warped and ripped out the walls. Massive holes where plaster and beams are falling apart. The Victorian home is overgrown. Unlivable. The Sharpie notes from friends still stain the walls. Dents in the crown molding from my body slamming into it. Lines from where we measured how tall I was getting.

If you saw the local city newspaper photos, you’d see it. Below the glass double doors, three panels of century-old glass were replaced. The shine doesn’t match the others. That’s where I fell through. I still have faint scars on both my hands. I remember watching them fix it days after it happened.

How Did I Lose the Weight? Well, the opposite side of my eating disorder came back. Then, Air National Guard ISR/SAR. Yes, I'm terrified of planes, but I trust a seasoned Air Force pilot and myself more than anything in this world. I sit in classes for hours, going over safety procedures and briefings. I love watching everyone debate things I don't understand. Everything has to align, pencils out.

We do a prayer. Then the Pledge of Allegiance.

Buzz cuts. Men staring at presentation boards. Our Squadron Commander watching us all.

I sit up straight and draw doodles. I passed a note once and got back, "You should be writing notes instead."

My Grams says I'm like Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin (1980). And honestly, she’s not wrong.

When I was little, my older cousin, who is now a Green Beret, and I used to play Barbies with his GI Joes in my Grams’ dollhouse. We had full plots. Tea parties. Hostage situations. Barbies always survived.

One year, Gary Sinise, yes, Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump, showed up to my birthday party at a skating rink. I sat in his lap while he did the voice of Lieutenant Dan. That was probably the closest I ever thought I’d come to the military. I always figured if uniforms were involved, they’d be part of a movie set or a costume fitting.

They make me wear a uniform. Usually blue cargoes, sometimes military camo brown. Yuck. At first, I rolled my eyes at the suggestion of joining. But something about being in the air is amazing. Also, I’m a Scanner now. Full passenger princess status unlocked. Briefings in braid, gloss on point. Do not disturb unless it’s time to scan a sector.

A Scanner on Missions Some people are complete idiots. Some just make poor decisions, and now we have to use government resources to deal with them. I understand mistakes, but there was a guy trying to leave his wife by flying away in his private aircraft with a suitcase and cash. Got lost. Seriously?

The weirdest thing for me is the big bad wolf down South. I don't like being a hypocrite about drug finds, but human trafficking? That’s where I draw the line. I'm not a narc, but come on. We all need to take a stand somewhere. My squad gifted me a challenge coin. Trust, I can't wait to use it.

The 99s First flight with the 99s! Amelia Earhart founded it? Count me in. I love these women. So strong, grounded, and brilliant. And they don’t look at me like I’m dumb. They’re buck up or shut up. I adore it.

Now for How I Really Did It You can lose 20 to 30 pounds by starving yourself. But underwater missions? Whole different story. Thanks for the hard rock bod, but it’s been a journey to say the least. The SEAL death walk is my favorite. It calms me. It clears my head.

The Night Ocean Drown-Proofing Hands and feet tied. Thrown into the sea. My second favorite. My dad used to do this to me in the pool when I was a kid. He was an alcoholic and got creative in the summer.

Training feels like sharp, tiny shards crawling up your skin. Throwing up. Losing my mind. But my body’s never been stronger. I’ve never felt lighter. Physically. Emotionally. No more sleepless nights. Ballet is intense. It may not look it, but it is. Maybe I replaced it with something better.

I actually look forward to training. It’s relaxing. My new happy place. I’m submerged for hours. Not just pretending to play mermaids, though I wanted to.

My Struggle with Eating in Training When I started, I wasn’t eating. In training, I clawed out water and got so sick. Not cold-sick, but body-shaking, head-spinning, vision-blurring sick. The kind where your legs keep moving because they have to, even though your body is screaming at you to stop. I scarfed food I planned to pretend to eat. Then something wild happened. Someone handed me a raw carrot. I hate carrots to my bones. Always have. But in that moment, I grabbed it and ate it like a rabid animal. Water is dripping down my skin. My whole body is shaking. Throwing up. Now I force myself: vegetables, protein, rice, and quinoa. Carrot-apple juice every morning.

The thing with EDs: if you starve, your heart gives out in training. If you binge, your body panics. So I focus my anger on this. I was told, your body needs this, or you’ll die. Stroke out. So I do it. No coffee. No chaser. It feels like a hot iron in my throat. Food makes me gag, but I eat. I drink water. Still gag. It’s disgusting. No one talks about how disgusting drinking water becomes with some eating disorders. If someone avoids water like the plague, something’s wrong.

My chief, even smoldering, takes me seriously. He doesn't understand when I say, "I'm just a girl." Blonde. Cali accent. Worked in superficial industries. A retired model who used food like a playing card. So many people assume you’re dumb. But he doesn't see it that way. None of them do. I can't even play golf from the long tee. "Nope, she's going to play like everyone else." I pretend not to notice. Obviously.

Helicopter rescue simulators are fun, but jumping out of a helicopter, doing it for real? Holy moly. My fear of heights went, OK. OK. It’s just water. Maybe a shark. But I’ve escaped worse, so there’s nothing I can't beat. 

Then I just think:

I want to throw up. I can’t let them down. Breathe. Hands. Feet. Calm. Focus on heartbeat.

Then, smash.

Salt water wraps around you.

And afterward? The feeling.

Taking off a wetsuit. Peeling off second skin. I just lie there and look at the sky.

Breathe it all in. It’s so peaceful.

Ten out of ten recommend.

Childhood Dreams and Dirt Bikes When I was little, I wanted to be a veterinarian and a race car driver. Grew up on hot rods, fixing cars with my pappous (granddad), and an XR50R dirt bike I got at five. My teachers did not believe me about the bike. So my dad brought it to my elementary school in Studio City so I could drive it around the playfield for the whole school.

First ride? Our whole family rode, so we all went. Eleven of us. I crashed into a brick wall. My dad was only mad I ruined the helmet paint job. Get up and keep going.

I loved the Malibu to Thousand Oaks dunes. Now, I’m back in the desert. Nevada. California. Arizona. Utah. My dad kept a bike for me all these years. I picked it up.

It took a while, but I’m back. I love the sand. The sweat. The tail-whips and back-flips. The snake pits I dodge like muscle memory. I'm not afraid of much anymore.

My film agent, let's call him Phil, is always convinced I’m about to break something. He probably imagines me doing yoga stretches on a runway while jets fly past. I don’t correct him. It’s easier that way. Besides, what I’m actually doing would give him an heart attack.

The Marine He’s a Marine. Mhmmm. Went to Harvard. Has other branches under his belt. I could hear it when he spoke. He has green eyes. Sandy blond hair. Military cut. Tall like a tree. Loves God. Spirited. Can lift a forklift. Reads for fun. Accomplished. Decorated. Has the sweetest dog. Talks well about everyone he meets. Probably drinks water straight from rivers and doesn’t even flinch.

But OK, for any of my peeps reading this. We are taking it slow. I told him I wanted to stay friends first. Maybe get dinner once in a while, but that's it. I'm working on me and my friendships and family. Never letting my rocks slip in life again.

It’s Memorial weekend, so you know what that means for me. Ceremonies.

CityMD, a New York clinic, made me feel like a repeat offender. You again. What now? Let’s pull up your file. Oh, this one’s new.

Lena didn’t say much. She just stared at me like she was waiting for the moment I’d crack. She spoke to the doctors like I’d forgotten how to speak or think. Maybe I had.

My body felt like wet cement. The doctors used so many words, and I stopped hearing them. Everything went slow again. Pain bloomed in places I didn’t know existed. The pain was the only reminder it was real. But none of it mattered. My mind was already somewhere else.

I thought maybe Sasha, Sassy, Snukmes, and my great-grandmother would meet her at the gates. Heaven felt so nice.

Did you know the fingernails are the first things that grow?

I bought so much food. Tore into it like I was trying to bury something. Bag after bag. I ate until I hated myself. Until I was too full to think about anything else.

I chewed CBD like it was a ritual. A blockade. Trying not to go back to my fixations, the dangerous ones.

I laid on our bed and remembered how my body just stopped breathing. One of my old coping things was holding my breath. So when the CBD made me feel like I couldn’t breathe, I was angry. Only I got to do that to myself. Not CBD.

Then my body gasped. Woke itself up like it knew something I didn’t. I looked at the bridges in Central Park and got mad that they weren’t tall enough. I fantasized about ripping out my uterus. How I would do it. Let it feel what I did.

I tried so hard not to buy a box of whippets. Not to drink. Not to track down Concerta.

Thank God there weren’t any muscle relaxers left in the cabinet. I didn’t want to end up like my father’s brother.

There was a night I sat in the shower for maybe an hour. I let the water crash over me. I watched the strands of hair slip toward the drain. My forehead pressed to my knees, biting them. Rocking like I was seven again. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just folded into myself and stayed there.

I didn’t know how to tell him about the miscarriage. I still don’t. It’s not just the words; it’s the silence after. The way everything in me shut down.

Sometimes I wish Paige were here to make sense of my sorry excuse for writing. Maybe making him miserable was just a way to push him away before I had to say the words out loud.

He was right when he said I was stupid. It could’ve been avoided if I had known I had access to medical insurance the entire time. That’s why I couldn’t get care in New York. My Social Security number had blocked me because I didn't know I already had medical insurance. I really tried. I called. I searched. I went everywhere. No one could help me.

After it was too late, I found out they had reactivated my insurance. Quietly. Without a call, without a letter, without an email. I had it. I just didn’t know.

I’m not even sure what the hospital could have done. Maybe nothing. But it still would’ve been nice to have options. To have answers. To be told what was happening to my body. It would’ve been nice to see an OB-GYN every year. Just that. To be taken care of like a regular person. Like I mattered.

It’s my fault I starved myself for so many years. My body couldn’t hold her. I keep thinking this is God’s way of punishing me for starving myself.

Wisdom of Solomon 1:13-14 (Septuagint)

The reasons I didn’t tell him, that I can remember:

I didn’t know how to talk to him anymore.

What if he was happy about it and I would know? Maybe he though he dodged a bullet.

Lena and I spoke for hours at Herald Square, and I worried how hurt he would be. What if it stopped him from focusing on his dreams or work?

I just gave up on myself. I let my anger overpower me. Didn’t he deserve to know? How would I know? I lost my mind for a good portion of it.

I clung to Lena because

She wouldn’t report back to my model group.

She didn’t judge me or make me feel like the monster I knew I was.

I have never been an alcoholic, but when Lena brought me wine and handed me cigarettes, I just went back to food, trying not to starve again.

But guess what I did? I got Concerta again in August.

Now that the weight is gone, I just try to keep my habits balanced. No more Concerta. No coffee. For her.

And now that I’m healing, I think about how much I would’ve spoiled her.

I knew he heard me on the phone with my mom. My top ten superpowers are mesmerizing footsteps. I pretended I didn’t notice. Didn’t want to address it. I don’t think he’d believe me if I had.

The only way I could get my mom off our back about the apartment was to villainize him. Because she’d hate anyone in my life: friends, boyfriends, whoever. She would twist him into someone I didn’t want to believe. But I was enraged. I put my anger there since she didn’t want to listen to my truth or how my body betrayed me. My love for him.

I’ve been reading Reddit threads. I just read how one woman said, "The hormone crash is pretty violent." But what she didn’t write was how alone we are in those moments.

I didn’t really even know what was going on. It felt like my body wanted to scream, burst out, tear itself inside out.

I remember when he saw me in the street, grabbed my face, and told me how happy he was the swelling in my face was down.

I was glad he was happy. But it felt like someone stabbed me in the chest.

When he was sleeping, I played Anastasia, my comfort movie from childhood. I sat beside him, brushing my hair, brushing, tearing, trying to undo something. I kept brushing until I snapped.

Walked into the bathroom. Grabbed scissors. Cut it all out.

Hair everywhere. The sink, the counter, the floor. I almost cut the whole thing off.

We went to TJ Maxx near the end. I got upset. He matched it. Or maybe outmatched it.

I was mad he bought a four-dollar hairbrush for his brother. But it wasn’t about the brush. I was just putting pain in the wrong places again. Last time I saw him, I was wailing in the streets of New York. I had a panic attack, or maybe it was just a micro one. I can’t remember. The pressure, the summer humidity. I thought him leaving me took a piece of her with him. It made my blood boil and my skin crawl.

After he left, I put on Reba and Gilmore Girls on his TV. Break-up Nurse, my sweet friend who took care of me after he left, was so sick of Reba.

But maybe I wanted to be a mom like Reba. Or like Lorelai. The kind of mom who protects her kid from the world, from her own mother, from everything.

After he left, my Break-up Nurse begged me to let her fix my hair. She went to beauty school years ago. I wouldn’t let her near me.

Eventually she dragged me to a stylist named Oscar, someone I used to work with. He owns a salon in Tribeca now. He’s a dad now.

He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t say I looked different. Just nodded when I showed him the photo of Claudia Schiffer on a Chanel runway.

“That’s my work,” he said.

He spent almost 2 hours trying to hide the clumps and holes. Trying to make both sides even. Maybe he was just happy I wasn’t starving myself anymore. He didn’t ask for payment and denied it. He made me smile when he said, “You really had fun with those scissors,” in his Austrian accent.

14 Isaiah 49:15 (Orthodox canon)

I always wondered what she would’ve looked like. Would she have had his eyes? My nose?

I hoped she wouldn’t get my curls. I hoped she would get his waves instead.

Would she dance like me or play hockey like he did?

Would she have liked the lullabies that once were sung to me?

I'm angry she didn’t get his brother as an uncle. I wonder what her middle name would’ve been. If she would’ve loved pink or purple like me and my cousin Summer used to ponder about when we were tiny.

I still think about her every day.

I never thought that much blood could come from inside of me.

Last week, I was thrift shopping with some friends and found the Peter Rabbit books. I used to love them. My grandmother would play the old TV show for me.

I bought the books. Took them home. Stuffed them into a drawer. It might as well have had her name on it.

I think she’s with Paige. Protecting her.

My little cousin Charlie was adopted by my British Great uncle. His birth mother was on heroin. How could he do that to that beautiful boy?

I hold judgment. And jealousy. She did that and still got him.

I would rather burn in hell than do anything to hurt my body while pregnant. There was never even a flicker of desire to risk it.

Something clicked in me. Eat well. Rest well. Do everything right. Why didn’t it click for her?

The only thing I’m proud of is teaching Charlie how to stand up to bullies. He’s autistic. But he teaches me more than I’ve ever taught him.

We take Charlie as a family to his favorite sheep farm in the Southern California vineyards. He loves showing me how to hold baby lambs. All the lambs sleep in a pen together, curling against each other in warm piles like laundry. He shows me the farms like they’re his. And I follow.

Back at my Great uncle’s home, I sit on the floor while Legos and Hot Wheels and action figures spill across the carpet. He tells me which one I get to be, gives me a backstory, and corrects me if I get the voice wrong.

What an honor.

Even now, I miss her. I mourn her. I went back to God the moment she left my body. Was God punishing me? Definitely.

But Charlie doesn’t see me that way. There’s no hate in his heart, so maybe God chose wrong in taking her away.

Wisdom of Solomon 4:7–14

My friend Erica pulled out tarot cards. I asked her if my lost girl was happy in heaven and why she left me.

Today, every time I pass the baby clothes section, I hear my moms voice in my head, going on about how cute the tiny outfits were.

I hate how small they are. And I hate my jealousy of the women in the aisles.

I never thought I’d see anyone as beautiful again. How tall he was. The way he slithered through a room like smoke moving across skin. He had eyes like Johnny Depp and the kind of body ancient statues tried to warn you about. He moved like slow motion had been made just to worship him.

Tattoos wrapped around his bronzed arms, wild and hungry. Forest Hills’ golden boy. My name inked across his chest. My eyes sketched on his kneck.

If it weren’t for my promise to Paige, we’d probably be married with ten kids by now.

Do you think I give a shit? Honestly, do you? Be SO fr with me. I’ve never cared about what most men needed. Why would I? Men are vaulters. They scale me like I’m Everest. Like I’m a game to be won. They take the most intimate pieces of me and call it love. All because I broke my own heart once. One fucking time. You think that makes me weak? Or worse naive? Please. Be serious. Sure, it's cute at first. The exotic dinners. The expensive gifts. The illusion of being chosen.

Queens Boy? Yes, I loved him. But it didn’t gut me. Maybe it gutted him.

When Detective Producer (DP) the man I thought would give me stability, softness, a future, walked away, it cracked something open. Once I recovered, I started coming back. Dance. Tumbling. Sweat. Bruises. Breath. That’s where I live now.

Confession: Would you be surprised if I told you I’ve only ever had sex with two men in my life? Even oral, only them. Would you judge me?

Now you know.

The house I imagined with DP? Sold. Burned. Demolished in my mind.

I met a man golfing with my dad. Sweet, stable, successful. A lake house in Canada. But I didn’t even let him touch my wrist.

I’ve been reconstructing myself all year. Bit by bit. Scar by scar. Pound by pound.

My world has never orbited a man. My world doesn’t orbit anyone. It stands alone on three sacred pillars: God. My chosen family. My art.

You know what happens to a girl haunted by the church? By purity rings and tight-lipped sermons? By threats of hellfire wrapped in white lace?

She breaks. And what spills out is filthy, holy.

BDSM became my prayer. God, I craved it.

With DP, all I thought about was this: Choke me gently. Spit in my mouth. Finger me under linen tables. Pinch the inside of my thighs. Pull my hair in the coat check. Play pretend with me in public. Slap me in the face with your dick and call it devotion.

With DP? I was numb. Crushingly, suffocatingly bored.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. It’s that I was vanishing beside him. His goodness came with sedation.

And saying no to my vices felt like starving again. Like when ballet teachers bent me in half, crushed my arches under their heels, and called it grace.

Even in kink, I never went too far. I still want heaven, you know?

There was this college buddy from NYU, let’s call him Mat. We never slept together. I couldn’t. (Ew, that hairy heavy set body.) But I made him crawl. Made him squeal. Gave him a tail. He begged. He worshiped. He did everything I asked. Wanted more. I stopped our BDSM games and parties once I met DP. I could never do betray him like that.

God, I missed it. Craved it.

After a lifetime of being watched, handled, marketed, this was my revolt. You don’t get to touch me. But I’ll ruin you. And you’ll thank me for it.

That’s the kind of balance I needed.

Yes, I was offered payment. Was optioned Sugar daddies. Rich men. Private jets. But I’d rather sweat in a walk-up studio apartment than be bought.

I used to think I was destined to marry some finance guy who’d sign my life like a contract, owning my smile, my silence, my skin. But I’d rather rot in a crumbling New York walk-up, paint peeling, radiator hissing, sunlight slicing through stained blinds like it’s trying to find what’s left of me.

Seen. Heard. Understood.

Queens Boy saw me.

He brought me peonies. Too many. Just because. He played chess with me; he knew I’d been on chess teams since the second grade. We’d sit in silence for hours, the pieces clacking between us like silent dare. He taught me how to jump my car when the battery died because my mom forgot to move it in California. He fixed things when they broke. Came to the model apartment when our agents ghosted us and the building managers wouldn’t come. He filled in all the gaps like he was born to. Loved my friends, even the broken ones.

He adored my ballerina body. Rented entire dance halls just for me to practice alone, all mirrors and silence-except for the sound of my pointe shoes bruising the floor. He’d sit there for hours, watching like I was a cathedral burning. He bought my Capezio pointe shoes. He still sends me peonies to this day.

I loved his mother. She treated me like I was already family. We’d talk for hours: about dance, about God, about everything I didn’t tell my own. His baby sister called me her sister, and I wasn’t just a visitor. I was her coach. I used to assist with her gymnastics team down in Queens. We were close, like something rare you don’t even realize is rare until it’s gone.

He tried to get sober for me. He called just to hear my voice. But I wouldn’t answer when he was high or drunk. I’d sat through too many Al-Anon meetings to believe that lie again.

Then came, let’s call him, Maximilian Gellar. Movie star. Obsessive. Too much cologne and too many lies. Plays soldiers and saviors for a living. When I met him, he looked like a farm boy.

He followed me. Grabbed me. Promised me the world and clawed at my waist.

I was complaining about Maximilian stalking me again when Queens Boy overheard and just dropped in with, “Because you’re mine.” It warmed my heart, but if I’m being honest, it also made me a little embarrassed for him. Yep, it gave me what we now call the “ick.”

I begged Queens Boy to let it go. But one night at 1Oak, it all exploded.

I was talking to my childhood best friend, the one who pulled my pants down in 5th grade on the school yard. Mid layup. Queens Boy saw the look on my face. Saw Maximilian in my space. And Queens Boy snapped. Charged across the room. Swung his fist. Security guards. Blood. Chaos. I used my childhood best friend as a human shield. Pulled her in front of me, instinctually. Her face went stiff with shock, and I just shrugged. In her eyes, I was still the captain of our cheer squad, the one who always had the plan, even if it was chaos. I’m also a Scorpio.

I still see that scar on Maximilian’s cheek every time he's on TV screens. His agents scrubbed the truth with a mop of PR.

Outside, Queens Boy kissed my forehead. Checking in on me while my friend hovered around me. Pressed me against the brick wall. His friends peeled him away.

He loved racing me around the city in his sports cars his daddy bought him; his Patek Philippe scratching the surface of the wheel. Loved when I screamed and laughed around the sharp corners of Soho.

Sometimes I touched myself in the passenger seat, while he drove full speed down 5th Avenue. Pulled up my Versace dress just enough to make him bite his lip. Started touching myself just to watch him squirm. When I finished, I didn't even look at him. I just smiled. Because I knew he'd burn with it.

He tolerated Paige. He hated how modeling ruined me.

He begged me to eat. Begged me to stay.

His family’s Manhattan penthouse had an Andy Warhol in his bedroom and floor-to-ceiling windows. His mom was on the board of the New York City Ballet.

He showed a 12 carat oval cut ring Platinum setting He got the blessing But I didn’t want my mother’s life

He gave me his baptism cross. Too big. Too gold. Too dramatic. It laid over mine, cool metal pressing into my collarbone, clashing with the skin he claimed and the girl I used to be.

But I wore it. Because it meant I wasn’t alone.

I was always his ballerina.

We sinned in our Greek Orthodox church in Queens. He dragged my chair across the floor just to sit closer to me during sermons. Our knees brushing in sacred silence. We kissed in dark hallways. Snuck in the parish offices and fucked on theirs desks, even on the Ambon, right on that priest’s podium. You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not. I genuinely worried we’d burn in hell for it.

We stole his parents’ yacht. Fucked in every room like we were baptizing it in sin.

One of the girls, my dearest sister from our Models Club, she was a supermodel, posted her attempted suicide on social media. For her fans and her agency. After Milan. After Victoria’s Secret told her she needed a boob job. The same week she was raped.

We were on set the week before. I held her hand after she lost it, screaming, and swiping everything off the makeup and hair tables in the photo studio. Bottles flying. Brushes clattering like war drums. The crew froze. Editors ducked. I tried to calm her. To walk her outside. To get her to breathe.

I didn’t see it coming. None of us did. We were accustomed to outbursts. Models snapping at hairstylists, crying in bathroom stalls, storming off sets. But this? This was something else entirely.

It triggered me. Deep. Photographers loved it. My body wasting away. My cheekbones sharper. My ribs a moodboard.

One shot of me collapsed made it into X Magazine. Body limp. Eyes vacant. I hate finding that photo shoot on Pinterest boards. Reblogged like it's beautiful instead of what it really was. My breakdown, immortalized.

My dad said, “You’ll lose a few more pounds when you’re dead on the autopsy table.”

I remember stumbling out of that shoot-empty. And Queens Boy waiting by his Maserati. Eyes locked. Legs crossed.

I’d just thrown up stomach acid. Used Jack Studio’s water bottles to trigger the gag reflex and liquid to throw up more.

He followed me home. Window down. Begging.

I told him to go home. My voice cold, final, almost unfamiliar. Like the kind of woman I was pretending not to become.

You have to understand: I didn’t love him like a religion. I loved him like a sunrise. It was joy.

Until he drank. Then Paige died. And I didn’t just change-I vanished and built a new girl in her place. Even my name didn’t make it out alive. He says I was the reason he got sober. He gives me his chips like trophies. I keep them in a jewelry box like relics.

They gave him the Hamptons house. Now he waits for me there. Emails me letters. Sometimes I read them. Sometimes I pretend I didn’t. But they don’t undo the promise I made to Paige.

When I was with DP, I never gave Queens Boy my address. It felt like a betrayal, even if nothing happened. But he was persistent. So one night, I met him outside The Plaza. He was parked right out front, under the massive lights and glass doors, valets everywhere.

I didn’t know if the tattoos he’d created for me were still on his skin. But my birthdate was still inked in Roman numerals on his wrist

I got into the car. Told him to go home.

Because I couldn’t do that to DP. Give another man my time, my presence. Emotional cheating always felt worse than anything physical. That moment? It was too close.

As a ritual, Queens Boy handed me his yearly AA chip right there in the car. Like he always did.

DP was the only man I truly loved. But he made me the masculine to my feminine.

He said he wanted to lead. Said he’d talk to the handy men, fix things, be the man. I said yes.

Then he forgot he said it. Denied it.

So I became everything. The fixer. The planner. The anchor.

Until I became something I never recognized.

Why is it that when women talk about what they want, what they need, we’re called crazy?

If we only get three great loves, is he the one I’m about to find?

The other day at my aerial and trapeze class I was chatting with Abigail. The front desk girl I had already become friendly with. Sweet as pie. That day we sat down talking for a bit. I tilted my head and behind her this beautiful dancer was moving on the pole like it was a love language.

I looked at Abigail and said, “Maybe I should try pole.”

She smiled and said, “Is X stepping out of her comfort zone?” teasing me just enough to make it feel possible.

My superpower has always been hiding my traumas. Though I can’t hide my body’s reactions. Paige. Always knew the right thing to say. Got us into trouble, made me laugh, always knew the right moves. Green eyes. A tattoo on the back of her neck before we were even legal. We met at my second treatment center.

Both our mothers hated us. We had that in common. We moved to New York together. She was my first everything. First coke. First molly. We got matching piercings and a tattoo hidden inside our bottom lips. I was too nervous to get something permanent. She awakened it all broke me out of the religious rules I was doctored into. Our model house was a runaway car. The under-lip tattoo is faded now. The scars from my piercings are still there. She was brilliant. Fearless. I always felt a little out of step, but with her… my outfits were edgier, ripped. My eyeliner smudged exactly where it needed to be. At one point, we shared everything. We were the same size anyway except she was taller. I was way too short for the job I signed up for. But my agent wrote “5’8.” Then came the day the “Detective Producer” (a nickname for the man who broke me, but also is a Detective & Film Producer) handed me a script, a pilot for a TV show about a model house.

I wanted to scream.

How many more times do I have to be handed stories by people who have no idea what we lived through? Who romanticize the pain we never recovered from? I flipped through it, gagging at the writing. The girl who wrote it was insufferable. Not a single real detail. Not one line that sounded authentic. She didn’t even bother to ask a real model. But of course, she didn’t have female friends. Why would she know what it costs to be one? Still, it brought back the flashbacks. Of Paige. My soul sister. We grew up together into adults. Traveled. Lived together till our early 20s were a memory. She never saw 25. Both our fathers were addicts. Mine disappeared. Hers stayed too long. But Paige came from deep Palm Beach money. Salt mine money. Private hospitals. Family wings named after her. She grew up with sit-down dinners alongside her godfather, Trump. She hated him. We all did, long before the country caught on. He wasn’t charming. He said hard, cruel things at long tables and humiliated his son in front of strangers. Tiffany’s face used to creep us out, too lopsided. Too desperate. We’d purposely exclude her from parties in New York. Call it petty. Everyone did it.

If only I hadn’t left early that morning to go to a model casting. Maybe I could have stopped it. If my alarm clock had failed…

I remember before we moved to New York, we were barely teenagers when they sent us to Paris. I didn’t even know how to make-out with anyone. And I was so annoyed by it. It was like me being upset I wasn’t as mature as the older girls, was unacceptable to her. So she was going to fix it. There was an older model we looked up to, 17 years old, from London. Let’s call her Mary. Paige orchestrated the whole thing. They called me out to the terrace, the Eiffel Tower lit in the distance like a cheap stage light. They handed me cigarettes. I coughed - hated it They said, “Just spell out the letters with your tongue.” So I did. A. B. C. Then we got older… It took until New York for me to smoke on my own. She always knew when to hand me one after castings, after crying in a bathroom stall, during college parties when the music got too loud and the cops would show up and I’d spiral into a panic. She never asked what was wrong. She just lit the cigarette and held it out like an offering. She didn’t fix you. She just stayed with you. I remember she found me in the back of the studio at Pier 59 curled up at the makeup counter in a bathing suit, palms in my hands, sobbing on set because I felt like I was too short and I hated my knocked knees. I joked that I should start eating cotton balls dipped in orange juice. I never took my clothes off for photographers. Not on set. Not in some “studio.” I can’t believe how religious I used to be. She knew I rarely cried. She knew I was clinging to anything I could to avoid what I was really feeling displaced anger. Still, she said the words I needed. Again, grabbing my hand. I could never handle drugs. My body couldn’t take it. How many times did our friends get roofied? We were always the ones trying to save them. In a way, we waited until it was our turn. And then it was mine. I was always so careful. Making sure no one has access to my glass those finance bros made a mistake with me though, Because all I did was throw up, hurl everywhere all the way out of the club…then out the window of a slow-moving taxi through the West Village. Like a faucet Me, finding it hysterical,

Paige holding onto my shirt so I didn’t fall out. When we arrived at the next destination. At Nick’s DJ set, I couldn’t stop throwing up. Josh picked me up. I threw up all over him. Josh just carried me home, my feet never touched the ground. He waited till morning, next to me, while I burned it off. Paige just sitting there waiting until I said something sarcastic and when that moment arrived, she would know I was fine. There was a model named Sasha, only walked for Chanel. Never got editorial. Sasha still thought she was the shit though. Paige and our friends and housemates were huddled outside a bar in Thailand when Sasha randomly got on the back of a motorcycle. We all looked at each other…"for that guy"?, and burst out laughing. How many times did we hop in taxis, limos, or motorcycles? But we thought we were better than Sasha. The kicker is, I was too coward to do anything like Paige or Sasha Paige fucking some random rich guy, while I sat awkwardly staring at his friend, twice my age. Because I was just there to make sure she got home. And I made it so very clear to those middle aged creeps Paige never wanted me to be like her and never pressured me to do what she did. She kept my secret that I never went home with any guys I always thought I was a coward but she thought I was the brave one for not participating. I didn’t think I was better than anyone I just didn’t want that. Maybe my dad making me go to church each week worked a little too well, I fear I think back to the very early days. I miss passing notes with her in class, passing words that hurt other girls like a knife or our teachers. Did you know they had school and class rooms for teenagers in rehab? I still miss the shitty jokes we had. She wrote my papers. She was the best writer. She should have been one. I remember climbing through the soiled staircases of the Chelsea Hotel a place we frequented. Some creep’s “cool” loft on the top floor. A projector playing an edgy film, trying to make him seem artsy. We danced. Everywhere. And anywhere. Every drug drop, I was on the sidelines. Now, anytime a car creeps behind me, I hear the wheels, sharply. I find it ironic no one notices how I turn my head slowly, like it’s a dance. There was a shoot in a photo studio in Soho, for X Magazine. The photographer pulled out a gun, whaling it in the hair as makeup artists, stylists, and PA’s ducked. He was definitely coked up. Paige and I slithered our bodies away slowly, like it wasn’t world-crashing the way it was for everyone else on set. Were we that desensitized? I miss her hands holding mine, running through the streets of cities our agencies would pawn us off to. We smoked outside our model house knowing full well our doorman was reporting us to our agent. We laughed at 99% of everything secret jokes only we understood. I remember us in front of a club we frequented, dancing on tables, sexting, smoking. Photographers loved catching us doing things we shouldn’t. We let them into the after-party like it was an honor. I remember when I was on the ground, right before we were sent to Spain. I was hiding that I was using Concerta again to stop myself from eating. She made me go outside, away from the Upper East Siders we grew up with, who set up this elaborate brunch just for us, sad we were leaving them again She handed me a cigarette. Made me sit on the curb. Ordered me to stop. And guess what? I did. We never fought. Ever. I would hold onto my baptism cross anytime something scared me. The Detective Producer would mock me for “clutching my pearls.” Little did he know it was reflex. I left that necklace with her. She still has it. Forever.

How many bathrooms did we hang out in, in the back of clubs? It was just high school all over again. At cheerleading competition, Paige spiked the judge’s water with toilet water. I kept watch. We never got caught. I see movie stars on screens, ones who hurt her. I told her to stay away from them. They hurt her anyway. I refused to participate. But I never forced her to be like me. I can’t bear watching their films now. There are movies I’ll never see, because of what they did to her. What the Detective Producer didn’t know? I only loved one person before him. For years. When we met, I was dodging emails from someone I swore I’d never go back to. Let’s call him Queens Boy. Paige told me not to go with Queens Boy to that party. Said I was making a mistake. She also saw his addiction was stronger than any love he could surrender. I loved him, and I was close to his family. Closer than I was to my own family or Paige’s. So I trusted him. Why wouldn’t I? When he picked me up. I didn’t know that he was drunk or high. His uncle had set the brakes on the back wheels of his sports car. He was trying to show off. He loved my screams. We hit a pole. The car flipped. We spun through ice, straight into a hill. Now I’m scared of cars. It wasn’t until Paige ran to the hospital that I knew she’d never forgive him. He held my hips, got on his knees, palms together. Begged me to forgive him. He was an alcoholic. We were so young. I could smell the alcohol soaked into his skin. But I had already promised her I wouldn’t see Queens Boy again. He still emails and writes letters to this day. I’ve kept my promise to her. Through all the bullshit, we protected each other in ways our mothers never did. I remember the alley in front of PHD. Lena, a photographer, brought two Swiss guys. I went outside to smoke. Paige stayed back. One of them cornered me against the brick wall of the alleyway. No one did a thing as he grabbed my arms too tight. She screamed, “Hey! Off of her!” For some reason, my innocence was sacred to her. We never trusted security guards again. She grabbed my hand and rushed me inside between the red velvet ropes. The guards didn’t let the Swiss guys back in, at least. She protected me like vengeance. And I her. Paige’s family still wants me to join them for holidays. But I couldn’t the past few years. Not while with Detective Producer. It was easier to avoid it than explain. When he drove us through the Hamptons, I couldn’t help but think of our bonfires on the beaches of Amagansett running around with the riffraff. Gossip Girl wishes they could be us. I remember it clear as day, walking into our model apartment, shared with girls from god knows where. I opened the door and there was a moment…frozen. Scrawny, tall girls just standing, staring down at the tub. Overfilled. A body in it. I couldn’t even register all the drugs spilled everywhere. Her body, lifeless. Her eyes, sunken. The smell, the perfume covered the rot. I raised my voice, asking why no one had called 911, why no one tried the Heimlich, or anything to bring her back. I didn’t realize they already had.

So I stuck my finger down her throat.

Again. And again. And again. Bargained with EMTs. Nothing worked

She was gone

Ever since the day I found her like that, I can’t sleep right. I’ve tried everything, but nothing works. I still remember us going to a doctor’s appointment together, bursting out laughing when I told the doctor that Magnesium supplements was putting me in a "bad mood". He looked at us like we were the dumbest girls alive, but we couldn’t stop laughing. I miss the inside jokes. The songs. The way we could speak in half-sentences and still understand everything. My dad still asks about her. His "brain damage" took most of his memory. So I stopped telling him she was gone. I just say, “She’s at home.” Now I dodge our friends on the Upper East Side hiding behind cars. Literally. Why would I move back there? During the pandemic? At her funeral, her grandmother asked me so many questions. I didn’t know how to answer. How could I tell her? The horror story that haunts our old agents. They said she calculated it so I wouldn’t be the one to find her in the bathroom when she was finished with removing herself from this world. For over a decade, we spent every holiday together, laughing with each other while sitting with our dysfunctional families. Why was it always so funny to us? The ridiculous things they’d say? We were each other’s chosen sisters. Today, I’m known as the fragile one in the group. Everyone tiptoes around it. Even the Supers, the older, established models cradle their words around me. Even now I look back, and when I chose to start assisting X Magazine, Mario was so mad I stopped modeling. He said, “You don’t belong here.” Like I disappointed him. That’s so Mario, isn’t it? Blunt without thought. Like my worth ended when I stopped being marketable. If Paige would’ve read this post, She would have edited it so people could actually understand my trash excuse of writing. She would’ve made it clearer, cleaner. Then she’d challenge me: If I’m going to write her stories. Write them raw. I think of all the things I want to tell her, Now that she’s gone, years after she died… …I didn’t have to tell Paige that her cousin, in a town just a train ride away, married Paige’s rapist. Her executioner.

Disclaimer:

I was a retired model. A dancer. A tumbler since I was nine. I was surprised no one noticed at the craft table. I even managed to hide it from Detective Producer, the man I loved.

And still, I moved through it unnoticed. And no one knew.

Oceana knew. She could spot me from a mile away. Is it that women like us just know? A secret club? Dancer’s code? She didn’t have to say anything. She just looked once. And I knew she knew. Best part was, she didn’t ask me to stop.

It was better to eat than to go back there.

Where’s there? The places they sent me when I was a girl.

She locked me away without permission. She did it in secret. Illegally. Almost went to jail for lying to the judge.

I had already run away by thirteen. My second kidnapping by freshman year.

Still a virgin. Never touched a drug. But they treated me like a threat. Like I needed to be locked away.

I went from catered dinners, where I was ordered to eat with perfect manners, like every fork was a judgment or a scold. And now I was eating whatever we caught. Hunting. Eating with a spoon I carved from an old branch.

When I was returned, court-ordered, my dad was put in jail so he couldn’t find me, and my mom said, "I didn’t send you away sooner because you behaved last year."

I wasn’t even home. I was at dance. At the model house. Or staying at friends’ houses. She thought I was dating one of them? At 14? My best friend since I was 9?

So if I wasn’t inconvenient, I was a good kid? I remember the first time she sent me away: wilderness. No mirrors. No soap. Rich girls with baseball-team daddies. We were bad. We made a tribe.

Sometimes, I miss being feral.

You don’t forget how to start a fire with your bare hands. How to live without a bed. How to not bathe. How to survive with other lost girls.

You become something else.

I knew the cough-cough turn by heart before I was eighteen.

When I came back, my room was gone. Just a bare mattress on the floor. New room. Same house. So quick to erase me.

So I drank. My boobs finally grew now that I wasn’t being starved. From Wilderness Program food scraps with more calories than my mom ever gave me.

Senior boys noticed.

I was bored. Liquor without a chaser. The attention. The game. Letting them chase the cheerleader’s prize, like I was the trophy they’d never win.

I let them chase it just to watch them lose.

Paris Hilton gets to talk about it. And it’s still legal.

I wasn’t bad until I came back. Then I became the monster she always said I was.

And I did it well.

To her, me going out meant I was finally being "good." I hated it. I hated everyone.

Second rehab was real rehab. Not a mountain snowstorm in North Carolina. I had one therapist say, “This is the smallest file I’ve ever seen,” like I won a prize.

The only meds I could get in rehab were supplements. I was annoyed and embarrassed. Other girls got to go up there. I didn’t. The nurse looked at me and said, “Why do you need these?”

It’s not like I wanted drugs. But it felt like, wow. She went this far. My mom was just punishing me.

They said I took Demi Lovato’s spot. So I thought to myself, a Disney star is half as good at starving as I was?

It felt like a vacation from my mother. Girls like me. It was peaceful being around girls who found ways to cope, like sanitizer or contraband. Maybe even better than I was.

I’d quit drinking as much before anyone noticed. They hadn’t.

I drank in class. Plastic bottle. Still got A's. Dared them to catch me.

No one did.

Maybe they liked the cheer squad letters on my uniform.

I was never addicted to substances. Only to perfection. The discipline. The praise.

The dance coach would praise me in front of the whole room for how late I stayed, working myself into exhaustion. One of my vices of my ED.

My mom couldn’t send me away anymore, so she tried to make me sick.

Hyperbaric chambers before class. She said it was healing. The same machines that killed Michael Jackson.

I wasn’t allowed to wear tampons in the machine. So blood would drip down my legs. Male nurses who were in charge of me saw it.

I’d run out, scrub myself in the bathroom, cover bruises with makeup, and go straight to the dance studio.

The only thing left of me is my feet. Dancer feet, ugly, grotesque, a secret shame. My dad used to call them hoofs. But my arch was still there. Even now, they’re the only proof ballet was ever real.

I took a sleeping pill just to see you again in that house we never lived in

that Greek one we shot the TV show in Queens kitchen window overlooking the pool sunlight folding in like it remembered us

we had a girl named Maddy and a boy with your face two under two always in my arms as if the dream had hands of its own

I made dinner in a Juicy tracksuit tits half zipped orchestrating the evening with my French tips

you came home tie crooked shirt I ironed the night before and I lit up like love wasn’t something to be ashamed of

we had rules no strangers upstairs not even your brothers’ girlfriends his latest still brought someone too young

I rolled my eyes and made space around the kitchen island a stool we happily labeled just for him I adored him the way you do brothers half annoyed half grateful

I loved you so much my body broke trying to hold it

your smell is gone from the shirts I borrowed the ones I stole every cycle washed it away until only fabric remained

what kind of person smells someone’s clothes someone who stayed quiet just to stay chosen

it had only been a week and I already couldn’t eat I stopped eating because grief made me forget how

watched the weight fall like pieces of the life I was led to believe in

called it progress every time my jeans slipped down without unbuttoning they said I looked good but no one asked if I was still here

my dear sweet friend my breakup nurse arrived while I was still on the floor

I wasn’t crying wasn’t speaking just breathing

she knelt begged me to eat begged me to choose myself

I didn’t

so she peeled me off the floor like something dead and said you don’t have to die just because he left

and I let her

not because I needed saving but because she reminded me I was still worth returning to

the next day we walked the neighborhood my chest hurt every time I thought of you which was every other second

I told myself it was karma for the pain I gave for the screaming for not saying what I was really mourning for not saying what happened for saying nothing at all

the ache stayed and so did I