I live in a box. I stay in a mansion, but I live in a box. 34â 24â 34â. Not an inch more, quite possibly an inch or two less. High fashion doesnât mean high self esteem. High fashion is being hungry. High on drugs, high on adrenaline, high on success. Those apply, give or take. But they donât truly capture the essence of an agency modelâs life, or lack thereof. You create a home in the form of a dollar bill. You create self worth in the form of another job well done, another meal avoided. You sustain yourself on the compliments of strangers.
I live in a box. 900 calories a day, with exercise. Nothing more, quite possibly a meal or two less. Close to the show, we only drink liquids. But sometimes, I canât stop myself. Sometimes I get high on a plate. Binging isnât the answer, binging doesnât solve my problems, and it sure as hell doesnât fix every time wrong with this industry. But it feels so good in the moment, yes, itâs euphoria. I reminds me of a a time before I was obsessed with perfection. And then, in a moment, itâs done. And I know what I have to do to fix it.
What was Victoriaâs secret, anyways? I donât think it was the lingerie. I think it may have been a tendency to purge when no one was around. Or a nasty amphetamine addiction, maybe? Or, the fact that no matter how much success she got, and how much money she made, she felt awful inside. Maybe she lived in a box, as well. Or, on the contrary, her secret was how much money she makes off of the exploitation of susceptible young girls.
My agent told me once, âwhoever said cocaine isnât a meal obviously has never done any good cocaineâ. He said this, and he offered me a cigarette. For the cravings, he said. Nothing more, nothing less. I told him, Iâm exhausted. Iâm tired of living in solitary confinement in the form of a measuring tape. In the form of a scale. In the form of his critique. He told me, âSuck it up princess, thatâs business!â. He was right, of course. Every time. But he didnât see what we went through. He doesnât understand how disgusting I feel when I look in the mirror and I see ribs that jut out like nails. âYou chose this life, you can leave at any timeâ. But he was wrong, of course. I donât know how to be a person anymore. I only know how to be a pretty face.
They call us angels, but they donât see that our wings are fake. We are not perfect, but we're told weâre pretty damn close, and this is our essence. Money, fame, fashion, drugs, lust. We donât just live in boxes, we become them. These are the reasons why, I fill myself up on empty.
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