Body of Work

So I began a life of grilled chicken and broccoli, Spinning and running, and ingesting every appetite suppressant I could get my hands on. My worth as a model—and a person—began to be about what I weighed. The years that followed are a bit of a blur to me. I arrived in Paris, only to be sent away again on two different occasions with instructions to lose more weight. I was told by a waifish model to eat lots of apples and smoke cigarettes to speed up the process. I did a stint in Germany and a few other places in Europe, and then I finally moved to New York.

Being told I needed to lose weight was the story of my life at that time, but I still finally managed to book my first runway show in New York Fashion Week. During the fitting, the stylist couldn't zip the back of my dress. He jokingly asked if I could lose 10 pounds by tomorrow. That night, I didn't eat dinner, and the next day I found that my rack of clothing had dwindled from three outfits to just one. The designer muttered something about me being too heavy. I must have blocked the rest out, because I have no recollection of the day beyond that moment.