It wasn’t worth it. The past 7 years to end up like this, unhealthy and alone.
My first day in the industry was exceptional; I felt like a princess. Showered with gifts and compliments, the opportunity seemed to be once in a lifetime. My parents disapproved, warning me of the dangers I could encounter. But I was ignorant to their opinions; I wanted to feel beautiful for once.
A typical day at the studio was blissful. Come to the set, get made up for hours with hair and makeup, practice for the theme of the shoot, perform and go home with a smile on my face. The first few years of my career in the industry were extraordinary. My status was rising as I acquired more and more jobs with the top magazines: Marie Claire, Women’s Health, Elle, and even Vogue. I was at the top of my game. Everybody wanted me. It was unbelievably stimulating.
Then one morning I arrived to shoot for a swimsuit magazine, something I had coveted since I was little. Sitting at the makeup station in my white robe, I greeted everyone with a jubilant smile prepared for the day to begin. I was notified of some extra procedures we would need to do before shooting; I agreed enthusiastically as always, excited for a new experience. They brought me over to the scale, told me to take off my robe and jump on. I’d never weighed myself in front of anyone other than my Mother in my life, but I was ready. The scale read 106. I looked up and smiled saying innocently, “What’s next?” My manager looked at the photographer, then back at me taking a deep breath in, “To do a swimsuit shoot, you must be less than 100 pounds. Or a BMI fewer than 18, you don’t qualify for either. It’s a regulation. We apologize, but can you fix this issue in 2 weeks? That’s the only time we can book this notorious photographer.” I was stunned. I mean, I knew I had always been skinny, so I had never encountered a problem before. I’d heard rumours about the speculation of the modelling industry, but never believed it to be true. I thought they liked me.
For months after that incident the scale became my best friend. Every day my routine became harder. Wakeup: have one bottle Kombucha tea, a fermented Chinese tea. Supposedly it has all of these properties for the immune system, metabolism support, and digestion. Followed by one apple, that would suffice. Hit the gym for 2 hours, then the studio. Possibly stopping for a snack of cottage cheese, and drinking more than a litre of water in a day. This worked tremendously for two years. I was asked to participate in Madrid’s Fashion Week: a dream come true.
I stepped on stage to do a run through of my walk in Madrid; I felt faint. This was normal, apparently. All the models said so. I avoided the mirror on show days so I wouldn’t psyche myself out about how much weight I needed to lose on that day. I had jumped from 98 to 107. With a height of 5”7, an increase of 9 pounds was an embarrassing disaster. As I was walking back to have a team chat before the show began, amidst the hype, I had fainted.
Waking up in the hospital, I clearly remember my Mother crying. She never wanted this for me. She felt this was her fault, although she warned me, she didn’t monitor like she felt she should have for her baby girl. This broke my heart. My doctor notified my Mother and me of my condition… after running tests and calculating my food intake over the past year; he declared me to have severe Anorexia Nervosa Disorder. It was surreal. He paused and stared at us welling up into tears, and says “Lucy, don’t be ashamed. The reason you have had rapid weight gain over the past month is because… you’re pregnant.”
