In the beginning, he made me feel beautiful. He told me all the time. Until he didn’t.
I remember the first time I tried to go out with him to run errands without makeup. My hair up in a messy bun and I was wearing faded jeans and a plain tee. He told me to change. That I couldn’t be by his side looking like a teenage boy.
He convinced me that he had an image to maintain, and if I loved him, I’d want to protect it, too. Not once did he protect me from anything. Even when I begged. Which I did. All the time.
Still, I stayed.
Better jobs were offered to me because I was Pierre St. Germain’s girlfriend. My bank account was flourishing.
I was dying.
But I didn’t know it. I didn’t see. You don’t notice the small things they introduce one at a time, one after another. The rules change and you let them convince you that they haven’t. They were that way all along. You’re crazy. You’re losing your mind. Why are you acting so weird?
What is wrong with you?
Everything. I’m a loser. I can’t do anything right. I’ll never live up. I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never get the cover of Vogue. Never mind, I’ve had it three times, now. I need it again. What will everyone think of me if I can’t get it again?
You’re nothing.
He constantly told me about other models’ accomplishments, keeping me in an imaginary rivalry.
“Did you see so-and-so was atThe Met Gala? You didn’t get invited.”
You’ll never be as good as her. Or her. Or her. Or her and her and her and her.
Staring at the ceiling, the morning light dancing around the room as the breeze outside sways the trees, I let my frustrated tears drain from the corners of my eyes. Little rivers of sorrow traveling to pool in my ears.
How have I let myself fall so far? Why do I continue to let myself?
After I left Grady’s last night, I curled up into a ball in the bathtub and let the hot water pelt the skin I wanted to crawl out of. I was freezing cold. I know it was my anxiety but no matterhow much I tell myself it’s a panic attack, I can’t help but feel like I’m dying. Like the feeling is never going to leave me.
I’ll be like this forever.
Maybe I’m having a heart attack. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe this will end.
I don’t know for certain how long I was in the shower. Long enough for the water to turn cold. From there, I moved to the bed, wrapped in every blanket I could find. Eventually, I passed out and slept so well that I didn’t even hear my cell ring on the nightstand.
A voicemail indication tells me it did, though.
“Hey, Lou. I’m sorry if I pushed too hard. Please let me know you’re okay.”
Grady didn’t push me to a panic attack. It was a memory. There are so many. Too many. At times, I can’t keep them straight or remember what’s real. Because how can one person have so many?
Me:
I’m okay. Sleep helped.
Grady:
Glad to hear it. Plans for the day?
Me:
I’m going out in search of paint.
Grady:
Talk to Sam at Ranko’s Hardware on 3rd and Orchard.
