TW: Eating disorder/food/weight

It was Thursday. The day of the stupid photoshoot for which I had managed (fucking thank god) to lose six pounds for. I had a different shoot in the morning, for a small brand advertising a glitter eyeshadow that they applied so thickly onto my skin I could barely close my eyes. Like a layer of plastic stuck on my eyelid. 

Even though they weren't photographing my body, just form the shoulders up, I I knew not to eat anything until after the rescheduled shoot that afternoon, had no doubt he would make me step onto scales to prove the six pounds had gone.

I was expecting a gracefully grand amount of money for all the trouble I had gone to for one set of photos. 

Not so gracefully, though, at just after midday, I blacked out.

Only for a short couple of seconds. I had been in the bathroom after the eyeshadow shoot, and when I turned from the sink and towards the door, my eyes fuzzed and I barely managed to find the edge of the sink with my hand before I lost balance and went down. 

When I was able to see properly again, I was on my knees on the ground, thanked the gods that it was a private studio and the toilets were regularly cleaned. The last thing I needed was piss on my legs. 

I thought, for fuck's sake, Andy, you couldn't have waited until you got home to do that, could you? 

That's not how it works, obviously. Still, would have been fucking nice to collapse in the comfort of my own house onto carpet, not a solid bathroom floor where anybody could have walked in. I'm sure it wouldn't have been the first time they'd had someone collapse there. 

Like I said. It's kind of in the modelling contract. 

I felt odd as I walked back to my car, wasn't entirely confident on driving when my eyes kept blurring as though they were tearing up (they weren't). The logical thing would have been to eat something, probably something sugary, but I didn't have anything on me, and even if I did, I'd hardly eat before the shoot that afternoon.

I decided I could wait until I got home later. 

For ten minutes, I sat in the car without turning they key. I put the radio on and breathed slowly until I was sure the dizziness had passed.

I checked my phone to a text from Lonny: 'Your mum told me not to tell you but I'm not a bad friend so you should know she's been asking me to check up on you. What do you want me to tell her??' 

I didn't have the fucking time for this. I knew my mother didn't believe me, but for god's sake, couldn't she have been a bit more tactful about it? As if asking my best friend to check up on me was going to solve anything. Didn't she listen to all those audiobooks she bought about 'coping with an eating disorder in the family' ?

Fucking hell. 

'Tell her I'm fine because I am. If I wasn't, I'd tell her. Not that she's much fucking help at this rate. Don't tell her that bit,' I sent back. I did feel bad about talking about my mother like that, but what was I supposed to do? She doesn't get it. She never got it; she just listened to a ton of audio books and podcasts and vomited out terms they used until she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. 

Spoiler: she didn't know what she was talking about and she still doesn't. 

I should start a tally for the amount of times she says something stupid about my disorder. 

Like the time, barely a week into forced recovery - I want to be very clear that it was forced - she put a bowl of food in front of me and proceeded to tell me how I couldn't get upset about it because it was healthy. 

Or what about when both her and dad lectured me on the importance of food. Every single cliché anyone has ever said in regards to 'please eat'. I have never felt such an intense desire to murder anyone as I did then. 

Lonny sent back a simple, 'Okay, will do.'

I put my phone down and turned the ignition of my car, began the half hour drive. I thought, if he tells me to lose one more fucking pound, I'll get on my knees right there in front of the camera and puke until I pass out.

I thought, that skill might come in handy. 

He greeted me at the entrance and I pulled all the usual, "it's nice to see you, I'm looking forward to it," shit. There was nothing I wanted more than to fall down onto my couch and cry. 

Inside his studio, I changed into the outfit provided, taking a moment in the dressing room to turn from side to side in the long mirror. He had been right. The lost six pounds did make my waist look incredible.

I wasn't sure I had ever been that small. When I collapsed that time in front of my mother, I was still a healthy weight. At least according to the BMI chart (which we all know is rubbish).

But this morning, after of course stepping on the scales, I entered my height and weight into the BMI calculator, and I was only three pounds off being underweight. 

I thought, god, I'm so close. I should just reach that milestone. 

He said when he saw me, "You look spectacular, Andy. You could walk the catwalk with that physique; you're so elegant with so little weight on you. This is going to be a killer shoot." 

Isn't it funny how incredible that made me feel?