Unbearable Lightness Part 10

"Good news!" I stood in my kitchen looking out onto the Sahara desert that was the yellow wall of the Sunset 5 shopping mall and tried to rally excitement for my impending movie. My mother loved to hear of my accomplishments and because of the h.e.l.l I had put her through over Christmas, I felt that the "good news" of an exciting role in a big studio movie was what she deserved to hear. As I began to describe the film, "It's called Cletis Tout Cletis Tout," who was cast to star in it, "Richard Dreyfuss plays my father!" and where it would shoot, "In Toronto-you'll have to come visit," my excited, energetic voice was in stark contrast to the exhaustion I was feeling. Landing the role wasn't exciting to me, it was merely the end of the long uphill climb of auditions, callbacks, and negotiations. Getting the role was a relief, like the moment of collapse at the top of a mountain before you begin worrying about how to get down. Like a tourist who travels not to experience foreign places but rather to tell people that she's well traveled-this was how I viewed this excursion to Toronto with its film set and its respected actors. "I'm doing a movie this summer." That was the reason I wanted the movie. As my Ally McBeal Ally McBeal cast mates had seemingly all succeeded in landing movie roles, I too must do something extraordinary to fit in. cast mates had seemingly all succeeded in landing movie roles, I too must do something extraordinary to fit in.

I hung up the phone and felt empty, vacant, directionless. I knew I should celebrate, but I didn't know who to call. I didn't know who would care. I couldn't call my brother because he would want to take me out for Mexican food and margaritas and I couldn't think of an excuse not to go. I couldn't let him see me in person because I didn't want to upset him again. He could think that I was eating more and loosening up on my strict diet from the picture on his TV screen, as everyone looks ten pounds fatter on TV. He could check in with me as Nelle Porter once a week and be pleased with my progress as the wardrobe department had cleverly quilted a disguise of flattering clothing to cover all my flaws: a patch to cover my thin arms, a patch to cover the gap between my thighs. I thought about a gla.s.s of wine-heck, champagne!-but knew I couldn't enjoy it without feeling guilty. I was the leading lady in a movie, after all, and Christian Slater was my man. We had chemistry, apparently. A shape-shifting, s.e.xless androgynous girl could have chemistry with anything. My life was just a fantasy with its fantasy lovers and its make-believe conversations with make-believe people in my head. So I was a perfect candidate to fall in love with a make-believe man and consummate our pretend love in a make-believe house. Reality was the difficult part. And the reality at that moment was that it was Friday at 5:00 and I didn't know what to do. So I went to the Pilates studio.

Santa Monica Boulevard, the gay part of town, had an exciting energy. It was the beginning of the weekend, and the restaurant workers were placing candles on the outdoor tables, setting a welcoming scene for their patrons to drink, talk, and unwind from the week of work. As I drove down the boulevard, past the lesbian coffee shop I'd gone to the day I got Ally McBeal, Ally McBeal, hoping no one could see me through my tinted car window, I was once again aware of the emptiness. Losing weight was no longer exciting to me, and maintaining it was hard. I was exhausted most of the time and the ante on exercise seemed to keep going up. Unexpectedly, a voice would sound in my head at the point of my workout where I would usually have quit, telling me to march on, to keep going, that it wasn't enough. It told me I wasn't good enough, I didn't do it long enough, that there was still a long way to go before I could rest. hoping no one could see me through my tinted car window, I was once again aware of the emptiness. Losing weight was no longer exciting to me, and maintaining it was hard. I was exhausted most of the time and the ante on exercise seemed to keep going up. Unexpectedly, a voice would sound in my head at the point of my workout where I would usually have quit, telling me to march on, to keep going, that it wasn't enough. It told me I wasn't good enough, I didn't do it long enough, that there was still a long way to go before I could rest.

The drill sergeant voice accompanied me everywhere, recorded all the missed moments when I was sitting but should've been standing, moving around, doing something. It was hard for me to drive anywhere, even to the Pilates studio. I had figured out several different blocks in LA where I could get out of my car and stretch my legs. I wouldn't always run around the block, sometimes I would just walk with a deliberate stride. Sometimes I didn't have the energy to run. I had the urge to get up from being immobile, but I didn't have the energy to make it a useful excursion. The voice that made me get out of my car, that called me a lazy pig for walking instead of running around the block, would get back in the car with me and accompany me all the way to the studio, where it laughed at me for being late to work with no burned calories to show for it.

I pulled into the valet parking lot of the Pilates studio. The parking lot was shared with a restaurant and if you liked to work out when other people were going to dinner, then a valet would take your car. The voice told me to get out of the car as fast as I could and go burn calories. I got out of the car in a hurry and left my keys in the ignition for the valet.

How are you going to pull it off? How could you ever be pretty enough to be a leading lady? You're not even thin. You don't have long, lean limbs. You have ordinary looks and an ordinary body. You can't play a leading lady in a movie. You're gay. What a joke! What happens when people find out you're gay and you've fooled them into thinking you were Christian Slater's love interest? How is that going to work? Give it up, you stupid d.y.k.e. How long are you going to pretend you're something you're not? How long do you think people are going to fall for it?

As I reached the top stair and looked down at where I'd left my car, I saw it moving. My car was moving!

"Help!" I screamed. "Somebody's stealing my car!"

I ran down the stairs, my heart beating in my throat. Jesus! Where's my dog? Is she in the car?

"Help! Help me! Somebody's stealing my car!" I got to the bottom step, flung my body around the railing, and ran to my car feeling like there were weights tied to my ankles, like I was running with someone holding me back. Evil was holding me back, allowing my car to be stolen in front of my eyes. And my dog! Oh my G.o.d! Bean! I screamed out her name, "BEAN!!!"

The car stopped and a man got out. He was wearing black pants and a blue vest. He held the keys up to me, silently. He looked frightened. We stood there, facing each other, him in his blue vest and me in my platform off-camera shoes and spandex shorts with the elastic waistband that was too loose for my hips. We stared at each other, and now it was my turn to be frightened. I gently took the keys from him and quietly sat down on the warm leather seat. I checked for Bean and she wasn't there. I drove away in silence. No metronome. No marching orders. I drove back down Santa Monica Boulevard and past the lesbian cafe. Staring into the cafe, I drove through a red light. I knew that because a man crossing the street at the crosswalk slapped the hood of my car as he narrowly avoided getting hit and then by the time the noise registered, I saw that I was in the middle of an intersection, all alone except for a car rushing at my side. I drove home to my cold, empty apartment and vowed never to go out again.

The number 82 on the scale should've meant something other than what it did to me. All it meant to me was that I was seven pounds lighter than the last time I weighed myself. The number 82 was the reward for my hard work, a nod to my dedication, a flashing red digital recognition of my self-control. It was a way to silence the drill sergeant in my head, and in this subjective world full of conflicting opinions, it was a way to objectively measure my success. Another way to measure my success was to use a tape measure. I had begun measuring the objects and the s.p.a.ce surrounding the objects. Like a study of semiotics, I measured the white and black surrounding the white, the vacuous s.p.a.ce that held its object and gave it substance. I measured my big legs with their thighs and the s.p.a.ce between my thighs. I measured my footballer's calves and watched as the chunky fat withered away to become a dancer's calves and then a little child's calves, too new and underdeveloped to be labeled anything other than just legs. I measured myself daily after weighing for a more accurate understanding of my progress. Occasionally, I would measure myself visually. I would stand naked in front of a mirror and look at myself. Sometimes I even loved what I saw. Sometimes I saw a boy, maybe twelve years of age, with a straight skinny body and no ugly p.e.n.i.s that he would forever be measuring, wondering if he measured up. I sometimes saw a teenage girl with no b.r.e.a.s.t.s and no curves that would turn her into a woman with desires and complicate her perfect, sterile life. Sometimes I didn't see a person at all, I just saw the inch of fat on a stomach and thighs that encouraged me to continue to lose weight. I knew I wasn't attractive, and I was very happy about that. I didn't want to be attractive. I didn't want to attract. As long as no one wanted to be let in, I didn't have to shut anyone out. If I could keep people from being interested enough to ask me questions, I didn't have to lie. As long as I could be alone with my secrets, I didn't have to worry about being found out.

At 82 pounds, I wanted to photograph myself. I wanted to doc.u.ment my success. But first I had to silence the drill sergeant that reminded me of that extra inch of fat. First I had to get rid of that.

27.

"CHECK THE gate." There was a suspended moment as the cameraman shone a flashlight at the film in the camera. gate." There was a suspended moment as the cameraman shone a flashlight at the film in the camera.

"Good gate."

"That's lunch. One hour." The scene of the crew and cast broke apart, first at its edges, with the actors strutting off the set and directly to their trailers, then the lights were shut down, the camera track taken apart, and finally the director on a chair on the far edge of the scene, with his script supervisor and ADs in tow, collected his notes and headed toward catering. It was my first day on the set of Cletis Tout Cletis Tout. I hadn't done any acting yet; my scene was coming up after lunch, but I had been at the set all morning. I had been asked to go to wardrobe for a final fitting and to work with the props guy as my character was a smart-a.s.s, wisecracking potter who was tough on the outside, cold, hard, and glazed over yet fragile and needing to be handled delicately-like her pots.

I went to wardrobe feeling a little insecure, as I had gained weight since my first fitting. I wasn't sure how much weight I'd gained because I'd stopped weighing myself after seeing the number 82 on the scale. I'd given up on the idea of losing that stubborn inch of fat because of what happened to the rest of my body. At 82 pounds, the veins on my arms looked like thick strands of rope attaching my hands to my forearms and my elbows. The unsightliness of it forced me to put ice on my wrists to try to make them disappear, as the hotter it was, the more they protruded. I knew I couldn't show up to a big-budget movie set needing to ice-down my veins in between takes, so I decided to slowly gain some weight. Although I knew I had to look better at a heavier weight, seeing the number on the scale climb back up through the nineties and head toward a hundred pounds was something I couldn't bear.

It was sheer agony, walking into a fitting, not knowing my weight. It was exactly this kind of anxiety-this fear of not knowing if I could fit into clothes-that I had tried to eradicate. I had told the costume designer that my measurements were thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-five and, ironically, the ideal measurements as told to me by my modeling agency still didn't apply to me. At the time the costumer asked for them, I was 29, 22, 31. And that was a lot more difficult to say over the phone. As I was playing a tough, bohemian artist, my wardrobe started out dark and layered, gradually shedding layers of clothes and softening the color palette as I gradually shed my tough exterior and dulled my witty barbs. It was a typical storyline for a "good" female leading lady character: she starts out hard and ends up soft and the metamorphosis from undesirable insect to awe-inspiring b.u.t.terfly is reflected in the wardrobe.

My insecurity about my weight gain was unnecessary, as both the black studded leather and the cream silk organza fit me perfectly. I had gained weight before my first fitting, but thankfully, I had maintained since then. I felt enormous relief. I was still in control after all. Standing in front of the mirror, a leading lady in a movie, I made the decision that when I returned to Ally Ally for the next season, instead of trying to fit into the off-the-rack sizes, Vera would have to make the wardrobe to fit me. After all, it was actresses taking over the models' jobs of posing on magazine covers that required that actresses fit into the sample size that designers made for models. I wasn't a nameless model expected to fit into any dress. I was an actress. And because I was a very skinny one, like a model, I just happened to be able to fit into any dress. for the next season, instead of trying to fit into the off-the-rack sizes, Vera would have to make the wardrobe to fit me. After all, it was actresses taking over the models' jobs of posing on magazine covers that required that actresses fit into the sample size that designers made for models. I wasn't a nameless model expected to fit into any dress. I was an actress. And because I was a very skinny one, like a model, I just happened to be able to fit into any dress.

The hotel where I was staying during filming in Toronto, the Windsor Arms, was a chic boutique hotel with tasteful decor. It was home to all the transients, the U.S. actors who blow through Canada to work a job. The suite was a little dark because there was only one window and that was in the bedroom of the one-bedroom suite. A wall with a door separated the bedroom from the rest of the suite with its dark carpet and mahogany walls, and its black desk, gray sofa, and mahogany coffee table. The bedroom was all white and light because of the window. The light in there compelled me to spend all my time in the bedroom, which really just consisted of a bed, so I spent all my time in bed. I brought my life in two suitcases from Los Angeles to make my long stay comfortable during the five-week movie schedule. In one suitcase was my kitchen scale, ten I Can't Believe It's Not b.u.t.ter sprays, a large box of Splenda sachets, twenty cans of tuna, forty packets of oatmeal, Mrs. Dash, Extra chewing gum, a carton of Parliament Lights, and my digital bathroom scale. Although I hadn't weighed myself recently and it was very heavy, I had to bring it because if I had the urge to check in with my weight, I couldn't trust that the hotel would have an accurate scale. I also brought chopsticks, a can opener for the tuna, and my blue Chinese footed bowl with the fake pottery rings. I wasn't sure if I would be able to make my frozen yogurt, so I brought my white and green bowl with the hairline crack in case I had access to a freezer and could find the sugar-free, low-calorie yogurt I ate back home. In the other suitcase were my workout clothes, jeans, and T-shirts and a dress for the mandatory "above the line" dinner. I'd always hated the mandatory dinner for a film production, whose guests ran from the top down to where the line was drawn (from the executive producers to the lowest-paid core cast) even when I wasn't watching my weight. I hated having to talk to the producers because, as I was nearly always on the line, I felt like I could lose the job if I wasn't as funny as the other cast members or if the light at the restaurant showed all my imperfections. I hated having to make the attempt to impress just to keep them from changing their minds and sending me home, replacing me with the prettier actress/girlfriend of the leading man, whose relaxed confidence was appealing and whose torso looked great from across the table. On location, I hated ever having to leave the hotel room. Alone in my hotel room was the only place I could relax. And I somehow always felt less lonely when I was completely alone.

I was scheduled to work only one day a week for five weeks, with the rest of my time for myself. So I decided to take up drinking. Apart from the gla.s.s of champagne on Christmas Day, I hadn't drunk alcohol for a long time, and I missed it. Instead of eating dinner, I decided to use up my calories with a gla.s.s of wine. I felt like I deserved it. I earned it. I worked out hard and ate little, and so a gla.s.s of wine at night was a fitting reward. Apart from the wine, I really didn't ingest calories. Because wine didn't contain calorie information on the labels and not all wine had the same amount of calories, I limited myself to one gla.s.s a day. But because the calories were unquantifiable I didn't really trust eating anything. Occasionally, if I were working that day, I would start my day with 30 calories of oatmeal with Splenda and b.u.t.ter spray, and maybe have a bite of tuna for lunch, but mostly, I would order pickles from the hotel kitchen and just have pickles and mustard for the day. It wasn't terrific, but having wine was, so it was worth it just for the duration of filming.

"Cut. Back to one." I stood on top of a rooftop building in downtown Toronto gasping for air. "One," my starting position, was all the way down at the other end of the rooftop, and "action" was the cue to sprint from the other end to the front of the building, dive down on my knees, whip out a machine gun, and start shooting. As it was a comedy, the kickback from the machine gun knocked me over onto my back, where I had to wait a beat as the realization that I was in trouble set in, then in a panic hurl myself and my heavy machine gun off my back using my stomach muscles and struggle back onto my feet to make my escape. The rain made it harder. A fine and constant drizzle, not heavy enough to read through a camera lens, made the rooftop slick and dangerous and froze my fingers, destroyed my makeup and hair, and saturated my wardrobe.

Hour after hour of wide shots from the street, aerial shots from a crane, and coverage from the rooftop exhausted me, making it hard for me to keep running. But I had a bigger problem. My joints ached. My joints had occasionally hurt when I was back in LA, after exercise and at night when I lay in bed. But on that rooftop my wrists, knees, and elbows hurt so much it was hard to move them without feeling intense pain, and so I limited their movement to the action that took place within the s.p.a.ce of time between "action" and "cut." Any other time I would stand still, not even able to smoke because the motion of lifting the cigarette to my mouth was excruciating for my elbow. Even if I held the cigarette very close to my lips and turned my head to exhale the smoke, the pain in my elbow seemed to localize to the slightest movement. It seemed to scan my body antic.i.p.ating where the next movement could be and settle there, ready and waiting to strike. The longer the wait between takes, the worse it got. As we started the action sequence in close-up coverage and gradually widened to include the whole building, making my body look like a black ant scurrying on a rooftop, my movements had to be bigger, more exaggerated. And as the camera was on a crane, by the end of the day, I was alone up there on the rooftop, wildly flailing about, without a PA or an umbrella, since there was nowhere for either a.s.sistant or umbrella to hide when the camera rolled. Every moment was agony.

I knew I was in trouble when I couldn't make it down a single step of the staircase after wrap had been called. My knees wouldn't bend. They were stiff. The joke that I kept using to the concerned crew, who rushed onto the rooftop when it was clear for them to do so, was that it was so b.l.o.o.d.y cold I was frozen stiff. It wasn't a funny joke, but I was in too much pain to care. I was taken to the elevator by two men who held me up, the weapons specialist on my left arm and the medic on my right, all the while I was telling them that their help wasn't necessary, that I just needed to get into a warm bath. I don't know why I refused to let the medic examine me. Maybe it was because his viselike grip on my elbow was more painful than walking on my own would've been. I just knew I didn't want him to touch me, I didn't want him to ask me questions, I just wanted to be alone. I knew that if I told him about my elbows and my wrists that he'd send me to a doctor, and I just wanted to finish the movie without any drama. I was already on the verge of making a scene and I didn't want to do that, I just wanted to act out the scenes already scripted.

When I closed the door to my hotel room after the PA had walked me down the long corridor holding my arm (this time by the biceps), I cried. I cried out in pain and then I just quietly cried as a means to console myself. My gentle sobs seemed to say, "It hurts" and a silent tear falling replied, "I know, old thing. I know." I turned the hot water faucet on to fill the tub and crawled into the bedroom to pour a gla.s.s of wine. Now that wine was my dinner, I bought my own bottles and hid them under the bed for fear that the mini-bar n.a.z.is would take the corked bottle away even though I asked them to clear the mini-bar and didn't allow them access to my room. I didn't allow the housekeeping team into my room either. I was too afraid they would take away my chopsticks and my dishes by accident, or steal them. When I was on location shooting the movie Sirens, Sirens, a toy mouse that I'd had since before my dad died was lost. I didn't tell anyone that it was lost when the sheets were changed because I was too ashamed to admit to the concierge that I slept with stuffed toys. The housekeepers at this hotel weren't allowed into my room unless I was there watching them. I couldn't bear to lose my white and green dish with the flowers and the hairline crack. I'd already lost my mouse. a toy mouse that I'd had since before my dad died was lost. I didn't tell anyone that it was lost when the sheets were changed because I was too ashamed to admit to the concierge that I slept with stuffed toys. The housekeepers at this hotel weren't allowed into my room unless I was there watching them. I couldn't bear to lose my white and green dish with the flowers and the hairline crack. I'd already lost my mouse.

By the time I crawled back to the bathtub on three limbs, one hand holding the winegla.s.s, the tub was full. I made another trip to get cigarettes and an ashtray and attempted to slowly remove my clothes. The joints in my fingers joined the cast of painful joints acting out in my body, needing attention and recognition for the important role they had thanklessly performed prior to this moment, and just unb.u.t.toning my jeans was difficult. By the time I slid into the bathtub, the pain ravaged my body. It was like the hot water boiled the acidic fluid that lubricated my joints and the fluid seeped into my bloodstream, attacking the muscles and organs in its path. Everything hurt. I wept and wept. I was aware, however, that being in the bathtub in excruciating pain was the first time I hadn't felt hungry all day. At least the whining, complaining pain in my gut that was like a five-year-old tugging at my shirtsleeve repeating, "I'm hungry," had given over to the real pain in my body. At least I shut that little girl up.

I threw up the wine before I got into bed. I'd always been a bad bulimic but throwing up wine was the only thing that I found easy. Food was really difficult for me to throw up. I tended to give up after a certain point, never knowing if I got it all out. I felt bad about the whole process; the binge made me feel pathetic and out of control and the purging was the punishment. With every heave I hated myself more. I felt the blood vessels in my eyes burst and I knew that for days they would show everyone who cared to look at me that I was a pathetic loser, that I couldn't control myself. But throwing up wine was different. For one, wine wasn't a particularly nourishing thing to drink, and throwing it up is often better for your body than keeping it in. Also, throwing up alcohol is something that almost everyone has done at some point in their life; it wasn't reserved for sick bulimic girls who didn't have enough self-control over something as pathetic as food. Unlike food, at least alcohol is addictive. I threw up the wine because it was easy and because I was aware that asking my liver to break down alcohol when my body was obviously sick enough to cause me so much pain was destructive. I threw up the wine because I'd put my body through enough.

Throughout the night, as I lay in bed rereading Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar The Bell Jar, I drank wine and threw it up. I worried that there would be traces of sugar from the wine that would cause me to ingest incidental, unaccounted-for calories, but I just said, "To h.e.l.l with it!" I'd gotten so loose with the wine anyway. I felt completely out of control and crazy-but in a good way. My loosening up of calories was a healthy, good thing that would enable me to go out for a beer with the director, who I really liked. I could be social again. I just worked out a little harder in the hotel gym and stopped brushing my teeth with toothpaste. It wasn't that I was crazy thinking that I could get fat from accidentally swallowing toothpaste; I was just ensuring that I cut out those incidental calories wherever I could. I ate less chewing gum and I didn't use toothpaste. It was a compromise that worked for me. I really liked wine.

Five days later, we went on location overnight to an out-of-the-way part of town for the next day of filming. I felt a little better, was well rested, and even ate a little more as I realized food worked like Advil, and the more food I had, the less my joints ached. I went back up to 300 calories but kept my wine ritual. I had to finish eating food by 2:00 p.m. so I wouldn't accidentally throw up tuna when I threw up my wine. The place where we went was so remote we had no choice but to stay at a spiritual retreat that didn't serve wine or allow smoking. As I was given a tour of the log cabin they called a facility, I felt nervous and anxious like I was in rehab. I wondered briefly if the production company had sent me to rehab under the pretense of it being the only place close to the location. (Could they know about the wine?) The woman in a turban showed me the spa, which consisted of saunas and a coffin.

"Please let us know if you'd like to use the hyperthermic chamber."

"It looks like a coffin. How does it work?"

"You lie down in the chamber for forty-five minutes and it removes the toxins in your body."

The thought of being in a capsule for forty-five minutes was bad enough, but the fact that it removed all the toxins in your body gave me pause. My body was made up of toxins. I imagined the inside of my body covered in a spider web of toxins that held it all together. Toxins were the thread that bound my stomach to my intestines and the skin to the muscles. The webs in my body were the unabsorbable chemicals, the residue particles strung together from the artificial sweeteners, chemicals from the b.u.t.ter spray, and chemicals from the Jell-O, the alcohol, and the nicotine.

"If I removed all the toxins in my body, there'd be nothing left!" I knew the turban thought that was a joke, even though she didn't think it funny enough to laugh.

I stared at the chamber that would in fact have become my coffin. I imagined a turbaned woman opening the lid and screaming as she looked at my remains. My body would be dehydrated and my blood extracted as the toxin-fighting machine, on a mission to remove every last toxin, couldn't target the invasive toxins without removing all the fluid and the blood. My organs would be eaten up by the machine as it tore apart every last bit of tissue leaving behind a deflated sack of skin-and maybe my eyeb.a.l.l.s.

28.

I WOKE UP WOKE UP with my eyes closed as the dream I awoke from was so disturbing I tried to finish it for several minutes even after I was aware of being fully conscious. In the dream I had found myself standing naked in front of Tom Cruise, who was lying on a bed wearing a raincoat. I was naked and yet the reason for my being naked wasn't completely obvious; the mood wasn't s.e.xual, it was friendly with nothing sinister implied. This bizarre scene took place in a big loft with concrete floors and a high ceiling, which I a.s.sumed to be one of his houses. It was the middle of the night, two or three o'clock maybe. The room was brightly lit like a department store or a supermarket, and the bed was in the middle of this enormous room. As I stood naked in front of him, I talked about being gay. I bared my soul in the same manner that I bared my body. I showed him all of me, inside and out. As I did so, instead of becoming lighter by unburdening myself from the secret that weighed me down, instead of losing weight, I became heavier. I felt burdened, heavy and dark, panicked that something dreadful was about to happen despite the kindness and acceptance he was showing me. After I talked for what seemed like hours, I began to make out shadowy figures in the walls that I thought were painted black. As the sun started to rise I could see that the walls behind his bed and to the side were not painted black. The "walls" were floor-to-ceiling windows. To my horror, I could see the silhouettes of what seemed like hundreds of people looking in, and I could see that I was in a street-level gla.s.s building in Times Square. I was on with my eyes closed as the dream I awoke from was so disturbing I tried to finish it for several minutes even after I was aware of being fully conscious. In the dream I had found myself standing naked in front of Tom Cruise, who was lying on a bed wearing a raincoat. I was naked and yet the reason for my being naked wasn't completely obvious; the mood wasn't s.e.xual, it was friendly with nothing sinister implied. This bizarre scene took place in a big loft with concrete floors and a high ceiling, which I a.s.sumed to be one of his houses. It was the middle of the night, two or three o'clock maybe. The room was brightly lit like a department store or a supermarket, and the bed was in the middle of this enormous room. As I stood naked in front of him, I talked about being gay. I bared my soul in the same manner that I bared my body. I showed him all of me, inside and out. As I did so, instead of becoming lighter by unburdening myself from the secret that weighed me down, instead of losing weight, I became heavier. I felt burdened, heavy and dark, panicked that something dreadful was about to happen despite the kindness and acceptance he was showing me. After I talked for what seemed like hours, I began to make out shadowy figures in the walls that I thought were painted black. As the sun started to rise I could see that the walls behind his bed and to the side were not painted black. The "walls" were floor-to-ceiling windows. To my horror, I could see the silhouettes of what seemed like hundreds of people looking in, and I could see that I was in a street-level gla.s.s building in Times Square. I was on Good Morning America Good Morning America, and Tom Cruise was conducting an interview.

As I lay awake trying to trick my brain into thinking that I was asleep so I could make it end differently and take away the nervous, sick feeling that carried over from the dream into my reality, I realized that the sick feeling wasn't only from dreaming about being tricked into exposing myself. The sick feeling was also from drinking and throwing up the bottle of wine I'd snuck into the no-alcohol retreat. (I'd stolen a corkscrew from the mini-bar in the hotel in Toronto and added it to my traveling case of tools and utensils.) I'd had a rough night. The pain in my joints increased to the point that I couldn't find a position to sit or lie in to make myself comfortable, even briefly. I alternated between sitting, lying down, and walking in an attempt to relieve the pain, but the only thing that seemed to work at all was wine. So I kept drinking it. I had to keep drinking it, as its numbing effect seemed to wear off when I threw it up. But since forcing myself to throw it up gave me a splitting headache, I began to feel nauseous, and so the throwing-up part of the ritual became involuntary by the time I'd drunk my way down to the middle of the label. In between drinking and throwing up, I ran my wrists under the hot water in the bathroom sink, as the room didn't have a bathtub and hot water seemed to help a little. I felt sorry for myself. I cried a lot. I thought about calling my mother, but I didn't know what to say. I was in the middle of shooting my first big Hollywood movie. I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do. I knew that if I complained to her at all, she would respond in the same way she did when I cried to her about not being able to eat ordinary food with my family. If I were selfish enough to tell her how sad I was and how much pain I was in, I knew she would respond angrily because being angry was easier than being worried, and so she'd say, "Well, I don't know what to tell you. You wanted to be an actress."

And I would say, "Yes, Mama. I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a model, and I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be special, and I wanted people to think I was pretty. What I didn't know was how hard it was going to be to be thin, to be considered pretty, and to be worthy of attention. I've had to work a little bit harder than I first thought, Mama. My journey was a little longer than most girls'. I was born with big legs and small eyes and a round face that's only pretty from one angle." Then I would tell her what I've always wanted to say to her but because we tend not to talk about heavy and emotional things, I've never been able to. "I don't blame you, Mama. I blame Dad."

I blame you, Dad. I blame you for telling me that I was pretty. I blame you for dying before you had time to change your mind. Because of you I make up stories, have fantasy lives, fill in the missing words. You're the blank. You're the "Dear Mum and . . ." letter I had to make up because all the other children at camp had a dad and not a blank where a dad was missing. Being forced to write that letter was the first time I really knew you were missing. And it was a year after you died.April Fool's Day is a bad day to die for a practical joker. I thought that because you winked only at me, I was the only one that got the joke. Remember when the Easter Bunny came and how you winked at me as you ate the carrot with his bunny teeth marks? We got the jokes, you and I. We were smart and we got the joke.

I didn't sleep at all until morning. I'd seen the shadowy dawn become the light of day, which no doubt set the scene for my horrific dream that was hard to shake even after I opened my eyes.

As I carefully applied concealer to achieve the perfect no-makeup look before going to makeup, I thought about my subconscious and its lack of imagination. It seemed to me that as I became thinner, I became dumber, as even my subconscious failed to conjure up a decent metaphor. One part of the dream stuck with me, however, and that was my casting of Tom Cruise in the role of sneaky interrogator. My mother had always wanted me to marry Tom Cruise. Not just any famous actor, Tom Cruise in particular. He was the living image of the perfect movie star who seemed to separate his private life from his public life-a man of mystery, a private man. Choosing Tom Cruise as an example was perhaps another way of my mother reinforcing that there was a payoff to being private. "There's a reason they call it a private life," I'd often say to interviewers. But there's a fine line between being private and being ashamed.

The day wasn't just any day. It was DAY ELEVEN of filming. Day Eleven was a long bike ride to where the only known photograph of my character's mother was buried in a box under a tree along with the money my character's father had buried after he robbed the bank and before he was incarcerated. The bike ride began with a race for the treasure between a sweet, caring guy and an emotionally bankrupt girl, climaxed when she told him through her tears that she only wanted the picture of her mother, not the money, and ended with the two of them in love. It was a big day. And although I was prepared-I'd learned my lines and could comfortably fit into my wardrobe-I was not ready. I was in agony. And the day hadn't even begun.

"Ride as fast as you can past camera. And go as close to camera as you can, too." The director had to literally cut to the chase to make his day, a term used in movie making that meant that all the shots for all the scenes for that day had to be completed. Today he didn't have a smile in his eyes; he wasn't as full of jokes as usual. Directors can get very stressed about making their days.

"Yes, boss. No problem."

I called the director "boss" because I liked Chris, but I also had no problem lying to him. Because riding the bike fast was a big problem. Nothing hurt my knees more than pushing down on the pedals, especially if I had to lift myself off the seat to get speed. After two takes of riding as fast as I could, I wondered whether or not I would make my day. My ankles, wrists, and elbows hurt almost as much as my knees. My lungs ached with every deep breath. I couldn't believe how unfit I was considering how much I worked out. I'd continued my regular workout routine while in Toronto-an hour on the treadmill at 7.0, 105 sit-ups followed by 105 leg lifts-the only difference being that it wasn't as fun. I no longer had to lose weight and so there was no motivation, no lower number on the scale to look forward to, only a higher number to dread. I had weighed myself that morning. I was 96 pounds and I was never going beneath it. I didn't want to. But what scared me the most was how little I had to eat to avoid gaining the weight back. I ate 300 calories a day and I was just maintaining. I felt trapped, knowing that I would have to continue to be this extreme just to maintain the body I'd starved myself to achieve. It was a realization that was hard to digest.

The next scene was the crying scene. Ironically, I need to be in a happy mood in order to cry; I need to feel pretty self-confident and strong before I can pretend to be insecure and fragile. Usually, crying in a scene makes me feel good, as I get to show off my acting skills. But there was no joy in crying about the death of my father. It was too real, too close to me. I shut down with pain, both physical and emotional. Despite my condition, I managed to cry a little for the scene, but by the end of the day I was crying a lot. I didn't even need to cry anymore, the scene was over; my character was completely over her father's death and on to falling in love with Christian Slater. But I wasn't. I wasn't over my dad leaving me and I wasn't falling in love with anyone. I couldn't stop crying. It was like a flash flood. Its onset and its end were unpredictable and uncontrollable. It just happened, and like a flood, it was devastating.

I was in pain, so I cried. I couldn't move my legs, my wrists, and my fingers, so I cried. I had to be carried into the makeup trailer, so I cried. I was embarra.s.sed, so I cried. I had ruined my career, so I cried. I had ruined my enjoyment of life and wanted to die, so I cried.

I wanted to escape just like my dad had escaped, to fly away, to fade gently into black.

I sat stiffly in the makeup chair to have my makeup removed. It was the first time I'd ever allowed that to happen because I didn't like the makeup artist to see all the flaws I'd concealed before she began her work concealing my flaws-before she made my skin color more even, my eyes bigger, my lips fuller. It was ironic to me that I allowed this end-of-day pampering ritual for the first time on the last day of my career. It was over. I was over.

The lights around the mirror began to bleed into my face. I couldn't quite see my face for the white light around it. I saw two ugly black dots that were my pupils until I couldn't see them anymore either. I felt myself floating away, fading into black. I knew I was pa.s.sing out, but I could no longer hold on. The last thing I remembered was a hot towel being pressed onto my face. Then I let go.

Out of the blackness came a vision of myself as a little girl spinning around in a tiara and a pinkish-red tutu with a rhinestone-sequined bodice. I'm spinning around and around, doing pirouettes in a church hall. My mother is in the center of the first row. I use her as a spot by focusing only on her, turning my body first before whipping my head around and back to the spot that is my mother's smiling face. With each piroutte, however, instead of being more impressed, she is less impressed. With each spot she is smiling less. The smile turns into a frown and the little girl is no longer wearing a tiara and a tutu but jeans and a black tank top. The little girl has spun into an adult and my mother is no longer there. I search for her in the front row, but she isn't there. Instead I see myself. I realize that the person in the front row, disapproving of me, unhappy with me is not my mother. It's me. I look disgusted by the image of myself. It is clear by the way my head is partially turned away, my face contorted in a grimace, that I hate myself. I pirouette again fast, to spin away from the image, too disturbing to look at any longer. But I keep spinning and gathering momentum, the centrifugal force won't allow me to stop. I can't stop. Now I can't see anything. I am tumbling now. I have fallen off my axis. I'm spinning into the blackness. The spinning suddenly stops.

I have escaped.

29.

"MISS DE Rossi? I have Dr. Andrews on the line." Rossi? I have Dr. Andrews on the line."

I sat in my dressing room on the set of Ally McBeal Ally McBeal, lit a cigarette, and breathlessly awaited my test results. I had to get off the treadmill to answer the phone and both the treadmill and the fan I'd rigged to blow air onto my face were straining and noisily whirring. It was quite an effort to get to the phone quickly because sharp movements caused me to feel a lot of pain, sometimes to the point of almost blacking out. I could barely work out anymore, not only because of the pain but because I was too tired. I was tired because I was often too hungry to sleep. When I did sleep I dreamt about food. Last night I had a dream that I took a sip of regular c.o.ke thinking it was diet and the shock of accidentally ingesting real sugar catapulted me back into consciousness. Most times, though, I dreamt about willingly stuffing my face. I dreamt about eating a whole pizza or plate full of French fries. I tended to feel so bad about it when I woke up, I cried. I sobbed as if I'd really done it-it just felt so jarring, so frightening. I thought that I had a problem because I was scared to eat. I was actually scared of food. I no longer trusted myself. I figured I'd lost my willpower.

I felt nervous. Not that I didn't feel anxious all the time, but I felt even worse knowing that what came next was going to change everything.

I can't stay thin. I just wasn't built for it. I wasn't born with thin legs and I can't keep them. For over a year I've managed to maintain my weight, but if I keep up that maintenance to the exclusion of everything else, then I'll have anorexia.

As I sat at the desk and held for the doctor (didn't he call me?), I felt a roll of fat on my stomach. I pinched it with my thumb and forefinger. There was about an inch of fat that went right around to the sides, and yet at 98 pounds, I knew I was grossly underweight. I almost laughed out loud at the irony of it. My rib cage and my hip bones were jutting out, yet there was a roll of fat on my stomach taunting me, letting me know that it had outsmarted me, that it had won. It was ironic also that in order to get rid of that fat, I'd have to have had the energy to do crunches, but without putting caloric energy in my body I didn't have the strength to do them, so now it would just stay there on my stomach in triumph, never to be challenged again. As I sat and waited to hear my results, I felt a little relief knowing that everything was about to change. I couldn't imagine living year after year constantly battling in a fight you could never win. Anorexia is exhausting.

I will listen to what the doctor says and do what he tells me to do.

After collapsing in Toronto, I had no choice but to get help. I blacked out in the makeup chair and my private medical information seemed to be pa.s.sed around and shared with anyone who cared to ask. My body was no longer under my control. I woke up to the medic taking my blood pressure and ordering blood tests. He called my physician, who called specialists and within days I had undergone a battery of tests. Blood tests, bone density tests; I had to show up with my body to whatever test it was he thought might contribute a puzzle piece to his diagnosis. I couldn't argue. I was under contract and I could barely finish the movie.

But the movie ended two weeks ago and I was still being compliant with the doctors. One doctor turned into four, and so there always seemed to be someone to answer to. They had me cornered. I couldn't escape them even if I wanted to.

But I don't want to. I'm tired. I'm sad all the time, and I'm in pain. I want to give up.

"Hi, Portia?"

"Hi, Dr. Andrews." I waited for some pleasantries to be exchanged but none were forthcoming.

"There are quite a few things I'm seeing from the test results." He took a beat as if to ready himself before delivering a blow. It scared me. I knew there would be something wrong, but his hesitation sent a wave of fear through my body. The wave of adrenaline connected the pain from my ankles to my wrists, and my head began to spin. My head had been feeling like half of its regular weight even when it wasn't spinning. Because of that, I often felt unbalanced. I took a drag of my cigarette. Maybe my head is spinning from the nicotine? I calmed myself.

There is no point in being nervous because I can't affect the outcome. What's done is done.

"Okay. Let's start with your bone density. Uh . . . according to these results it shows that you have osteoporosis."

"Ah . . . how long has it been since you've had your period?"

"A year or more."

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"Okay. Your liver enzymes were extremely elevated, which are actually at the levels of cirrhosis."

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"Okay. Your electrolyte and pota.s.sium levels are pretty dangerous. At this rate, they could effect how your organs are functioning."

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"Okay. I guess the most important thing that the tests showed is that you have an autoimmune disease called lupus."

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I exhaled the smoke in my lungs and extinguished my cigarette in one motion. I limply held the phone and sat staring into the full-length mirror opposite my desk. I saw a round face, thin arms, a bony rib cage, a thick waist, and big, thick legs. It was the same body I had always seen, only smaller. The proportions were the same. If y y is exactly half of is exactly half of x x, then 2:1 is the ratio of my body parts. My thighs would always be the same in relation to my waist and my arms-it was all the same, but in a smaller version.

Game over. I lose.

The whirring of the treadmill sounded like a vinyl record stuck on a track.

Get on the treadmill.

The bars either side of the belt looked like a cage.

Get on the treadmill.

I don't know what to say to the voice that will shut it up. I'm dying and it still won't be quiet.