They’re going to ask why I did it. No. They’re going to ask why I did it again.
The last time that I had my stomach pumped, the hospital scraped through the lining of my oesophagus. They tried to pass it off as an accident, but Dina pressed charges. Naturally, the press got hold of that and then the bulimia rumours started. The whole thing was mortifying, but I was grateful for the exposure. I had gained twelve pounds that season and the throat situation had finally killed my appetite. Magazines followed my weight loss for a while. Later that year I was ranked 89th in the Maxim Hot 100.
Dina is probably used to seeing me in the hospital by now. Christ knows that she has no right to complain, but, of course she does anyway. I don’t remember that much of my life in the early days, but what I do know is that we didn’t have any money. My father was always on the brink of walking out on us - that was until he actually went through with it – he must have regretted that because two weeks later I booked the Neutrogena commercial.
“Smile pretty, Carmen! Smile pretty!”
That was always the last thing that Dina said to me before I went in for a screen test. That bitch in velour had been putting me out to work since I was three years old. Her happiness – however temporary – was solely dependant on my income. Whenever I failed an audition or didn’t get called back it was like I had flushed her Prozac down the toilet. Eventually I landed a contract with Disney, and I remember her having the audacity to tell me that all of my dreams were going to come true.
It was laughable at this point to mistake my mother’s investment in me for being anything other than financial.
But why did I do it?
I don’t know.
I had a headache, I think.
I get confused a lot. Maybe it’s due to all of the travel, but it gets hard for me to stay in one place. The longer I stay somewhere, the easier it gets for me to convince myself that it’s home – but it isn’t – just another suite, condo or rehab facility.
Rentals.
My life is a nonstop carousel of rentals. Sure, I pay for it all, but it isn’t like I can claim ownership of anything. Not even my mistakes. I’ll settle for a while, but then something inside me clicks and I feel like I’m trespassing. Soon enough I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin and I have to get out.
“Highs and lows grow increasingly severe. No appreciable response to meds.”
Sometimes I’m convinced that my life is one big movie and that I’m always on a set. Isn’t that ironic? Christ knows the last time that I made a picture. I’m always this close to getting blacklisted because I’m difficult to work with, so they say. They don’t offer me anything decent, and that hick Jennifer Lawrence is stealing all of my parts. Dina agrees with me for once. I feel like every second I’m not in front of a camera I’m wasting not just my talent, but, my life also.
Maybe I’m just bitter. Maybe I’m irrational. That would make sense. It’s just hard when you’ve been in the industry for over twenty years and nobody takes you seriously. You’re just another child star tying cherry stems at Chateau. And whilst I’m doing that some tacky redneck is receiving her Oscar for Best Supporting Actress.
That’s a joke!
I need to get out - the air is too heavy. Thinking about everything always ends up with me circling back to my parents. My parents! How textbook is that? I mean surely some of this is my fault? Nobody forced me to go into the bathroom and –
My skin is too tight.
My head aches constantly.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever reach thirty.
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