Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  And with the dogs, my home finally felt complete. I had victoriously reclaimed something that was mine. Bringing them to the Palisades was an enormous part of putting the puzzle back together. My dogs had taught me to love, and they had forced me to be responsible. They were the most consistent friends I had at that time.

  I continued to work my ass off in therapy. There were moments of absolute loneliness, panic, and confusion. Finally I had the space and the strength to explore everything that had been suppressed. I grieved. I cried. And at times I even felt desperate. I experienced agoraphobia—for months, I was too frightened to get myself to the grocery store or to have any interaction with strangers. To overcome my fear, Nancy gave me simple assignments, such as going to the library to get a library card. The smallest tasks seemed monumental. Often I felt unable to follow through and get from Point A to Point B. I had to learn some basics, such as balancing a checkbook, something no one had ever taught me to do.

  As I did this difficult work, I was transported back to the point at which I’d departed from myself, to that very moment in my childhood when I had first started running away. I finally spoke of the traumas I’d endured. The physical and verbal abuse I’d suffered for years. I was sick of the secrets, realizing that my silence had been killing me. As painful as it was, telling the truth was incredibly liberating.

  But as I worked through all these things, the one issue that I wasn’t yet addressing was my anorexia. It had become such a norm for me that I never for a moment thought that how I was eating—or rather how I was not eating—was problematic. As I would find out, recovery happens in stages. Even as I was doing important work, I wasn’t ready to confront what would be my deepest and gravest problem. That would come later.

  Not long after I’d moved the dogs into the Palisades house, I got a call from my sister.

  “I’m getting married!” she screamed into the phone.

  “Chrisse! Oh, my God! I’m so happy for you!” And I was. But I was also filled with dread. I knew she would want me at her wedding. And I hadn’t been in communication with the rest of my family for some time. I was still having real issues being around groups of ­people. But I was determined to be the supportive sister Chrisse deserved. I had missed her and our connection. I wanted my family back, and as difficult as I knew it might be, I was going to show up and really be present.

  Driving up toward Napa Valley, I was reminded of the magic of the California coastline. I was a California girl through and through. With the top down and Dave Matthews blaring on the stereo, a feeling of freedom had washed over me. It dawned on me that my whole life lay ahead of me. Why the hell wasn’t I happy? Excited? Full of wonder and awe? Those were the qualities I wanted to have in my life. I, too, one day, wanted a happy and fulfilling relationship. Maybe I would be married again, to a wonderful man, in a real wedding? And I realized that it was possible. Anything was possible. I was on the right track.

  My sister’s wedding was held at a winery in the Napa Valley, a gorgeous setting against a warm June sky. Old friends and new were scattered across a vast lawn, as well as the family I hadn’t seen in years. My father and mother had gotten divorced, and I could feel the tension between them. My brother, grandmother, and aunt were also there. Even though I felt like a stranger, I reminded myself of why I had come. It was part of the work of healing. And half of that work was just showing up.

  The wedding itself was beautiful, a fairy-tale event. And as I hugged my sister in congratulations, she looked in my eyes and said, “Thank you. I’ve missed you so much.” It was true for both of us. Sisters should never be separated in life. Chrisse and I needed to support each other. And I’m so glad to say our love and our relationship have only grown stronger from that day forward.

  As the evening drew to a close, I headed to my car to leave. I heard my father calling out my name, hurrying after me. “Won’t you stay, Carré?” he asked. It was the first time in so long that I had really looked at him, looked into his face. Dad was older, but still handsome and full of grace. I could only imagine how hard my marriage with Mickey must have hit him . . . and having to know of the very public abuses I endured. . . . I didn’t know where to begin.

  “No, Dad. I need to get going.” I held back my tears. There was so much I wanted to tell him, but once again I didn’t know where to begin. “I love you,” I said quickly.

  “Are you okay? I heard you left Mickey.” He tried to sound brave. Tried to sound open. I knew he was concerned. And beneath that concern I could hear the lions roar in his tone.

  “Yes, Dad. I’ve finally left him,” I replied, looking beyond him at the rolling hills and setting sun.

  He put an arm around me. “I love you, too,” he said quietly. Then, even more softly, he whispered, “Call me if you get in a jam. I am here.” And I knew he was. I knew our relationship was turning. He, too, was doing the work and showing up. He wanted to be a part of my life. I wanted that as well, trusting that slowly, very slowly, we could get there.

  “Bye, Daddy,” I said, kissing him on the cheek and sliding into my car. I waved farewell and sped off.

  On a high from Chrisse’s wedding, I was ready to confront issues and ­people I hadn’t in years. Impulsively, I decided to call the farm and see if Nan and Ethan were there. I would have to drive back through Sebastopol, so why not stop in for a visit? I pulled out my cell phone and dialed a still-familiar number.

  Nan picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Nan, it’s Carré!” I declared into the phone, expecting her to meet my excitement.

  “Oh. Hi,” she said flatly.

  “Hi. How are you? How are the girls? Ethan?” I pressed on.

  “Fine, Carré. Wow. I’m shocked. To hear from you, that is,” she said.

  “I know . . . gosh, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” I said, trying to slough off the disappointment I felt by her lack of enthusiasm.

  “Actually, it’s been years, Carré.” Her disappointment in me was palpable. I felt ashamed. How could I be so naïve? So self-absorbed to think that after all this time, after abandoning them for Mickey and Hollywood, she would be happy to hear from me?

  “Yes. You’re right. It has been years. I’m sorry. So very sorry, Nan. I’ve thought of you all so much. So much has happened.” I tried to explain, to give her some reason where she might cut me some slack.

  “I gather. I mean, we have heard and read about all that has happened. . . .” Nan’s tone was still guarded.

  “Hey, I’m just coming back from my sister’s wedding. I’m practically just around the corner. Can I come by? Can we talk?” I pressed her. I wanted to see her. I wanted her to know how sorry I was and how much I respected her. She’d been like a mother to me, but it was true, in the years that had followed my time on the farm, in my true selfish style, I had scarcely looked back or checked in.

  “That’s probably not a good idea, Carré.” Her words stung. I was speechless. I wasn’t used to being rejected or denied so blatantly. “I mean, are you still with him? Have you left him? Do you know what trouble Mickey made for us? The whole farm was terrified. He threatened Ethan’s life. We weren’t even sure Ethan would be safe here. No, Carré. That’s just not a good idea.”

  I could hear the fear in her voice. The closest that the farm had ever come to any kind of violence was from Mickey.

  “Oh, God, Nan. I’m sorry I even called. I’m so sorry. Sorry for it all. I wish I could have done something. I wish I could do something now. . . . I love you.” And with that, I hung up.

  In a flash, fury surged. How could he? How could Mickey have made threats to Ethan? Ethan was a sweet and gentle man. What a pathetic piece of shit Mickey had been to do that, and to threaten the farm, too! I slammed my fist against the wheel. I knew I was partly to blame. The reality was that I had chosen Mickey and his violence over my loved ones’ safety. That was the truth. In my naïveté and my need, in my want and in my grasping, I had made some terrible choices, choices tha
t had caused great pain for others. The farm was a modern Eden, and Mickey was the snake in that garden. And if he was the snake, then I was the Eve who’d let him in. That realization was agonizing. It was time to begin to own up to what I had done and what I’d allowed to happen. It was time to be responsible

  I drove straight back to L.A., pushing through the night, my tears whipped away by the warm summer wind. As painful as it was to face my own part in what had happened, I knew that it was time. Under the moon and the stars, I vowed to begin to do things differently. I vowed to consider not only my health and wellness but also the well-being of others and how my choices affected them.

  Back in Los Angeles, I felt ready for a new round of life and a new round of responsibility. After the wedding and that painful conversation with Nan, I realized that in my process there would be a lot of time spent proving myself. My word had come to mean little to the ­people I cared most about. I was like the boy who cried wolf. It would take time, I thought—time for ­people to believe in me and time for me to believe in myself. That was okay. I was ready to put in that time.

  SPORTS ILLUSTRATED AND THE HOLES IN MY HEART

  I began to see that returning to work was another key part of the puzzle. I needed to confront all that I had left behind and reclaim my place as a professional woman. This time, though, I was determined to take a different initiative within the modeling industry. While I was older and wiser, I was still wounded in many ways. I knew that the wiser part would help me, but I wasn’t so sure the older part of the equation would.

  I had dedicated a year to getting my feet back on the ground, and in that time I had pursued little else. I felt completely out of the loop as to how to relaunch my career. I didn’t want to go back to any of the agents I had history with; I knew I needed a fresh start, so I began asking around about who the players were and how they conducted their business. I was still legally married to Mickey, waiting for his signature on the divorce papers. I feared once more that he’d attempt to sabotage my efforts to work again. I knew it would take a strong individual to represent me with all the baggage I had. But I trusted that such an agent existed and that I would find him.

  One name in particular kept coming up. He was a renowned “good guy,” someone who stood out from all the usual suspects. Jeffrey Dash had been around for years and maintained an impeccable reputation as one of the few honest men in the industry. He piqued my interest. If I was going to get back in, I needed to do it on a whole new level.

  I called to ask Jeffrey for a meeting, and in December 1997 I found myself sitting across from one of the first men I’d ever met who is exactly as he appears. No bullshit, no games, no promises. We candidly discussed the issues he saw as problematic in rebuilding my career—including, of course, the clear obstacles posed by my liaison with Mickey.

  It was uncomfortable to hear my professional status summed up in this way, but it was a realistic assessment. If I wanted to get back in, I would need to deal with these details head-on. I needed a plan. And Jeffrey was a genius at building businesses. I could tell that he considered this a worthwhile project to take on—certainly it wasn’t going to be a dull one.

  Point-blank, I asked Jeffrey how he would feel if Mickey confronted him. This was usually the make-or-break question I asked of ­people getting involved in my new life. His answer would be important, because I knew that inevitably Mickey would step into the mix. I was still concerned about my not-quite-yet-ex-husband infiltrating my life and threatening the ­people surrounding and supporting me.

  Much to my surprise, Jeffrey seemed less concerned about having to deal with Mickey than he was about getting me on top again. He looked me in the eye, and in a moment I knew I had met not only my new agent but a new friend. For many years there was no one who I could say truly had my back. From day one, Jeffrey Dash did.

  As we suspected, every client had the same reaction during the first round of calls. They’d ask, “Is she still with Mickey?” As long as there was any thread of an association, the gig was off. No one wanted to work with me if they thought they might have to deal with that drama.

  It was a frustrating period, during which it seemed impossible for me to separate from my past. While I wanted so desperately to be acknowledged for the woman I was without Mickey, I knew that this was part of the price I would have to pay to create my own identity and to earn back the trust and belief of others.

  Patience is not one of my virtues, but thankfully it was Jeffrey’s. He reminded me that everything takes time. And I was encouraged to sit back and have a little faith in him. ­“People will come around . . . you’ll see.”

  Jeffrey had a system. And I had to learn to trust that system. Several rounds of calls were made, with time in between. New head shots would be sent out, and then after a wait he’d make more calls. I badgered Jeff incessantly. He would usually laugh and nod, acting as if he knew something I didn’t. And he did. He knew I would work again. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so convinced.

  Slowly but surely, the calls came in, just as he’d said they would. Gradually, I began to work. Even the smallest job was a victory. The client feedback was favorable—I was consistent, professional, and easy to deal with. It was great to hear their compliments after all the effort I’d made to change things. I desperately wanted to prove myself in a way that had nothing to do with being the most beautiful. I had simply wanted to complete something, follow it through. I’d been on the run since I left home as a kid. I’d left school. Left the farm. Left business opportunities. Left my loved ones. It was part of my healing to be able to see something I’d started to completion. And to do so successfully.

  I had just celebrated my thirtieth birthday when I got a call from Jeffrey with some good news. Sports Illustrated wanted to feature me in their Millennium Swimsuit Issue. We were both elated. It had been a steady climb to get back in the game, and the call from SI meant even more than that: We were back on top.

  When I talked over the details on the phone with Jeffrey, he said, “Honey, just checking in, how is your weight? Where are we at?” Jeffrey was ever cautious and sensitive when it came to the subject of size, letting me know that no matter where I was, he would be right there by my side as agent and friend. By the time I’d begun to hit my late twenties, I found that my old methods of losing weight weren’t working as well. It was getting more and more difficult to stay on the skinny side of life. And this warranted a realistic question a week before any shoot.

  “It’s okay,” I replied nervously. The fact of the matter was, it was never where I thought it should be. Size, weight, and age were criteria that could either win or lose a job. Worries about my body had ruled my life for nearly two decades. The pressure was constant. And not being able to control even one aspect of my life was daunting. As I approached thirty, I saw hints that a change to my body was occurring. What was happening to me was normal, of course. Women’s bodies change, inside and outside the modeling industry. And a body that has been in starvation mode for a decade will most likely shift into a holding pattern just to keep weight on. As far as the body is concerned, it’s a matter of survival.

  But what’s normal for a model is different from what’s normal for the rest of us. Normal is dictated by the industry’s strict standards, and in my case by the additional concern that I could never be skinny enough to continue to work. The definition in my world has nothing to do with what actually happens to women’s bodies in the real world. With the Sports Illustrated shoot approaching, my illness was about to peak, with life-threatening consequences.

  I used the swimsuit issue as momentum to get into what I thought would be the best shape of my life. I felt I had more to prove than my fellow models hired for the job, because I had about ten years on most of them. I was also one of the few who was au naturel. I hadn’t had my lips injected, I didn’t have breast implants, and let’s just say I had to work my ass off to keep my waistline. None of it was coming easily for me. Although I employed the advice o
f a trainer, the anorexic in me was convinced that for some reason he was lying. Lying about the number of calories I needed to eat in order to lose weight, lying about my body’s needing rest for days. It was irrational, but I was in such a “go” mode that I was unable to see how my disease was in control, how it was running the show. Not me.

  I was fearful of my food, convinced that I would gain weight overnight from eating even a modest meal. I was obsessed with counting calories and had insane rules for what I could and couldn’t consume. I punished myself for losing control around food with laxatives; then, after purging myself, I would institute a whole new set of rules that were even stricter than the previous ones. Although I was working out at the same level as a top athlete, I limited my caloric intake, thinking that the combination of decreased calories and increased exercise would put me ahead of the game. Much to my dismay and frustration, my body began holding on for dear life to the few calories I had ingested, and instead of dropping weight I would retain or even gain weight.

  Some of this was discussed in therapy, but the truth was that my eating disorder was my last little dirty secret. It had been with me the longest—before drugs and alcohol. It had been the first thing in my life that I had realized I could control. I wasn’t about to let it go that easily. When I talked to Nancy, I kept the focus on my shoot. When she addressed some of my unhealthy habits, I would simply chalk them up to the requirements of my job. Not all a lie, but certainly not the entire truth.

  After four months of intense training and dieting, I was ready for the Sports Illustrated photos to be taken. But I was also wiped out. I had begun to feel faint during the daytime. Nevertheless, I always pressed on. I didn’t want anything to get in my way or slow me down. One morning at my gym, I stepped off the treadmill and in a flash felt the floor rushing toward me. The room went black.

  “Carré!” I could hear my trainer, Mike, calling. He had a hand on my wrist and was checking my pulse. “Jesus, girl! Did you cool down?” he asked, nodding toward the machine.