He told me he had just come from an abandoned church-turned-nightclub lipstick-launch party. Apparently, Amanda Lepore, a famous transgender model, was launching her new lip line and insisted he try a shade.
Oh, and remember when he said he was a photographer? I now learned that he meant he was a . . . drug sharer . . . who accepted money in exchange for his good will. And he also took pictures occasionally. You might be thinking, “That’s another red flag, for sure!” But that only made me like him more because, free drugs! I was getting drunk regularly, smoking weed daily, and dabbling in cocaine; so as an addict, I was attracted to other addicts. Like Damon! He didn’t judge me, criticize me, or tell me, “Hey maybe you shouldn’t be smoking weed for breakfast.” Or, “Do you really need that sixth glass of wine? Your teeth are disturbingly purple.” Damon understood my purple teeth.
He also understood my need to numb out any uncomfortable feelings that might have caused slight pain. God forbid I would feel human emotions, right? I didn’t actually have the courage to sit through uncomfortable feelings without getting high until I was twenty-four. That’s normal, right? And to stay on this track, I made sure to only hang around with other unformed, self-sabotaging delinquents so that there was absolutely no one around that would encourage me to be a fully functioning, productive adult. He was the first on that list, the first full-blown addict that I had gotten close to. And we were sure to enable each other.
Our awkward conversations and public drunkenness soon became love. It didn’t really matter if we had much else in common. Bonding over our absolute inability to drink alcohol in moderate proportions was good enough for me.
Within three days of being in New York, Damon was telling me he loved me and I was saying it back. It was love at . . . uh . . . tenth drink.
There was truly never a dull moment during my two-month stay in the Big Apple. Damon would take me to these crazy underground clubs and we’d run around the streets of New York and take pictures and get drunk. And then there were darker moments where I would sit in his green-light apartment while he’d sneak away to handle his business as an, ahem, self-employed street pharmacist. We’d pay for everything in cash, and when someone’s name was required on any document, we’d use mine instead of his. I began to wonder if there was a warrant out for Damon’s arrest, so he couldn’t leave a paper trail.
So, just to reassess the situation, I was an addict dependent on drugs and alcohol to feel okay, and I was also dependent on another addict for food and housing. Then things between Damon and me started getting more and more toxic.
I didn’t have anything or anyone in the city besides him. When I tried to make friends or meet other people, he would get possessive and furious. We’d often get in these huge alcohol-induced fights after he tried to tell me what to wear or what to do or who to talk to.
“You’re too controlling!!” I’d scream.
“You’re too out of control!!” he’d scream back.
We were both right. One night, I added to the usual screaming match: “I want to go back home to Chicago!”
He clenched his fists and leaned toward me a bit like he was going to lunge at me. I hadn’t seen him so mad before. I got scared and flinched. I think he noticed because he didn’t lunge at me. He immediately ran out into the middle of the street, laid down on it like a maniac, and screamed, “I’M NOT MOVING UNTIL YOU KISS ME!”
We were so fucking dramatic. I wanted to assert a bit of power, so I sauntered over to him VERY slowly.
Don’t look at me like that! The roads weren’t very busy at three a.m. I kissed him and we both got out of the street.
Also just want to point out quickly that my prefrontal cortex, the brain’s RATIONAL part, was far from developed, so none of those bad decisions were actually my fault. Doesn’t that make you feel so much better about the shitty decisions you made pre-twenty-five? If you’re reading this and under twenty-five, remember, it’s not your fault. Nothing is ever your fault. If you’re reading this and over twenty-five, get your shit together and fix your credit. Seriously, you have no excuse. Right on your birthday, the line is DRAWN.
Damon was getting . . . weird though. To say the least.
His encouragement for me to pursue modeling had started out as just a series of compliments on my appearance, but it was quickly becoming a sort of obsession for him. Like I said, we would go around the city, taking pictures. But he started to become almost manic about getting the right shot. I felt a spike in my confidence at first, wanting to go along with his ideas. The more he told me I could do this as a career, the more I believed in myself. But when I sought out any other photographer to shoot with or get jobs with, Damon would become furious with me.
While I was out one night I met a photographer, Lavan. I loved to shoot with him because he was creative and kind and stable (what a concept!). It was nice to have an actual friend in this city. Lavan and I would go to fancy hotels in the middle of the night and shoot in their lobbies and hallways. I’d wear these long gowns (that I would return immediately to the store) and we’d stay out late, shooting across the city.
When I was with Lavan, I could relax a little. It also finally gave me a chance to call my parents. I still didn’t have a cell phone and, a lot of the time, Damon didn’t let me use his. He never wanted me calling my family. Yep—some of that sweet, sweet isolation. There were red flags galore.
I’d get home late and again Damon’s blue eyes would be bulging out of his head with anger. How dare I betray him? He was convinced I was cheating on him, always. I told him we were just shooting! He was being ridiculous.
I yelled at him, “You know, real models don’t get jobs by just shooting with one photographer-slash–drug dealer!! I need to network if you want me to get jobs.”
If you want me to get jobs. It never occurred to me that I was basically just doing this because he told me to. I still wanted to be an actor. I didn’t give a shit about modeling! What the fuck was I doing? But I didn’t really have time to soul-search about my choices, because Damon grabbed me by the arm and yanked me toward him.
“You only need me.”
Do you hear that? It’s a chorus of beautiful angels singing YIIIKKKEEESSSSSS! RUN AWAYYYY! At the time, I couldn’t hear them.
He’d grab me so tightly that purple bruises started to show on my biceps. When he saw them, I think he felt bad, because he bought me a cell phone.
Soon after that, he sent me to an agency where he had some connections. He was ready for the rest of the world to see my face, I guess! He thought I was beautiful!!! And also he thought I could make him some money. #romance!
But, you guys, I wasn’t doing too hot. I was getting high every day. I had never been so far from my actual dreams and I was working hard to numb my feelings of discouragement. I had completely lost sight of my goals. They were being eclipsed by the ones Damon had for me.
I showed up at the modeling agency. They took one look at me, snapped a Polaroid, and told me they’d be in touch. Okay, I did it. That wasn’t hard. You know, modeling auditions were way easier than acting auditions. I didn’t have to memorize anything or interpret anything. I didn’t have to search the casting director’s face for any hope that I did a good job! I could do this! Maybe I should do modeling.