Wasted From The Inside, Not Just Another Wactress With Bulimia

WASTED,FROMTHEINSIDE

NotJustAnother
WactressWithBulimia

LoriDawnMessuri

WASTED, FROM THE INSIDE



WASTED, FROM THE INSIDE
Not Just Another

Wactress With Bulimia

LoriDawn Messuri

3

WASTED, FROM THE INSIDE
Not Just Another

Wactress With Bulimia

Copyright © 2011 by LoriDawn Messuri

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any
means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permis-
sion of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical

articles and reviews.

These are my memories; I am the teller of my own story. To protect the privacy
of others, some names have been changed.

Printed in the United States of America

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For my mom, Dee Martz, my sister, Lisa Fine
and Ed Bloch, LSCSW,

For gently guiding me to the light which
I could not see at the end of my very dark tunnel.

Thank you.

5

Imperfectly perfect.

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CONTENTS

PART I DISCOVERY

Chapter 1 IN IT 9

Chapter 2 HOMELESS? 13

Chapter 3 HOPE 16

Chapter 4 IT 21

Chapter 5 MURDERER IN A FOG 25

PART II EXPERIENCE

Chapter 6 COLLEGE 32

Chapter 7 LA GENERATION 42

Chapter 8 PORN STAR? 48

Chapter 9 HEAVEN AND HELL 54

Chapter 10 LIFE GOES ON 69

Chapter 11 A DAY IN THE LIFE 81

PART III SOLUTION

Chapter 12 EVOLUTION 86

Chapter 13 THERAPY 91

Chapter 14 THE GLAMOROUS LIFE 120

Chapter 15 MY SELF 124

Chapter 16 ON MY HEAD 132

Chapter 17 TRANSFORMATION 144

WHAT WORKED FOR ME 147

NOW 150

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wast·ed adj
1. not used or exploited
2. useless because it achieves nothing
3. shrunken or ravaged
4. exhausted from exertion (slang)
5. under the influence of drink or drugs (slang)
Encarta® World English Dictionary © 1999 Microsoft Corpora-
tion. All rights reserved. Developed for Microsoft by Bloomsbury
Publishing Plc.
wack·tress n
1. a wacky actress (slang)
A term used commonly in the entertainment industry but is not an
actual word in the dictionary. Developed by someone but I don’t
know who.

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PART I. DISCOVERY

1. IN IT 9

I’m hanging my head over the small black trash can that I
use to catch the vomit. All I can think about is getting rid of it. I’ve
already dumped some of what I’ve hurled into the toilet to flush
away. This is the worst part. Getting rid of ALL of it. The end.
There is no more eating. No more tasting food except the regurgi-
tated shit I’ve eaten before mixed with bile and stomach acid. I’ve
frenzied my way through so much food I cannot possibly let any of
it stay in me. There is no telling how many calories that could pos-
sibly be. I couldn’t stop. The binge part is easier. This is hell. My
eyes are bloodshot and bulging. My face is red and swollen. I hang
my head as I drool hoping for my stomach to automatically force the
food out of me. I chew on a straw to flatten it out and force it down
my throat. I gag and retch more. The straw’s sharp edges poke my
tender, raw esophagus. I hurl, now into the toilet, until I cannot
anymore. Finally I decide that it’s over. I’m exhausted, ashamed,
disconnected, swollen… I brush my teeth without looking in the
mirror. I cannot look myself in the eye. I wash my face and crawl
into bed, disgusted with myself. Not knowing when it will end. To-
morrow I have to face another day.

APRIL 2000

FOUR HOURS EARLIER:

JOURNAL ENTRY THAT WAS SENT TO ED, MY
THERAPIST

Aww fuck. OK I may go into it. I may not. I’m battling
in between. I’ve been really good today… according to my
standards of caloric intake and exercise.
I’m munching on Baked Lays and those are usually OK,
however I have some other stuff here to munch on and if I
go there then I don’t think that I will like myself for eating
it. Right now it feels like a calorie thing… it is sometimes
like this, sometimes not. I’ve been around a lot of people
lately. Sometimes that is so stressful that I turn to binging
and purging. I don’t know yet if it’s about not having done
it in a couple days or trying to escape being around people
and being so affected by them. Now I am eating some of the
ham and cheese sandwich that I got at circle K. I took off
the bread to feel better but I don’t think that will last… now
I feel even worse cuz I’m eating the other half, sans most of
the bread. But, I’m almost challenging me to do this just so
I can do this (write about it and dig deeper into it)… before
I was thinking that I wanted to eat and not think about it and
escape… me… then I thought better, that I was afraid that
I didn’t want to have to write about it. Now I’m sad cuz I
am writing about it… as I take another bite… this sucks. I
want more. I don’t want to want more. This has been a
vague click over1. More thought processes going on… not
such a sudden click only because that can’t happen if I’m
writing about it. I don’t feel good about it and it slows me
down but I don’t think it’s bad enough to stop me yet. I hate
this though. I hate this. Another couple Baked Lays… it’s
adding up. I hate this. Now I feel I need to do a full on go-

1 I call it a “click over” because that is what it felt like to me, as if a
switch was suddenly flipped and there was no turning back from binging and
purging.

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out-and-get- something-cheap-to-binge-on… I hate sharing
this. I feel exposed. I’ve said that before. I feel like I’ve
disappointed… me/you/the world. I’m such a good person
without this… I know that’s not true but I felt it just now. I
feel bad. Tears stream down my face without my even cry-
ing. I hate this. My throat feels like it will explode with the
pressure. I don’t want to go there but I feel that I already
have… I eat another chip just to check. Hand to mouth.
Comfort in crunching. That sounds so silly. It’s 10:49PM.
I think logically that I have until 4PM tomorrow for my next
call time for this film I’m doing light stunt work on and I can
sleep in and be OK to be a little puffy eyed cuz I have time
for it to get un puffy. Three more Baked Lays… I don’t even
feel so guilty about the Baked Lays… I feel guilty about my
life. Now that just kinda came out of no where but I don’t
know exactly what I mean by it but I had to write it down
just in case I found later to understand it… why should I
ever feel guilty about my life? Logically and even spiritu-
ally I can grasp some of that but I don’t get it. I don’t exactly
want to ignore it but I don’t know what it means, if it means
anything. It just popped in my head. Well, now that I’ve
attempted to think that all out so logically and pretty… let’s
get back to this… fuck, I don’t want to get back to this. So
much easier not to… ham and cheese, Baked Lays. I’ve got
egg whites and… what else… I don’t want to think of it…
I want to go to a fast food place and order a lot of bad, bad
food and bring it back and eat it all. That makes me cry. I
don’t want to taste it and feel the process of taking it out of
me. GOD I HATE THIS. I’m doing it so it will help me. I
hate it. I still don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to leave
from here cuz then I will go do this and I will feel so dis-
gusting that I did this and that I am not such a good person
because I’m doing this… fuck I don’t want to look at this.
Now that I’m looking at myself I so don’t want to look at
myself going to a fast food place and getting food. I feel
stuck. Stuck with food inside me… stuck. I’m counting…

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I’m counting can I not purge and feel OK. Can I not purge
and not weigh 150 pounds tomorrow morning. I know that
is unreal, however I want to LOSE weight for this upcom-
ing film. I feel that I’m failing at that. I don’t know how to
get there. I don’t know. I only know that I would have to
have help and that doesn’t feel too good to know cuz I don’t
have anyone to help me. It would be a 24/7 kind of job and
I don’t know anyone with that kind of time, let alone… me.
What do I do? I don’t know. I don’t know. I wanna get rid
of what’s inside me. That makes me cry really badly. I want
it to be not a part of me. It is separate from me… food, even
cannot be a part of me. I hate digestion. It means that food
has become a part of me. During the day this is not a factor
in my life… I eat healthy and I know that I need nutrition
in my life and food to nourish… protein every three hours,
carbs, proteins, fats, exercise etc. etc… in the night I want
them to feel separate from me. The food. Leave me alone.
Go away. I eat the food and I don’t want to go to bed without
having something in my stomach however I want so badly to
be separate from it. I want it to leave my body. I don’t want
to have to throw up. I just want it gone. I don’t know any
other way to get rid of it.
I’m gonna send this now so I don’t go over it too much and
think about it. These are my thoughts, organically now.
--LoriDawn

APRIL, 2000

ED, MY THERAPIST’S RESPONSE

I know this was difficult for you. Thank you for risking and
letting me in. Interesting how the process leads to infor-
mation. So much to process. Hope you were able to rest
through the rest of the night. LoriDawn an important step, I
am humbled by your courage.
Love,
Ed

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2. HOMELESS?

I often joke that I was born a poor, white child, but it’s actu-
ally true. I guess it all started before I was born. I was a mistake.
My mom didn’t know she was pregnant with me until she was 3 1/2
months along and felt me kicking. By the time I arrived, mom was
pretty sad. I was told growing up that my dad was drunk at a bar
while I was being born. I’ve since learned that my dad probably
was at a bar, however he was not there just to have a drink, he was
“devoting literally every waking moment to his ‘baby’” according
to an article in an Oregon newspaper written by John Wenderborn.
His ‘baby’ was the Headwater Booking Agency. He was doing his
best to provide for his family and create a successful talent-booking
agency for Oregon musicians. It just so happens that during the time
of my birth it was his company’s biggest growth (it doubled in seven
months starting January, 1971). His company stimulated an almost
nonexistent market for creative music in the area. I came along
on February 1st, 1971 at 3:33am. Mom was giving birth to me and
she already had a one-year-old daughter, my sister, Lisa, to care for
and a husband who was working day and night. She was a young

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girl giving birth to her second child mostly by herself. They were
both so young. Delicate matters for sure. My mom was so stressed
out that every time she would feed me from her breast I would
throw up. Irony? Ha ha. Life’s cruel joke (actually, my bad one!)
Her milk was full of stress. I was a burden, before I knew what
that word meant. I was a burden before I knew there were words.

Thirteen years later… the year was 1984, I recall very clear-
ly one beautiful summer day sittin’ in the back seat of our mom’s old
rustish colored Toyota “Crayola” (as we called it) at the local Zip’s
fast food restaurant in a small town in the northern mountains of
Idaho where we lived. Two boys pulled up next to us (in Idaho we
could drive at 14). The boys were checking us out and one boy says
to the next, “I get the brunette.” Back in the day my sis had light
brown hair and I had blond hair. That comment sticks to a girl’s
ribs, so to speak. I felt like “the ugly one,” you know, the “take one
for the team” one.

My sister was one of the “popular girls” in school, a cheer-
leader, she ran with all the popular chicks, had the cute boyfriend,
was always around friends. I got straight “A’s” and was always by
myself daydreaming about horses. I was known as “Lisa’s sister.”
In grade school some new girl my sister was showing around the
school thought I was mentally handicapped because she saw me and
my friend galloping around the playground on our hands and feet at
recess pretending we were horses. Yeah, that was me.

My mom has always had a great sense of humor through all
the trials and tribulations that we call growing up. I truly love that
about her. She was married and divorced three times before I was
ten and worked three jobs to support the three of us. Heck, she was
trying to find mister right. It ain’t easy. I admire how amazingly
strong that woman was and still is. I recall my mom empowering
my sister and I by telling us that we could be anything we wanted
when we grew up. Anything. I was so excited because I knew ex-
actly what I wanted to be, a horse! She just smiled and casually said,
“ok.” I’m so proud of her for accepting my answer and not smack-
ing me with the reality that that wasn’t really an option. She just
said “ok” and let me believe in myself. I have kept that belief to this

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day. Thankfully I did change my mind about being a horse. Who
knows what could have happened!? But horses were my world.
If life felt upside down, there were always horses to dream about.

I also clearly recall a snowy evening that same year, stand-
ing behind my mom as she was going through the monthly bills that
were written in hand as a long list on a light greenish-white spiral
notebook. Her sense of humor was nowhere to be seen. She said
that she couldn’t pay all the bills that month. It was not the first
time this had happened; it’s just one time that stuck out for me. I
was really paying attention. We were using food stamps and getting
some groceries donated from our local church. I remember staring
down at her long list of bills, I thought to myself, “I will NEVER
have bills.” Then reality shot through my head “OH MY GOD. WE
WILL BE HOMELESS. How do I help? What do I do?” I was too
young to work and I felt like a burden to my mom. I was costing her
even more money just by being there. That was my choice to take
that on. My mom did not do that to me, I chose that all by myself.
I have chosen “feeling like a burden” as a theme in my life. It’s
popped up all over the place. Silly me! I am proud of the fact that I
am now fully aware of this, however. Anyway, after exhausting all
possible thoughts in my tiny blond head as to how I will pay the rent
and the rest of the bills that month, I went outside and pretended I
was a Grand-Prix show jumping horse and jumped a perfect round
with zero faults in our garden. Fifteen times. My coping mecha-
nism. We did not end up homeless, thank God!

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3. HOPE

Sam Leiferman took me under his wing. He was a softheart-

ed cowboy with two daughters of his own, and one missing front

tooth, but he didn’t care. He always had a smile on his face. He

saw me ride one of his horses one day. She was a rank mare named

Candy, who “tried” everyone who got on her back. That meant that

she would “try” to find out just what you were made of before she

would decide to let you make her do anything. I got on her to take

her around the barrel racing course, one of the timed events where

you run the horse in a cloverleaf pattern around three barrels. I rode

her up to the first barrel and sure enough, she balked, backed up,

turned around, spun and kicked out. I kept at her and stayed on.

Then she decided to let me tell her what to do. I got to ride Candy

at the next Playday2 and I earned Sam’s respect, and 7 ribbons! He

told me that I rode better than his two daughters and they’d “been

ridin’ since before they could walk.” That man gave me one of the

best gifts of my life. He was the father that I never had. He treated

me like I was one of his own daughters.

I competed in Playday after Playday on other people’s horses

2 Sporting events on horseback that are timed for competition.

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because we couldn’t afford one. I would cry myself to sleep want-
ing a horse but grateful that I could at least be around them. I won
2nd place high point two years in a row borrowing whatever horse
was available at the local saddle club. That’ll sure teach a girl how
to ride! Horses were my coping mechanism du jour.

It was a Monday night meeting like any other Monday night
meeting at the local Kootnei County Saddle Club. My best friend
Erin and I were galloping around trying to pay attention to the daily
minutes of the last meeting… Not! Later that evening we saw Sam
walking our way with a couple of people around him. He put his
hand on my shoulder and said, “you know that mare, Laurie?” I said
a sheepish “yeaaah.” Laurie happened to be very pregnant and I
had ridden her a few times. “Weal… I want to give you her baby
when it’s born!” I don’t recall what happened next. I WAS GONNA
HAVE A HORSE!!!!!!!

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That Wednesday I got a phone call from Sam telling me
that Laurie had her baby! I REALLY DID HAVE A HORSE!!! I
was so excited to go see my baby! I had to wait a couple of days,
Sam’s ranch was a little far away and it was tough for my three-job-
working mom to just pick up and go out there. Then Friday rolled
around. I was so excited! Sam drove up in his dusty pickup truck to
get me. I had my ten-gallon hat on my half pint head. Sam got out
of his truck and walked up to my mom and I with a sad look on his
face. You see, that’s the first time I ever saw Sam without a smile on
his face. My heart sank just a little. He gave me a big hug and told
me that the mare, Laurie, wouldn’t feed her little filly… MY new
baby horse. She rejected her. They tried everything they could to
save her but the filly died. My heart hit the floor along with a few
tears. Then Sam brought my mom and me out to his ranch. He las-
soed a little wobbly-legged colt that was born two months earlier.
Sam smiled, handed my mom and me the end of the lariat and said,
“What’s on the end of this rope is yours.” That little guy pulled my
mom and me around the corral for a while. He was small but he was
mighty! Once I could catch my breath, and my new baby horse, I
was floating on cloud 9 once again. Wow. Everything does happen
for a reason because he turned out to be the best horse in the world!

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Sam’s then girlfriend and later wife, Jan, suggested the name
Forest Leprechaun and it stuck. So that was his name. Forest Lep-
rechaun. He became my best friend and I was his. When we had
to wean him from his mom it tore my heart up. He whinnied until
he was a hoarse little horse listening for her to call back, but I was
there for him. Then I became his closest friend. I would arrive at
the pasture after riding my bike for 5 miles, I didn’t care, and call
out to him. He would raise his head up so fast and come run to the
fence to greet me with a bunch of whinnies and warm fuzzy nuzzles.

I also loved when I would get there and he was lying in the
field and I would walk out to see him and lay there with him. I’d
lift his head and put it on my lap and let him sleep a little longer.
It was so amazing. It was also funny because I was there to work
with him, to train him, too. We had a job to do! He just wanted to
sleep. Finally, after he napped for a bit, and drooled on my leg (I
loved it) I would tell him to get up. I’d lift his head and say “COME
ON! LET’S GO!” He would just flop his cute little head down and
lay there. I would do jumping jacks around him to get his energy
up; he would still lie there. I would end up lifting up his head and
getting serious, we’ve got work to do! With enough encouragement
he would get up from the warm grass, shake himself off and we’d
be on our way up to the round pen. I would “drive” him from the
ground to train him - I would use a bridle and long reins to guide
him because he was still too young for me to get on his back. I even
showed him at the local fair in halter and won second place! There
were only two of us in the competition - but I was still proud. I knew
his confirmation was not ideal but I loved him to bits anyway. It re-
ally didn’t matter to me. He was my horse! That was good enough.

My mom’s mom, my grandma (wow… yeah, my horse ridin’
barrel racin’ steer ridin’ GRANDMA!) was in town and Forest was
just about to turn two! That’s the age when you can actually ride a
horse!!! BUT… he wasn’t quite two yet so I had it stuck in my half-
pint head that I couldn’t get on him. My grandma said “git on him!”
So I did. I do miss my grandma. I’m so very thankful that I took
her advice. Because the first time I got on my horse, she was there,
as was my mom. That meant a whole lot to me. And Forest was a

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perfect gentleman. I don’t know what else I thought he would do…
we were best friends. He just walked around as if it were any other
day. I just happened to be on his back. I guess I had it in my head
that any time you first get on a horse they have some bucking to do;
watched too many westerns I reckon. In fact, every horse I have
trained has never had buck in ‘em when I got on for the first time.

Not much later I was riding Forest around with just a strap
around his neck. No saddle, no bridle. He was a green broke two-
year old horse! I would ride him in the mountains where there were
apple trees and pear trees. We would ride up a ways and I would
jump off to pick apples and pears from the trees to bring home. I
had them all bundled up in the front of my shirt and would make
sure he was on the downhill side so I could swing back up on his
back. Sure enough he would bend his head around to eat the apples
and pears that I had in my shirt, there were MANY on the ground
all around us, really there was plenty of fruit to go around, but he
wanted MINE. We would end up going in circles, me trying to get
back on him, him trying to get my apples and pears! It would really
crack me up. I think he was laughing too.

Then there was our game of hide-and-seek! The pasture,
that I paid a whopping $15 per month for, was huge. It had a little
lean-to at the top, a shed in one area and one big oak tree at the bot-
tom. It was perfect. I would show up and Forest was always happy
to see me. I would run down to the big oak tree and hide behind it.
Forest would gallop down there with me and (I could hear his hoof
beats) and I would “disappear” to him! He would go around and
around that big oak tree looking for me… then I would jump out and
he would buck and kick and fart and buck and kick and swing his
head around in play. Then we’d start the game all over again. We
loved it. Awwwww… the good ‘ol days.

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4. IT

It was 1987 and I was just about to be a junior in High School.
It (bulimia was just too difficult to say for a long time) started af-
ter I motivated my sister and my mom to move away from Coeur
d’Alene, Idaho. I was done living in such a small town and I wanted
to be somewhere where there was more culture and diversity. I re-
ally don’t know where I got the balls to just say to my mom that I
was moving to California. I didn’t know how I would get there. I
understand now how powerful that was, the “how’s” are the domain
of the Universe, I didn’t need to know “how” I simply needed to
know “what” I wanted. Ask and ye shall receive.

Interestingly enough, my mom met a nice guy from San
Jose, CA. They started dating and we eventually followed him back
to San Jose and moved in with him. I was just happy that we got
out of Idaho. Don’t get me wrong, Idaho is a beautiful place and it
was a wonderful place to grow up, it just didn’t have a lot to offer a
small girl with big dreams. We settled in California, my mom with
her work and her new boyfriend, my sister with her school and her
new boyfriend… then there was me. Sam eventually trailered For-

21

est down there for me for the price of the gas for the trip. That’s just
the kinda guy he was. With his trademark one-tooth-missin’ smile
and a wink he made me promise not to lose track and not call him.
I didn’t keep my promise. I think I put in one or two phone calls
and that’s the last I heard or talked to that wonderful man. I was 16.
I guess I didn’t know better. It makes me sad to think about how
much he meant, and still means to me and I didn’t call. It cost $15 a
month for a big huge pasture in Idaho. It cost $150 for a small pad-
dock with a bunch of other horses in it in San Jose! I’d been work-
ing since it was legal to (at age 14 I started bussing tables at a nice
restaurant in Idaho). I just kept on working small jobs to pay for my
horse, and kept going to school and getting “A’s”.

My sister and I grew up without a dad or father figure
through most of our youth so she chose to be in a perpetual series
of relationships. Once one boyfriend didn’t work out she quickly
found a replacement or already had one lined up to take his place. I
was a loner. I found my surrogate in my horse; but later found an-
other way to cope. I discovered years later just how hard my sister
struggled to be accepted by others, always feeling not quite good
enough. It’s amazing how we ALL feel like outsiders, regardless of
how many people we have around us or how popular we are.

And why do I always feel like I should be a different way. I
look at women with beautiful nails, perfect looking clothes and nice
shoes and I look at myself - with scuffed shoes, short, crooked nails,
hair all adrift, wondering if I smell bad. What am I not getting? I
feel off somehow. I feel different. Like “they” know something
I don’t. Like “they” are doing something that I’m not. Who are
“they” anyway? OK… I digress.

I always felt big. My sister was so tiny. And then I started
going through a phase where my face and body were getting a bit
roundish. Every day after school I would have the whole house
to myself. I would eat and watch The Flintstones and Gilligan’s
Island. I never got fat but I wasn’t thin anymore either. I was teeter-
ing in between. I felt lost. I felt unloved. It seemed as if everyone
else had someone to be with or somewhere to be. I didn’t. I felt
lonely even though I wanted to be alone. I had Forest to go to but I

22

needed a ride and I didn’t have a car.
I developed a friendship with this new girl named Dawn,

from Canada. She lived pretty close by me so we would hang out
sometimes. She was living with her father and his new girlfriend
and she felt like an outcast too. She felt like her father didn’t want
her but her mother sent her to live with him anyway. We would go
out to the local pizza place and together we could finish off a whole
large Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza. I never noticed that she
would use the bathroom immediately after our pizza binge. I stayed
at the table, stomach so full, but not really thinking about it. Dawn
started doing her hair like me and dressing like me and I didn’t even
notice. Somebody else brought it up to me. I still didn’t notice.
We would also go to buffet style restaurants and the only reason I
noticed that she went to the bathroom after is because she told me
that she got sick. “It must have been the noodles.” She would say.
I just thought, that’s weird, noodles can make you sick? I didn’t
really think much about it until it happened again the next time we
ate there. I’m so naive, I was thinking, “well, don’t eat the noodles
then.” Shortly thereafter, I finally put it together. Something finally
“clicked” in my brain as to what was going on. She wanted me to
know. I just kept in my own world. I didn’t think much about it,
then.

I recall the first time I made myself throw-up after I ate after
school. I was glad no one was home. It took me a while to throw up
and a lot of effort. My eyes got all bloodshot and bulged out. It was
not fun. I felt disgusting. I remember thinking to myself that it was
just a one-time thing. Months later, after binging and purging every
day, I kept thinking, I don’t have a problem with this. I can control
it. Years later I just stopped “thinking” about it. Six years later I
actually thought about it for a minute and thought, oh my God, I’ve
been doing this for six years! I felt horrible. I cried for hours. I
didn’t want to think about it anymore. 12 years after that first time,
I finally got brave enough to find help.

I got so lost in my disorder that I lost interest in my best
friend, my horse Forest. Sometimes I would borrow my sister’s car
and go to the grocery store and buy food to binge and purge with.

23

I remember buying donuts and foods that I craved. I then learned
that donuts don’t get removed so easily from the body by throwing
up. They become huge clumps of disgusting sugary dough that get
lodged in your esophagus when you try to throw them up. And, the
effort of trying to remove the huge clumps of sugary dough causes
scary heart irregularities. Yeah, so enchanting!

24

5. MURDERER IN A FOG

1989 was my senior year of high school but I was done with 25
all that high school stuff. There was this new “step to college” pro-
gram and they hadn’t worked out all the kinks. Without knowing it I
really took advantage of the situation. I think we were just supposed
to take one class so it would prepare us and motivate us to go to
college. My first semester I took one course at San Jose State Uni-
versity and the rest were high school classes. The second semester
I took one high school class and the rest were University courses. I
went to high school one day a week. I graduated somewhere near
the top of my class, grabbed my diploma and went back to the Uni-
versity to work on my Bachelors of Science in Business Administra-
tion Management and a minor in Environmental Studies. Sounds
purdy impressive, eh?

The second semester of my senior year I was getting myself
even more lost in my eating disorder. I knew I wasn’t giving Forest
enough attention and he deserved better. I put him up for sale. This
chick came by to look at him. Her family had a lot of money. She
was as big as a house and Forest was as narrow as a toothpick. I
don’t know what she was thinking but she wanted him. The price

was $1,100. She gave me a check and I watched her lead my best
friend away. I learned the value of money. It don’t mean shit com-
pared to love. But, I was a lost little girl. She renamed him Fred?!

Bulimia was a way to numb myself. I didn’t have to think of
anything else while I was binging and purging. Afterwards I would
feel tremendous guilt. I would avoid being around people because
I didn’t want to “click over” to my disorder. I call it a clicking over
because that’s what it felt like. I would be just fine in my day until
I “clicked over.” It was as if a light switch was flipped and there
was no turning back. As soon as I was confronted with feelings or
something I didn’t want to face, such as lack of money, fear of fail-
ure, the feeling that I’m not good enough or a lack of love, whatever,
I would “switch over” and become numb to everything by binging
and purging. It was a coping mechanism. It was also, secondarily,
because I didn’t want to get fat. It was not so much about getting fat
as it was a coping mechanism, albeit, not a healthy one.

I was humiliated one time because I threw up in the bath-
room sink at the house we were living in San Jose. No one was
home yet and I had just thrown up and I was so light-headed I had
to lie down. When we moved from Idaho I was given my sister’s
water bed that she used to have. From the light rocking of the water
bed and exhaustion from all the effort it took to hurl, I fell asleep.
My sister got home and saw the mess in the bathroom sink and was
disgusted, of course, who wouldn’t be? She yelled out to our mom.
I was in my bedroom with the door closed as usual. I woke up to
her yelling and was horrified. I’d been busted. My mom saved me
because she thought maybe her boyfriend did it, maybe he wasn’t
feeling well. I still felt exposed. I felt like my sister knew it was me
that did it. I think she even tried asking me but I don’t recall answer-
ing her coherently. I think I said that I didn’t feel well or something.
I was scared. A deer in headlights; I wanted to disappear; to become
one with my hand-me-down water bed. I looked in the mirror after
that and saw that white part of my eye had a blood-red blotch on it.
I guess a vein had ruptured from all the vomiting effort. How do I
explain that one? I told my mom it must be from something I did
at the gym. I’ve never been very good at lying; I was getting better

26

though. I had to. No one could know about this disgusting thing
that I’ve become addicted to.

When I went back to my one-class-a-week at high school
for the second semester it seems that I lost most of my “baby fat.”
I didn’t notice, I was so blinded by my disorder. My classmates
seemed to notice, however, and told me how slim I looked. My face
wasn’t as roundish I guess. I am surprised by this because it prob-
ably had to do with hormones and growing up and not with having
bulimia. I think bulimia kept me more round than thin when I look
back at all the years in perspective.

I started working with a commercial agent in San Jose au-
ditioning and doing odd local modeling jobs. I was an extra in a
Twix candy bar commercial, did brochures and catalogues for local
clothing companies in San Jose. I then started doing bikini contests
(with a fake I.D.) so that I could earn enough money to start my
own business. I was scared poopless because I was underage, but I
would go in there and win $50 to $100 to $500 a night! Even win-
ning bikini contests, I never felt or thought I was “thin.” That’s part

27

of the disillusion that comes with an eating disorder. For instance,
my sister and I were doing a promotion for her fiancé’s stereo instal-
lation store in San Jose. We were in bikinis and I felt like the fat
one as usual. I came across those pictures ten years later and was
dumbfounded. I was not only, “not fat” but I was skinnier than my
sister! Don’t get me wrong, she was not fat, but I was even skinnier!
That blows my mind.

As soon as I gathered the money I purchased some heavy
duty cleaning equipment and started D.C.C., Detailed Construction
Cleanup. My boyfriend at the time, Keith, had done this type of
work before and felt I could run that kind of business. He was four
years older than me but realized that I had good business sense. I
hired him as my first employee. I was constantly lying about my
age, I was 18 saying I was 20 or some such so that the contractors
would take me seriously. One construction company gave me most
of my work all over Northern California, thank you Dennis! They
mostly remodeled hospitals and schools and I would go in and do
the finished cleanup with my crew of three or four employees. I
ended up doing most of the work myself. And let me tell you, that’s
not easy work.

I moved in with Keith after a while. I liked my indepen-
dence living away from home. It was not a very nice place but I
didn’t care. I enjoyed opening up my fridge and seeing beer in there
that I could drink whenever I wanted to; even though I didn’t drink
much and was still under 21.

I recall, with utter horror, one day Keith and I were at his
friend’s parent’s house. They were all smoking pot. I never did.
They had ordered pizza. I ate a few slices. I had already eaten too
much that day for my comfort. I tried to get rid of it in the bath-
room. I thought I was quiet enough. Keith was standing outside the
bathroom door. When I came out he kissed me and really used his
tongue a bit forcefully. I pulled back. He tasted the stomach acid
from my mouth and caught me. He asked me why I did it. I felt
trapped. I said that I had eaten too much that day. I was nervous
and in a fog. I was a deer in headlights. I didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t know how to react. No one is supposed to know this. I

28

wasn’t ready to explain myself, I didn’t have anything prepared. I
tried to make it sound like it was no big deal. He got mad at me for
allowing him to kiss me after I did that. I was lost. I wanted to dis-
appear; sink back into the bathroom and become one with the toilet.

Then there was the time when the condom broke. Yeah, the
straight “A” student, so proper and such an upstanding citizen start-
ing her own businesses at such a young age, ends up having an abor-
tion. I recall the kind words Keith uttered into the phone, “I hope
you hemorrhage on the table.” He was hurt that I was so quick to
make my decision. I was young. I was scared. I knew it would
change my life forever and I was not ready to have a child. I feel sad
that I had to make that decision. I have never thought that I made the
wrong decision. I feel angry that he kept going when the condom
broke. I think back on that choice of his and steam starts project-
ing from my ears, for a moment. Radical forgiveness. Everything
happens for a reason. I forgive him. I had no clue that the condom
broke. When he told me that had happened, I knew that it was not a
good time for the condom to break. I cried myself to sleep.

I never would have thought that I would be in that position.
I didn’t have time to even think about it. Once I found out, my deci-
sion was made. I just had to execute it. Pun not really intended. I
saw no other choice. This is something else I did without wanting
anyone else to know, you know, to be burdened by my “stuff.” I felt
utter shame and that I was even more imperfect than I already was.
I just wanted it to be over with. I didn’t have Keith’s support at all.
I needed my sister’s help. I really needed her support. I needed her.
I never let myself need my sister before. She genuinely helped me
a lot through that.

Those of you who don’t know (lucky you), here’s how it
goes. With tears in your eyes and your heart pounding and your
stomach growling (you cannot eat anything the night before or that
day), you pass the protestors that make you feel like a murderer,
which you are according to who you talk to. Then you fill out pa-
perwork and sit in the waiting room with other women feeling the
same way you do (like absolute shit). There are a few supportive
(relieved – if you get my drift?) boyfriends dotted throughout (I was

29

alone). They call you into a room and you lay on a table on your
back. They give you something to knock you out. Then a nurse is
slapping your bare legs to wake you up and get you off their table.
Somebody picks you up and you go home, wherever that is. Then
you cry yourself to sleep.

Not long before that fiasco, I discovered that Keith used to
sell cocaine. In order to pay the rent and bills we needed more in-
come than we had so he started selling a little bit here and there. I
never once saw him do cocaine, I don’t think that he ever did, nor
did I ever try it – thank God. I still have never even tasted the stuff
to this day.

My sister came over to our apartment one day and I was still
at school or working. I don’t remember which, or why she came
over for sure. She had been having a tough time and just wanted
to lay down and wait for me to get there. Keith was acting weird
to her and she was confused. He didn’t want to leave her alone
in the bedroom. It seemed to her that he wanted to have sex with
her or something and she was feeling really uncomfortable. Who
wouldn’t!? Keith was worried that she would snoop around and find
what he was selling. He was paranoid. I got home and my sister
had a conversation with me that had me a bit confused. She left and
Keith tells me why he was acting weird. My mom’s boyfriend at the
time was training to be a police officer. He decided to use some of
the skills that he’d been learning to get to the bottom of matters. So
mom’s BF takes Keith into our room to talk and my mom takes me
outside to talk. Divide and conquer. I end up squealing like a pig
because I hate to lie. I realize that was the best thing I could do but
it felt pretty shitty. We all get back in the same room. Mom’s BF
seems confident as to believing Keith’s word that there is nothing to
worry about. The parental unit and her BF leave… for a minute. I
tell Keith that I spilled the beans. Needless to say, it was time for me
to move on. Mom and her BF were back in the apartment in no time
(obviously they compared stories). They helped me pack. I moved
in with my mom and her boyfriend and my disease.

I was hanging out in my new “home” in 1989. I was doing
homework and Mom’s BF was watching something on the TV in the

30

living room. I had recently graduated High school and was continu-
ing on at San Jose State University. It was October 17, 1989 at 5:04
p.m. and the ground started shaking and rolling. I zip from my room
on the other side of the floor level apartment to the outside door
before Mom’s BF can even get on his feet. I could see the parking
lot in our apartment complex physically moving up and down as the
cars rocked back and forth violently. The power stopped working
but I had a tiny battery powered TV. We watched the tiny TV out
in the parking lot as the devastating news unraveled as to just how
much damage the earthquake caused. It was an uncomfortable feel-
ing… like you could no longer even trust the earth you walk on. It’s
supposed to be solid and safe. Yikes.

Well, we survived the earthquake and the beat goes on. I
found out that I was supposed to have a contractor’s license for my
construction clean-up business (or they didn’t have to pay me) and
I was starting to get bigger and bigger jobs with new housing tracts
and other companies. I had one $10,000 contract! I got scared be-
cause of the silly law that I discovered, got out of that business, and
started My-T-Fine Window Cleaning. A few more bikini contests
later and my new business was up and running. All the while I was
coping with the stress of it by binging and purging. If I was really
busy it was great though because I didn’t have time to “click” over.
So there were times that the eating disorder was not there as much.

31

PART II. EXPERIENCE

6. COLLEGE

In 1990 I met this great guy. I was watching his legs as-
cend the stairs as I was heading to my economics class at San Jose
State and I literally did that turn-your-head-to-the-side-with-mouth-
agape-in-absolute-disbelief thingy. He happened to have a class
next door to mine. I’ve never seen legs like this on a guy! I had to
say something… Ack! What do I say?? Then I awkwardly blurt
out, “Do you work out?” My face must have turned three shades
of red, like, duh!? He smiled cutely and said something sexy like,
“yes.” And somehow I strung enough words together to agree to
talk with him after that class. So, we started dating. He was really
a good guy. He was studying Sociology and wanted to be a fire-
fighter like his dad. We dated for almost two years. I would have
married him had he asked me to at the time. I would be divorced
already though. He was so very serious and I was so very young. I
understand that we weren’t a match for a lifetime. It was a pleas-
ant relationship and he was very loving and completely attractive.
We were very “Barbie and Ken” looking. I loved him as much as I
knew what love was at the time. He was truly a wonderful person

32

all around. Last I heard he was happily married with two kids. I’m
very happy for him and his family.

I don’t think he ever knew about my eating disorder. I actu-
ally tried to share with him one time but he didn’t really get it. We
were both into being in shape and concerned with our own body
image. I remember him saying one time in a tsk, tsk sort-of-way, “a
moment on the lips and a lifetime on the hips.” I guess he thought I
was eating “in private” because he found a small candy bar wrapper
in my trash can. I ate a candy bar. So the fuck what?! But that stu-
pid statement kept crawling up my spine and I began to wonder was
I so fat? Do I look like I’m eating like a pig behind everyone’s back?
Oh, the insecurities of youth. More fodder to binge and purge about.

There is a scar on my face that is a constant reminder of my
bulimic days. I had felt insecure about two moles on my face since
I was in grade school. You know when you are in school in art class
and the teacher makes you draw a pencil sketch of the person across
from you. Well, I think they should stop that practice. This girl
drew me and she drew the moles so dark and all my freckles, I was
mortified. I’m like, is that really how I look? My moles haunted me
from then on. In 1991 I saw a doctor to get them removed. He de-
cided that I should have one removed then, if I’m happy with it, he’ll
remove the other one. He reassured me that I would be left with a
hairline scar so it would not even be noticeable. I had the surgery
and proceeded to binge and purge after a few days. I just couldn’t
stop. Well, the incision got infected. It was bigger than a hairline
scar. My face was forever to be a reminder of my disease. Just what
I wanted. I gladly kept the other mole. I even like it. Go figure.

I paid my way through San Jose State University cleaning
windows, getting grants and financial aid and as soon as I was old
enough I taught myself how to bartend. Bartending was easier work
than cleaning windows so I phased out the window cleaning busi-
ness eventually. I was also really starting to miss being around hors-
es. I taught horsemanship to kids at a summer camp for a couple of
summers. I lasted two summers. That was enough for me! Horses
I can handle. Bratty-little-kids-that-were-sent-to-horse-camp-so-
their-own-parents-didn’t-have-to-put-up-with-them-during-the-

33

summer?!? Feets don’t fail me now!
At San Jose State University, I had met a photographer/artist

named Juan, who became a friend. He had started taking pictures of
me when I was 17 so he’s got a pretty good archive of my life from
17 to 21. He happened to meet this rancher guy in 1991 who was
looking to do a project called “The Great American Horse Ride.”
His name was Charles Carter. He became my Sam Leiferman. I call
him Pappy or Papa Squirrel to this day. He also took a lost little girl
under his wing and allowed me to be around horses. He thought that
I’d be perfect for his project. The project never happened but it was
all worth it because of meeting Pappy.

34

After a year or so, on weekends I would drive up to his ranch
and ride and train horses or herd cattle or make sure the fence was
ok – it was a real working ranch experience. (I usually went up with
a girlfriend or two who would quiz me on all the alcoholic drinks
so I could learn to be a bartender). Ann and Honora were the best!
We were the three musketeers in college. We were all so close, but,
even so, they never knew that I had an eating disorder until YEARS
later. It’s an easy thing to hide if you do it right. That’s not a benefit.

Charles Carter eventually gave me a baby horse that was
born on Valentine’s Day. I named her Bailey’s Valentine. I still
have her today and she is the coolest chick ever! I just throw a bare-
back pad on her and ride all over California.

I remember often being really depressed on Mondays after
coming back from the ranch. I didn’t put it together for a long time
that I was having “withdrawals” from being on the ranch and with
the horses and open spaces. Mondays were not very good days for
me then. Sometimes it would even leak into Tuesdays--who am I
kidding, it could last the whole week. I was living with my mom in
an apartment mostly through college and, of course she was either
working or with her boyfriend. My sister was living with her future
husband. I was, and chose to be, alone, with my disorder. It’s not
that nobody cared, nobody knew that I had bulimia.

I continued doing odd modeling jobs here and there. I was
honored to be invited to do a shoot for a calendar in San Francisco.
It was called North Beach Leather and Lace. The photographer for
that shoot was also one of the photographers for Playboy magazine.
A real one, not one of those photogs who claim to be a Playboy pho-
tographer; He was the real McCoy. After the shoot I was invited to
be in the Playboy’s Book of Lingerie magazine. I decided to do it. I
used a stage name “Alex Andrea,” however, in one of the magazines
they printed my real name. I only went topless but I was still in col-
lege and didn’t know what I wanted to do just yet so was a bit sad
at the time that they used my real name. I mean, what if I wanted
to go into politics or something… Not! Today I am honored to be
associated with Playboy because I feel that is an amazing magazine
and company and I’ve met Hugh Hefner and many of his wonderful

35

friends.
So the photo shoots with Kim Mizuno and Richard Singer

were the first time I got to visit Los Angeles. It’s 1992. I got to stay
at Le Duffy Hotel in West Hollywood and I felt like a princess! It
had a sunken living room area, a Jacuzzi tub and it was so beauti-
ful! I walked in and looked around and felt so good, then I turned
back around and my heart sank. There was no one to share it all
with. I felt alone. Then I got a bit nervous. I was alone with my
eating disorder. I had to be careful because I could not have puffy
eyes in the morning. I “cured” my loneliness by ordering food, then
binging and purging (I feel so disgusting admitting that) then I got
to bed early. The photo shoot went well and helped pay for part of
my college education. Thank you Playboy! I felt taken care of by
everyone and had a fantastic experience on my virgin trip to Los
Angeles, besides my self-induced personal hell. Oh well.

The next time I visited L.A. was for another photo shoot
for a calendar about a year later. I happened to be in the studio and
saw this super cute picture of Grant Show of the TV show, Melrose
Place in a magazine and told the photog that I had a crush on him.
The photographer happened to know somebody who knew him, ac-

36

tually rode Harleys with him. I was all ears. Then, out of the blue
this friend of Grant’s calls! I mean… how does this happen!? He’s
like, “I just so happen to have a model here who likes Grant.” We
talk on the phone. Turns out that this guy was working as a grip
on the set of Melrose Place. Who knew! So we schemed that we
would be “cousins” and I could visit him on the set. I planned my
next trip to Los Angeles!

My dad and I had been getting to know each other a bit more
by this time. I admire many things about him. He is exceptionally
smart, sometimes to his detriment possibly. He is a talented musi-
cian and dedicated to creating greatness when he finds a direction.
He had sex with my mom, so I’m here. It’s a constant learning
process, this life thing. We all have our stuff. His wife, Jo, is a won-
derful woman and an amazing cook! The older I get, I appreciate
hanging out with them and spending time putting our brains together
for random educational and esoteric conversation.

So I stay at my dad’s house in Calabasas and leave really
early in the morning for the set of Melrose Place. I get there and
I’m sitting in the parking lot and I’m totally nervous. I get out of my
car and head for the studio. I don’t even know what my “cousin”
looks like. He said that he has brown hair and a goatee. I arrive at
the tin door of the studio at Santa Clarita Studios. It has a big sign
that reads “CLOSED SET, NOT OPEN TO THE PUBLIC.” I get
butterflies in my stomach and head back to my car. I just so happen
to bring a little liquid courage with me, two tiny shooters of Rum-
plminze. I downed one, then the other, and head back to the set. I
walk in like I own the place and look for my “cousin.”

My eyes adjust to the darkness of the set and I walk be-
hind the set’s backdrop, stepping over cables and such and just keep
walking towards where I hear voices. I was at least smart enough to
not walk in while they were filming (when those red lights are flash-
ing on the outside of the stage). Then I walk by a few people and I
guess I look like I’m looking for someone or something. A person
walks up to me and asks if I am a particular actress who was work-
ing that day as a model. I’m flattered but say “no, I’m looking for
my cousin.” I tell the person that he has brown hair and a goatee. It

37

turns out that all grips have brown hair and a goatee. I start looking
a little lost and a guy with brown hair and a goatee walks up to me
and says aloud “Haayyyy, LoriDawn?? You made it, cuz!” I was so
relieved. Shaun saved me.

After I was visiting for a while one of the production assis-
tant’s says that the director wants to speak with me. My heart leaps
into my chest. GREAT, I’m getting kicked off the set! My “cousin”
and I look at each other with a bit of worry on our faces. We go over
and I get introduced to the director. Shaun says, “this is my cousin
she’s here visiting.” The director says “no, she’s not.” Oh that’s it,
I started heading for that tin looking door that I walked in. He says,
“Get her over to wardrobe. I need another model for a lingerie shoot
we’re doing on the beach.” I stood there. O.K.! Next thing you
know, I’m sitting in the make-up trailer getting my hair up in rollers
with Heather Locklear and Daphne Zuniga and they want me to read
lines with them because the other actress was not there yet. O.K.! I
find out that I’m a lingerie model who is coming into Shooters and
being introduced to Grant Show’s character in the scene. O.K.! I
was able to get my Screen Actor’s Guild card because of all this and
I didn’t even know what that meant, yet. I was just happy because
I got to go to lunch with Grant, Daphgne and my “cousin” Shaun.
I was so shy. Grant kept trying to talk to me and I would say a
few things and just get so shy. Silly me. I would downplay every
accomplishment he was asking me about. I’m blushing now even
thinking about it. How embarrassing. Funny though, years after all
that I saw Grant at the Playboy Mansion’s Halloween party and had
a nice make-out session with him. He was the devil; I was a Catho-
lic schoolgirl, how apropos! I ended up with his red face paint ALL
over my face. When I got home I was laughing so hard I nearly peed
my skirt. I looked like I killed a cat with my teeth. I don’t think he
remembered me from the set of Melrose Place. I didn’t bring it up.
But that was kinda fun.

I also hung out with another actor from the show, Andrew
Shue. He was really nice. It was funny, I remember seeing his apart-
ment for the first time and I thought, wow, I sure thought it would be
nicer! It could have used a woman’s touch for sure.

38

During college, when the girls and I, or just I, went back
down to L.A. I felt this positive energy flow through me. Every
time we, or I, would drive back it just felt as if I were heading in the
wrong direction. Something was drawing me to Los Angeles. Now,
I never say never but I told myself that I would “never” move to Los
Angeles. The reason I said that to myself is because of my teacher
in my first environmental studies class. The more we learned about
the traffic, the smog, the population overload, the water, the, the,
well, everything about LA the more I didn’t want to move there!

It was my senior year in college; I finally had to figure it
all out. What is my passion? What do I want to do? I went to the
career center at San Jose State and ran out screaming with my hands
in the air like a cartoon character! Well, not really, but that’s how I
felt. Everywhere I looked all I could see were “boxes.” If you want
to be a nutritionist, you will work “x” many years, make “x” many
dollars, retire at “x” age… box number 1,365. If you want to be a
chiropractor you must go to “x” amount of more school, you will
work “x” many years, make “x” many dollars, retire at “x” age…
box number 1,283… Well, once you become a senior at a Univer-

39

sity, everyone wants to ask this question of you. “So, what are you
going to do now?” ….Uhhhhh. I dunno. I hated that question but I
guess it was time to face it. I wanted unlimited possibility. My dad
always taught me, “workers make a wage, players play and make a
fortune.” I wanted to be a PLAYER! I wanted unlimited income
potential and to “play” for as long as I wanted to because I want to
follow my passion and my “work” will be play. I have to do what I
love to do or I don’t want to do it. In a nutshell, I asked myself the
question: “What would I choose to do if I believed it were impos-
sible to fail?” Somewheres I found it in me that I choose acting.

See, often, when no one was looking, I would find myself
alone in a theater getting lost in the movies. I was constantly looked
at sadly when I told people that I like to go to movies by myself.
They would say, “awwww, next time call me and I’ll go with you,”
with that oh-that-is-so-sad look in their eyes. But I guess they
weren’t quite listening. I said I like to go to movies by myself. I
liked it because I could get lost in the movie. So I didn’t have to
be me for a couple of hours. If I went with someone, I was always
taken out of the movie by them making a comment or them popping
their knuckles or chewing popcorn or whatever they were doing that
was distracting. I wanted to get LOST. No bulimia, no disgust-
ing guilty feelings about myself. Just plain lost. Another coping
mechanism I reckon.

So I got my fancy shmancy Bachelor’s of Science degree in
Business Administration Management with a Minor in Environmen-
tal Studies. I graduated with honors even! Yay me! Most people
with eating disorders are perfectionists. We are trying to control
something but it ends up just the opposite.

First thing I do when I grab my degree in 1993, I move to Los
Angeles. I began living in L.A., commuting to San Jose on week-
ends to bartend, then return to Los Angeles for the week. When I
went to get a job as a bartender in L.A. I was shocked! I needed a
resume to bartend! For me it was entirely a side thing to make some
money, not a career move. In L.A. it’s pretty serious business. Al-
most all wait staff and bartenders are actors because of the flexibility
and amount of money you can make. So, until I found a job in the

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city of angels, I had a 5 1/2 hour commute each weekend. I once
peed in a big gulp cup while driving 55 mph on cruise control at 4
o’clock in the morning because I didn’t want to stop. Yeah, try that
one! Multitasking at it’s best, baby.

I started taking acting classes. One was a scene study type of
class and I took a cold reading class. Every actor has to know how
to cold read because that’s what you do in an audition. You must be
able to read a scene, make choices for your character you are read-
ing for and commit to your choices, fast. The scene study class was
interesting but I moved almost immediately from their beginning
class to the masters advanced class. I’m not sure that was a good
sign for that school. It made me feel pretty good about my talent,
though! I started looking for other places to learn.

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7. LA GENERATION

I finally got a job closer to my new home as a waitress
at a hot Beverly Hills Night Club called The Gate. It was a cat-
ty scene between most of the girls who worked there because
everyone wanted to work in the VIP area. A girl could do pret-
ty well in the tip department selling hundred-fifty dollar bottles
of Absolute Vodka or Crystal Champagne. I was new so I didn’t
work up there very often, even though patrons would request me.

Working in the VIP were two pretty blonds, a cute brunette
(her name was Bunny! How could she not be cute!), and a very pretty
black girl. They all seemed to hate me. I was a threat to their income.
One of the uber skinny blonds made a crack onetime in front of me and
one of the managers about how she needed to go work out, and “stay
skinny” while she patted her lower abdomen. I’ve always been self-
conscious about my lower abdomen and it’s where I sometimes keep
a bit of extra weight. She was being horribly clear about who and
what she was talking about. It was a direct dig at me. The manager
even felt bad for me. He did a nervous laugh and told her she was
mean. I was humiliated but blocked it out of my head. When I got
home that night I used my usual coping mechanism to escape feel-

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ing like a BIG FAT FUCKING COW THANKYOUVERYMUCH.
During this time I was living with a fellow bartender from

San Jose in an inexpensive two-bedroom apartment. He was a
great looking guy and very nice. We never hooked up with each
other - we maybe hugged once. We weren’t each other’s types
but he was very attractive nonetheless so great to look at. It was
challenging to be with my disorder in this situation. I remember
feeling desperate on more than one occasion because I had eaten
too much and clicked over and he was home. It felt horrible. I
had to get rid of what was inside me and I couldn’t just camp out
in the bathroom and get rid of it. I felt so stuck. I used a gar-
bage can in my room and tried to be as quiet as I possibly could.
Horrible emotions swim through my head when I remember
how I felt in those situations. As if I were a trapped wild animal
with no escape in sight. I was chained to the food inside of me.

While I was working at The Gate, I met my fair share of inter-
esting people. I ended up going out a couple times with James Woods,
Jimmy as all his friends, including me, called him. He was fantastical-
ly smart and fantastically horny. I’m not going to say anything about
the rumor about him. Of that, I am reticent. I really wanted to talk to
him, you know, pick his brain a bit. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

Meeting and talking with (at this time he was the symbol)
Prince has to be a highlight for me during this time. I have often
had a way of manifesting things in my life. It may sound weird but I
knew that I was going to meet him. Whenever I have had a “know-
ing” about something, I have always manifested it. I have also no-
ticed that as I got older, sometimes I would allow fear to creep in
and I would allow fear to reverse my manifestations. I’m turning
that around now. Anyway, Prince would come into The Gate now
and again and I would always make sure he was well taken care of.
I’ve always been a big fan of his. That man is pure talent. He’s
like the poet Rumi when it comes to churning out lyrics and mu-
sic. One of the nights Prince and his bodyguard, Tracy, were in the
club but then Prince left. Tracy came back in just as I was getting
off work for the night. He told me that Prince wanted to come to
my house. I’m thinkin’, dude, I live in a yucky little two bedroom

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apartment with a roommate, can’t we go to his house?! He wanted
me to go on a drive. I let him know that I had guests from out of
town staying at my house (which was true). I was intrigued but
cautious. I said that I’d take a rain check. Tracy said, “ok, well
he wants you to go in his limo and listen to a song.” I said, “OK!”

I walk out to the back parking lot in my custom made long
black dress (we all had our own long, beautiful, black velvet dresses
made for us as waitresses at The Gate) and there is the limo sitting
there. Tracy opens the door for me and I get in. Prince puts some
music on. When I first get in his limo I feel like I can’t breathe.
I feel like I don’t want him to hear me breathe. I tried to relax.

He asks, “Do you like this?”
I listen, “Yeah, that’s you doing background vocals.”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“I can hear you, who is that?”
“A new guy,” he says.
“He’s got a good soothing voice,” I reply.
“Yeah, would you buy it?”
“As a single or a whole album?”
He laughs, “either.”
I pause, “yeah, yeah. It’s soothing. But I’m no expert.”
“I would trust you more than I would a critic. You better
get your purse.”
“Get my purse?”
“Yeah, It’ll cost a lot. You’re the only one that would have
it, and me.”
“I guess I would be pretty special.”
“Yeah.” There is a bit of a pause as we listen to the music
a bit.
I then ask, “Do you ever get bored with what you have?”
He gives me a weird look, “bored!?”
“Yeah, with your success, with everything you have.”
He gives me another weird look. “No, as long as you’re
creating! You can’t get bored!” He blurts out.
“I’m afraid that if I get everything I want, accomplish ev-
erything… I just always want new horizons, new goals to reach.”

44

We both relax a bit around each other. Prince crawls up on
his seat like a little kid, I thought it was cute. I remain somewhat
motionless. It’s not my territory. I feel comfortable but not. Cau-
tious. I feel cautious.

“What music do you listen to?” Prince asks me.
“Well, lately, actually, the Counting Crows, but I have all
your stuff. I like your stuff.” I reply.
He laughs about the Counting Crows.
“Have you listened to them?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’ve tried.” He laughs again.
“I like their lyrics.” I say.
Prince retorts, “then they should have written a poetry
book. I’m sorry; I’m just particular about music. Think about
putting that man’s voice that you heard with their lyrics and a light
rock and roll sound, that would throw them off.”
“That would be interesting. I think the Counting Crows say
a lot about what they call the ‘X’ generation.” I say.
“Are you a part of the ‘X’ generation?” He asks.
“I think so”
“You don’t look like you are.”
“What generation do you think I am?”
“Your own generation. The LA generation. I don’t think
they dress like you. They don’t wear heels.” He touches my shoe.
“And they don’t have calves like this from wearing these
heels.” I flash him my calf muscle.
“Whoa!, do that again!” He jumps up further on his seat.
I show him the famous LD calf muscle again. I just so hap-
pen to have amazing legs. So do my mom and sister. Good genes!
“Wow.” Pause. “Have you ever been hypnotized?”
“No, not that I know of, have you?” I answer.
“No, I wish I could be. I have a lot of questions.”
“Questions that you can’t answer in this physicality or
spirituality?”
“Yeah.” Prince replied
“What questions would you ask?” I ask him. Silence fol-
lows for a minute or so.

45

“I would ask if this is the name that I am supposed to
have.”

“Does it really matter?” I say.
“On this planet it does. Names are important.”
“I don’t think so.” Then I quoted Shakesphere, “what’s in a
name by which they call a rose, by any other name would smell as
sweet.”
“I hypnotized someone and I asked her when she was go-
ing to die and she said 2020. That was wild. Then I asked if you
can control when you die and she said yes. Then she went into
how then I asked again when she was going to die and she said 90.
We’ll see, huh.”
“I don’t want to know when I’m going to die, do you?”
“No. When she woke up she asked what we talked about
and I said oh, flowers and birds and sunshine!” He laughs.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have told her. Oh, I want to ask you
something.”
He smiles, “what?”
I ask, “Did Prince die or just transform?”
He laughs then thinks about my question and says, “he did
both. First he transformed then he died.”
“Is he ever coming back?”
“No, not here.”
“Would you want to live forever?” I ask
“Too deep,” he pauses then asks “Where are you from?”
“Idaho”
“Do you like LA?”
“Yes”
“Why did you move here?”
“Because Idaho didn’t have what I needed. LA has what I
need right now.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Studying acting. A lot of people are studying acting.” I
say a bit shyly.
“That’s ok. You’re in the right place.”
“If you want to make a splash you gotta go where the water

46

is.” I proclaim.
He laughs, “yeah.”
We talk about a few more things and then I wanted to be

the one to go because I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I
didn’t want him to have to wrap it up. I didn’t want to feel rejected
by him, to be quite honest.

“It was very nice talking with you.” I say.
He replies, “it was nice talking with you.”
I respond, “Well, I better go. May I have a lollypop?” He
had them sitting in a glass by the door.
“You can have two.”
“You’re very generous.”
“That’s what they say.” He replies in a cute little voice.
And I exit the limo. What a trip. As soon as I got home I had to
write it all down because I didn’t want to forget a moment of it.
JOURNAL ENTRY:
MARCH 12, 1996
“Leap, and the net will appear”

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8. PORN STAR?

I did a few forgettable USC student films starting in 1996
and kept at my acting classes for a couple years. I began taking
Meisner classes, which were very helpful. It’s a technique that actu-
ally lets you practice listening among other things. Most of acting is
listening. Then I landed my first lead. I discovered this about my-
self: I tend to read over stuff I don’t really like as if I’m not going to
actually have to do it. I auditioned for an independent film and got
a callback. I was so excited! I read the script; it was a film about a
prostitute who is a murder suspect. I was offered the part. Yay me.
I saw that there were love scenes in the movie but I tend to, kind-of,
you know, read-them-quickly, so-maybe-they-didn’t-really-exist. I
like to focus on the positive aspects of things. And royally fool my-
self about the negative. I wanted to work as an actress so badly. I
compromised doing the nudity to do the film. Had I known that it
was called “soft-core porn” I probably would never have done it. I
never wanted to be a “porn” star. Granted, I have never done “hard-
core porn,” but some people might want to try to call me a porn star.
Yeah, that kinda sucks. I am not in bad company, however. Here
is just a partial list of actresses who have also done love scenes in

48

movies: Halle Berry, Cloe Sevigny, Salma Hayek, Heather Graham,
Maggie Gyllenhaal, Kate Winslet, Angelina Jolie, Kim Basinger,
Ashley Judd, Diane Lane, Sharon Stone, Alissa Milano, Nicole Kid-
man, Anne Hathaway, Jennifer Aniston, Reese Witherspoon, Meg
Ryan, Natalie Portman, Mila Kunis... I could go on, but you get the
idea.

I was working on a particular film with an actress who was a
stripper and very beautiful. She was a friend of several other beauti-
ful women who were porn stars. She shared with me the thoughts
and expressions of her porn star friends on what soft-core porn ac-
tresses or B-actresses were thought of. They felt bad for B-actresses
who did love scenes because they did not get to “enjoy fully” their
experience of doing love scenes. I understand their point, from their
point of view. However, I was not in it to “get off” so I was just fine
not “getting off.” There is no judgment; I just was not in it for that.
I was in it to further my career and work as an actress. It’s not right
or wrong to me; it’s just a different choice. To me doing love scenes
was a compromise I made in order to work as an actress.

Doing a love scene felt to me like an out-of-body experience
(and not the kind that feels like pure love and joy). If I look back
at doing that first love scene I literally remember it from somebody
standing to the side and watching it, not from being the actress in the
scene. It was a closed set (only the director and actors, and maybe
the script supervisor stay on the set). Everyone was very profes-
sional. The whole event was quite technical as well. Move your
body here, your arm down there, now kiss. I had what’s called a
“patch” over my girly bits below and my co-star wore a “sock” over
his boy bits. But I was butt-ass nekked, pretty much. It doesn’t help
to have a warped body image to boot. I had been living with my
eating disorder for seven years by then and I always felt fat, even
if I wasn’t. To say I felt vulnerable would be an understatement. I
cried as I drove myself home that night. Then I took a shower. I felt
violated even though it was my choice to do the film. I binged and
purged all the icky feelings away.

It also didn’t help that the director, who was newly married,
was hitting on me. I opted not to get some champagne and go down

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