Unbearable Lightness Part 3

I ate it before I shot the scene. I ate that m.u.f.fin with its salt and calories and wheat and b.u.t.ter and all of the other bloating ingredients.

I hated everything about the underwear scene. I hated that in just a few episodes, I'd gone from playing a high-powered attorney to a woman desperately trying to get her boss to sleep with her. I hated that I'd have to play a love-interest character from now on, and I especially hated what I wore. I chose black lingerie with tiny red and pink hearts sewn onto it. It was ridiculously uncharacteristic for Nelle, who would have worn a more conservative style, perhaps something in navy blue-small, lacy, and revealing yet dignified, and worn with an air of supreme confidence in the goods the underwear displayed. The lingerie I chose was trashy with a stripper vibe. If ever I was to take care of my own needs before worrying about acting, it was in choosing the most flattering underwear. Here was my thinking: I would wear the largest, fullest cut with the most distracting colors to deemphasize my hips and thighs as much as possible. I would pad up my bra to offset the roundness of my stomach and look more proportional from head to toe. I chose a dress that I could remove in one easy motion so I wouldn't have to bend over and risk rolls of fat creasing on top of each other as I removed a tight skirt or a difficult blouse. I chose the highest of heels, because we all know that the taller you are, the more weight you can carry, and I wore my hair down, shaken all around, in an effort to lift the viewer's eye north of my abdomen and away from my thighs.

I shot the scene and awaited the verdict. I didn't have to wait long as it aired within a few weeks. Of course, when shooting a scene like that, some of the feedback is immediate. The energy of the crew changes, and no matter how professional you are, you still feel exposed, cheapened, paid to show your body. Or at least that's how I felt. And in that scene I was no longer a brilliant attorney who could make the firm more money than it had ever seen. I was stripped of that ability and the respect that comes with it when I stripped down to my heart-covered bra and panties. I was just another blond actress playing a vulnerable woman who has s.e.x with her boss, in the costume of an efficient, crafty attorney. I was just an actress playing a lawyer, which, after dropping out of law school, was the only kind of lawyer I'd ever be. I don't know why I thought I'd be any more respected for simply pretending to be that which I didn't have the stamina to become.

By the time the episode aired, my life had changed. For many reasons, I'd decided to move out of the place in Santa Monica that I shared with my brother; the place that I'd shared with my husband. I moved away from the life I'd known since coming to Los Angeles and into an apartment in Hanc.o.c.k Park. I was on my own. Kali had moved back to Pasadena anyway, and my other friend, Ann, a girl who made difficult, emotional conversations easy, had moved to New York. Ann is the friend that everyone wishes they could have. She pries the truth out of you in a nurturing way and then stays around to clean up the tears. Ann's departure was one of the reasons I moved. But mainly I moved away because of paparazzi. Granted, there was only one photographer who had found my house, but the pictures of me sitting on my front steps, hair in curlers and smoking a cigarette, made me feel ambushed, watched, hunted almost. That one photographer made me feel like any of my private moments could be captured at any given time-unseen, unknown. I felt like I had a peeping Tom and every time I did something that I wouldn't want anyone else to see, my thoughts escalated into paranoid panic-not only over the present moment, but over those that predated the smoking picture. Retroactive paranoia.

There was nothing fun about seeing my picture in the Star. Star. It served as a warning that I'd better watch myself or I could embarra.s.s my family. I'd better watch myself or I could ruin my career. The photo of me smoking upset my mother. She'd much prefer it if people didn't think I did that, and now there was proof. Was there proof of my h.o.m.os.e.xuality yet? (Did I even have proof of it yet?) I wondered if the paparazzo was crouched behind the fence, overhearing my side of phone conversations with Ann when I would sit outside and smoke and talk to her about my therapy sessions. I talked to Ann about therapy and other important life-changing things. Ann had recommended I go to therapy and had also recommended the therapist. Ann listened to my panic and my confusion and to most of my dramatic statements like, "If I get into a relations.h.i.+p, if I even try, then people will find out I'm gay!" She replied, "What's so bad about that?" Which was ridiculous, of course. Everything was bad about that. It served as a warning that I'd better watch myself or I could embarra.s.s my family. I'd better watch myself or I could ruin my career. The photo of me smoking upset my mother. She'd much prefer it if people didn't think I did that, and now there was proof. Was there proof of my h.o.m.os.e.xuality yet? (Did I even have proof of it yet?) I wondered if the paparazzo was crouched behind the fence, overhearing my side of phone conversations with Ann when I would sit outside and smoke and talk to her about my therapy sessions. I talked to Ann about therapy and other important life-changing things. Ann had recommended I go to therapy and had also recommended the therapist. Ann listened to my panic and my confusion and to most of my dramatic statements like, "If I get into a relations.h.i.+p, if I even try, then people will find out I'm gay!" She replied, "What's so bad about that?" Which was ridiculous, of course. Everything was bad about that.

The episode with the scene of me in my underwear aired in New York three hours before it would air in LA. So I told Ann to watch it and call me immediately.

"Hey."

"What did you think?"

"I thought the show was great. You weren't in it as much this week."

"Ann! What did you think of the scene? How do you think I looked?"

"Great."

"What do you mean, 'great'?"

"s.e.xy. You know, great."

"Did I look thin?"

"I thought you looked like a normal, healthy woman."

Normal. Healthy. Woman.

My mother told me a long time ago that "healthy" was a euphemism for "fat." She'd say to me, "Don't you just hate it when you see someone at the supermarket and they tell you, 'You look healthy'? They clearly are just trying to tell you that they think you look fat." She'd tell me how she'd handle the backhanded compliment by smiling and pretending she was receiving a genuine compliment all the while ignoring their attempt to be insulting. After all, it's in the way an insult is received that makes it an insult. You can't really give offense unless someone takes it.

All of the words Ann used were euphemisms for fat. Normal Normal just meant that I was fat. Since when did anyone ever go to the doctor's and feel good about being in the weight range that's considered normal? A normal size for women in this country is a size 12. Models aren't "normal." Actresses aren't "normal." She may as well have told me that I'd just embarra.s.sed myself in front of 15 million people. If she didn't want me to think that, she would've used words like "overworked" instead of "healthy," and "girl" instead of "woman." How could the image of a woman, with her big voluptuous hips and round thighs and big, heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s be applied to me if I was the skinny, straight-up-and-down, shapeless girl I was starving myself to be? just meant that I was fat. Since when did anyone ever go to the doctor's and feel good about being in the weight range that's considered normal? A normal size for women in this country is a size 12. Models aren't "normal." Actresses aren't "normal." She may as well have told me that I'd just embarra.s.sed myself in front of 15 million people. If she didn't want me to think that, she would've used words like "overworked" instead of "healthy," and "girl" instead of "woman." How could the image of a woman, with her big voluptuous hips and round thighs and big, heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s be applied to me if I was the skinny, straight-up-and-down, shapeless girl I was starving myself to be?

Message received loud and clear, friend.

You can't give offense unless somebody takes it.

10.

I BOUGHT A BOUGHT A treadmill and put it in my dressing room. That way I was able to run during my lunch break on the set. I also bought another treadmill and put it the guest bedroom in my new apartment. With two treadmills, I didn't have an excuse not to work out. Because I had started to bring my Maltese dog, Bean, to the set with me, it was hard to get to the gym after work, and having a treadmill in my dressing room allowed me to run for the entire lunch hour instead of taking time out of my workout to drive to the gym and park. Although I hadn't had exercise equipment in my dressing rooms prior to treadmill and put it in my dressing room. That way I was able to run during my lunch break on the set. I also bought another treadmill and put it the guest bedroom in my new apartment. With two treadmills, I didn't have an excuse not to work out. Because I had started to bring my Maltese dog, Bean, to the set with me, it was hard to get to the gym after work, and having a treadmill in my dressing room allowed me to run for the entire lunch hour instead of taking time out of my workout to drive to the gym and park. Although I hadn't had exercise equipment in my dressing rooms prior to Ally McBeal, Ally McBeal, I didn't invent the concept. Many of the cast members had them. I didn't invent the concept. Many of the cast members had them.

I got a nutritionist. Her name was Suzanne. I met her during a routine checkup at my gynecologist's office. She worked out of a small office in the back a couple of days a week and helped women change their diets to decrease their weight and increase their fertility. My doctor introduced her to me after I'd complained about my inability to maintain my weight. I told him that there were weeks when I'd gain and lose seven pounds from one Sunday to the next. After doing tests for thyroid disease and other medical problems that might have explained my weight fluctuation, he decided that the fault lay with me, that I didn't know how to eat. I agreed with him and hired Suzanne to be my nutritionist.

I loved the thought of having a nutritionist. It made me feel professional, like I was considering all aspects of my work in a thoughtful and serious way. Before my first session with Suzanne, I made the decision to do everything she said. Like a faithful disciple, I would follow her program without question the way a top athlete would drink raw eggs if his coach told him to. This was the kind of private, customized counseling I needed to be a working actress. Like a top athlete, I needed this kind of performance-enhancing guidance. I needed a coach. But mainly, I loved having a nutritionist because Courtney Thorne-Smith had one.

"Hi! Come on in. Mind the mess." Suzanne was a tall, thin woman with a sharpness to her movements. She dressed blandly and conservatively and was almost sparrowlike with long, thin arms and bony hands that would dart back and forth. I wondered why a woman like that, who was naturally thin, would be drawn to nutrition. I knew there were reasons to be interested in food other than weight loss, but I couldn't imagine those reasons being compelling enough to make nutrition your life. Instead of seeing her at the gynecologist's office where we met, I met with Suzanne at her home in Brentwood. When we'd first met she was wearing a white lab coat, and although the meeting was brief, from behind a desk she seemed officious, judgmental, bossy. But a layer of expertise and officiousness was immediately removed just by stripping her of her white coat and placing her in a different setting, in her home with her child's toys strewn about, her family in photographs looking at me. They were conservative-looking folk, poised to judge me for being so much fatter than she was. Then again, I felt they were judging her for being so messy. The fact that she was a black sheep made me feel a lot better.

"So from what the doctor tells me you have trouble maintaining your weight and knowing what to eat. Please know that you are one of millions of people who struggle with this, which is why people like me have a job!" Suzanne was no longer a skinny bird poised to judge me. She was caring and concerned. It was off-putting.

"Tell me why you think you can't maintain a healthy weight." She looked at me with kindness and openness, but there was a fragility to her that I found disarming, perhaps because I recognized a similar vulnerability in myself. Did she starve and binge and purge, too?

"Well . . ." I was surprisingly nervous. I really hadn't planned on opening up to someone about my eating habits, and all of a sudden it seemed like no one else's business. It seemed too personal. It seemed strange and a little idiotic to talk about food, like I was a five-year-old sitting cross-legged in a cla.s.sroom learning about the five food groups.

"I don't know. I guess I just never knew of a really good diet that I can do every day so my weight doesn't fluctuate."

"Well, Portia. I'm not going to teach you a diet, I'm going to teach you a way of life. We'll talk about what you like to eat, and then I'll devise an eating plan that will be healthy and help you lose weight."

Sounds like a diet to me.

She talked and I listened. She had a lot to say about the kinds of calories one should eat, the value of lean protein, the dangers of too many carbohydrates, the difference between white and brown carbohydrates, and the importance of choosing the "right" fruits without a high sugar content.

"I like bananas. What about bananas?" Bananas were a staple in my "in-between" dieting phase. After starving myself by only eating 300 calories a day, I would often eat a slice of dry wheat bread with mashed banana.

"Well, Portia. Bananas are the most popular fruit, probably because they're the most dense and caloric of the fruits, so you'll have to be careful not to have them too often."

That explained why my "in-between" diet packed on the pounds. Bananas. Of course, the only fruit I liked was the only fruit this big fat country likes. I'm so typical.

"What are your eating habits now?"

"Now? Well, unless I'm getting ready for something, like a photo shoot or a scene like I just did on Ally Ally where I had to be in my underwear, I guess I eat pretty normally. But you know, with the occasional binge." where I had to be in my underwear, I guess I eat pretty normally. But you know, with the occasional binge."

"What do you mean by 'getting ready'? What do you do to 'get ready' for a photo shoot?" She leaned in slightly toward me. What I was saying seemed to intrigue her. I was wrong in thinking that maybe she starved, too.

"I eat three hundred calories a day for a week." I was shocked to see that her eyes widened with disbelief as she registered the information. It made me angry. She was judging me.

After a pause, she asked, "What do you eat to make up the three hundred calories?"

"Dry bread, mainly. Crackers. Pickles. Mustard. Black coffee."

"What happens when you're done with the photo shoot?" She asked like she didn't know the answer. It annoyed me.

"I binge, I guess. I eat all the foods I didn't eat while I was dieting, and then sometimes I eat too much and well, you know . . ."

Should I continue? Should I tell this conservative woman who already looked slightly shocked by my eating habits that I vomited? She's looking at me with antic.i.p.ation and encouraged me to continue with a slight nod of her head. "I throw up."

I could see that she was uncomfortable, but I felt compelled to continue. "If I feel like I haven't thrown it all up, I'll take twenty laxatives to make sure it's all gone." Why would dieting and throwing up be so surprising to her? Really, as a nutritionist, she should have heard all that before. It made me wonder if she was qualified to help me. Maybe she helped really fat people take off a little weight, not someone like me who really needed to be taught the "way of life" that she was pitching. It made me mad because I didn't want to talk about myself and feel judged, I just wanted to learn about the five food groups like a five-year-old and take home a weekly eating plan.

I knew that I was being overly dramatic and that maybe she didn't need to know about the purging, but her reaction to my eating habits embarra.s.sed me and that's what happens when I'm embarra.s.sed. I get mad and I punish. And in response to my aggression, she leaned back in her chair and held a book up to her face, like a s.h.i.+eld in between us.

"Have you seen one of these?" She waved it around. "It's a calorie counter. It'll help you figure out which are the healthy foods you can enjoy so that you'll never have to feel like you need to do those kinds of things again." Her eyes and her voice lowered as she lowered the book, her defenses. "Portia, it's really important that you understand food and stop this unhealthy cycle of yo-yo dieting."

Yo-yo is an inaccurate way to describe weight fluctuation. It is not the term anyone would use to describe the highs and lows that were the basis of my self-esteem. Yo-yo sounds frivolous, childish, disrespectful. Yo-yo sounds like a thing outside of yourself that you can just decide to put away and not pick up anymore. It suggests that there are end points, predetermined stopping points where the highs and lows end, because the string of a yo-yo is a certain length that never changes. My "bottom" would always be 140 pounds, my "high" 115. But it isn't like that. There's nothing predetermined about gaining and losing weight. Every day of my life I woke up not knowing if it would be a day on the path to a new bottom, a new big number that I'd never before seen on the scale, or if I would have a good day, a day that set me on the way to success and happiness and complete self-satisfaction. Since I was a twelve-year-old girl taking pictures in my front yard to submit to modeling agencies, I'd never known a day where my weight wasn't the determining factor for my self-esteem. My weight was my mood, and the more effort I put into starving myself to get it to an acceptable level, the more satisfaction I would feel as the restriction and the denial built into an incredible sense of accomplishment.

After introducing me to the calorie counter, Suzanne was all business. As well as teaching me how to count calories, she taught me to weigh my food. She told me that portion size was very important and to ensure I was getting the right portions, I had to buy a kitchen scale. She told me what to put on that scale for which meals. She told me that I should eat six small protein-enriched meals a day. She told me to keep a journal of what I ate.

Chicken, turkey, orange roughy, tuna, egg whites, oatmeal, blueberries, nonfat plain yogurt, steamed vegetables, brown rice, wheat bread, bran m.u.f.fins, nuts-all weighed and doc.u.mented-were my stable of foods I was allowed to eat. Most other things were not part of the program.

As I left her house that day I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I had heard that in order to know how to overcome difficulties, you needed the "tools" to do it. Suzanne had given me a program with tools. A no-fail system of calorie counting, weighing, and adding up my daily intake so there would be no guesswork to my weight loss. Now that I had my curriculum in the form of my "allowed" foods, homework a.s.signments in the form of a diary, and weekly exams when Suzanne would evaluate how I'd performed, I could be a good student.

11.

I WAS OFFERED WAS OFFERED the cover of the cover of Shape. Shape Shape. Shape is a health and fitness magazine that depicts lean, physically strong women. Its articles explain the secret to killer abs and each month it unveils the no-fail diet. On the cover it displays a fit woman, a celebrity if they can get one, who promises to tell you her strategy for weight-loss success. They take pictures of their cover girls in skimpy outfits, like a bikini or spandex shorts, and then interview them about how they achieved optimum "health." I knew why they picked me. It wasn't for my lithe body or killer abs, and they certainly didn't see the underwear scene before offering it to me. I was simply the new girl on the hot TV show. I doubted anyone making the decision had even seen me on the show. Of course, I panicked and gave a million reasons why I shouldn't do it, but my publicist and manager thought it was a great opportunity. A cover is a cover. is a health and fitness magazine that depicts lean, physically strong women. Its articles explain the secret to killer abs and each month it unveils the no-fail diet. On the cover it displays a fit woman, a celebrity if they can get one, who promises to tell you her strategy for weight-loss success. They take pictures of their cover girls in skimpy outfits, like a bikini or spandex shorts, and then interview them about how they achieved optimum "health." I knew why they picked me. It wasn't for my lithe body or killer abs, and they certainly didn't see the underwear scene before offering it to me. I was simply the new girl on the hot TV show. I doubted anyone making the decision had even seen me on the show. Of course, I panicked and gave a million reasons why I shouldn't do it, but my publicist and manager thought it was a great opportunity. A cover is a cover.

It was hard to argue with my publicist and manager. My publicist and manager knew better than I did. The cover of Shape Shape complemented the clean-living, fresh-faced image they were trying hard to create. They had subtly written a character for me to play in public, gently coercing me to play the role of an ingenue, fresh but glamorous and with an ounce of naivete. They guided me into the character by favoring romantic dresses over s.e.xy dresses for red carpet events and to most questions about the show or my life, they smiled with approval when I answered that my journey from law student to Hollywood actress was "a dream come true." It seemed effortless and surprising: a Cinderella story. I understood their reasoning. I needed an image to sell; the truth of who I was needed to remain a secret and Portia, the young, heteros.e.xual, self-confident Australian actress needed to emerge. Besides, most of the successful, leading-lady actresses had graduated from this rite of pa.s.sage. However, the ingenue was a difficult role for me to play-more difficult in fact than a commanding, self-a.s.sured attorney. Even if I ignored the fact that I was gay, at twenty-five I was too old, too cynical. I played the ingenue once in complemented the clean-living, fresh-faced image they were trying hard to create. They had subtly written a character for me to play in public, gently coercing me to play the role of an ingenue, fresh but glamorous and with an ounce of naivete. They guided me into the character by favoring romantic dresses over s.e.xy dresses for red carpet events and to most questions about the show or my life, they smiled with approval when I answered that my journey from law student to Hollywood actress was "a dream come true." It seemed effortless and surprising: a Cinderella story. I understood their reasoning. I needed an image to sell; the truth of who I was needed to remain a secret and Portia, the young, heteros.e.xual, self-confident Australian actress needed to emerge. Besides, most of the successful, leading-lady actresses had graduated from this rite of pa.s.sage. However, the ingenue was a difficult role for me to play-more difficult in fact than a commanding, self-a.s.sured attorney. Even if I ignored the fact that I was gay, at twenty-five I was too old, too cynical. I played the ingenue once in Sirens Sirens when I was twenty, and even then I felt more like Dorothy Parker than the character of Giddy, the gullible artist's model. when I was twenty, and even then I felt more like Dorothy Parker than the character of Giddy, the gullible artist's model.

I didn't know how to play that character for the Shape Shape interview. With neither health nor fitness being of interest to me, I didn't know what to talk about. How could I possibly explain my weight maintenance when it was attributed to starving and bingeing? interview. With neither health nor fitness being of interest to me, I didn't know what to talk about. How could I possibly explain my weight maintenance when it was attributed to starving and bingeing?

SHAPE: Portia, tell us how you stay in shape? Portia, tell us how you stay in shape?PORTIA: I eat three hundred calories a day for as many days as I can before a photo shoot. The rest of the time I binge and purge.SHAPE: What's your favorite workout?PORTIA: I'm afraid to work out at all because I'm worried that muscle definition makes people look bigger. I hate the look of fit, muscular women. I prefer the long, waiflike look of models who are most likely just as sick as I am. I'm afraid to work out at all because I'm worried that muscle definition makes people look bigger. I hate the look of fit, muscular women. I prefer the long, waiflike look of models who are most likely just as sick as I am.

Suzanne had stopped me from crash dieting. It was a cycle of loss and gain, she explained, that once started, could never be stopped. It was true. After shooting the scene in my underwear I had gained a lot of weight. Reluctantly and fearfully, I put my new diet into practice for the week leading up to shooting the cover of Shape Shape. I was extremely nervous that because I'd not starved myself the way I usually did before a shoot, my body wasn't really in good enough shape to grace the Shape Shape cover. Walking into my trailer that was sitting atop a hill at the location they'd chosen for the shoot, I felt unprepared and anxious. I had weighed in at 125 pounds that morning-not a number on the scale I was used to seeing the morning of a photo shoot, much less a cover shoot wearing a bikini. I had already eaten, too, another abnormality before a shoot. I had eaten my individually packaged oatmeal sachet with antioxidant blueberries and Splenda, a sugar subst.i.tute that Suzanne said was so healthy she gave it to her baby. Although I knew that I was being a good student and following the only program that had a chance of actually working for me, the guilt and unworthiness I felt by not starving myself in preparation for the shoot were unbearable. I was embarra.s.sed to shake the hands of the picture editor and the executive editor of cover. Walking into my trailer that was sitting atop a hill at the location they'd chosen for the shoot, I felt unprepared and anxious. I had weighed in at 125 pounds that morning-not a number on the scale I was used to seeing the morning of a photo shoot, much less a cover shoot wearing a bikini. I had already eaten, too, another abnormality before a shoot. I had eaten my individually packaged oatmeal sachet with antioxidant blueberries and Splenda, a sugar subst.i.tute that Suzanne said was so healthy she gave it to her baby. Although I knew that I was being a good student and following the only program that had a chance of actually working for me, the guilt and unworthiness I felt by not starving myself in preparation for the shoot were unbearable. I was embarra.s.sed to shake the hands of the picture editor and the executive editor of Shape Shape. I was ashamed that even though I had a gym members.h.i.+p, I rarely used it. Although I'd never really liked the "fit" look, I wished that I could drop my robe to reveal muscular arms and legs and a defined abdomen and waist. I was dreading dropping my robe and showing them the exact opposite of what I knew they were expecting to see. During the shoot, and in a fit of insecurity, I asked one of the photographer's a.s.sistants, an unattractive guy who looked sandy and sunburned, like he'd spent the morning surfing, how my body compared to the other girls who'd modeled for the cover. I'd been watching him all morning, not because he was interesting, but because he looked so bored, so uninspired by working on photo shoots, or perhaps this shoot in particular. He was the perfect person to ask because I knew he'd answer with complete honesty. He wouldn't care if he hurt a girl's feelings. His expression changed the second I asked the question, as if the question were like a plug inserted into his brain that reanimated him and sent energy flooding to his face. With a big, dumb smile he responded slowly, giving more weight to each word than was necessary to make the point. "We photograph some women with really sick bodies."

I got what I asked for. Honesty. I knew my body couldn't compare to the other girls; I just needed to confirm it. This dumb guy said what all the other guys out there were thinking. And if I were going to have a career, I would need to impress men just like this one. If I couldn't be the Maxim Maxim girl with big b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a tiny waist, I could be model-like. Unattainable. I could be elegant. Graceful. Thin. girl with big b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a tiny waist, I could be model-like. Unattainable. I could be elegant. Graceful. Thin.

I would just have to get myself one of those sick bodies.

"Morning, dear. How was your photo shoot?" Vera, the costume designer, looked exhausted and like she really didn't care to hear the answer. I was the fourth actor she'd seen that morning. But because she was very polite, she added, "What did you do again?"

"I did the cover of Shape Shape."

"Shape? What's that?"

I told her that it was a fitness magazine and as I told her how important it was to me because I was pa.s.sionate about exercise, I sounded like the well-versed liar I had been trained to be. My agent and manager would've been proud.

As I slipped into a navy skirt, I thought about my plans for the summer. I created a picture in my mind of me lying by a pool overlooking the Caribbean ocean, the most beautiful girl on the lounge next to mine. In my mind, the girl turned her head and smiled a sleepy smile, her eyes full of love for me. I had an uncanny ability to escape the present moment and into my fantasy world whenever I wanted to. I especially liked to think about other things during a wardrobe fitting. It made the inevitable comments about how the tailor can let the waist out a little, "just to make the skirt more comfortable," somewhat bearable, knowing that I could choose a happier moment in another place and time. But I was going to be in the Caribbean with the girl of my dreams, so my daydream was borne more from excitement and a little wishful thinking than it was from a place of complete fantasy. Only a few more weeks of wardrobe fittings and my fantasy would be a reality. I held my breath and sucked in my stomach as the zipper closed the gap to the waist. I felt the pinch of the waistband and held my breath again, this time for the conversation between the costumer and tailor that would inevitably ensue.

Go to h.e.l.l.

As I stood in the fitting room, I almost laughed out loud as I remembered the first words I spoke to Sacha, the girl I was going to be with over summer in St. Barths. It was my first day of Melbourne Girls Grammar School and a stunning black girl who I later knew as Sacha, had left the group in the corner of the quadrangle to talk to me, the new girl. Sacha looked as if I'd slapped her across the face. I didn't know why. "Go to h.e.l.l," was the only thing I could say. She had strutted up to me with no prompting or subtle invitation and said to me, "You have such pretty hair you should wear it down. Take it out, I want to see it."

The All Girls Grammar School was extremely strict and had a policy about hair, among many other things. The uniform had to be worn with a blazer when off campus, the socks had to always be pulled up to the knees, and the hair must always be neatly pulled back off the face. So you see, she was definitely just having a go at me. She was trying to get me in trouble-or worse. She was trying to get me to pull my hair out of my rubber band and shake it all around like a shampoo commercial so that the pack of girls she was standing with who dared her to come tell me to let my hair down could laugh their a.s.ses off at the new girl. I knew girls like that-mean girls. Besides, I was an easy target. I was a model who recently changed her name from Amanda Rogers to Portia de Rossi, so I was prepared for that kind of bulls.h.i.+t. So you see? "Go to h.e.l.l" was the preemptive strike needed at the time and really the only thing I could say. I can't really remember what happened after that, or how Sacha and I became friends, but we did. Over a period of weeks, we became inseparable. We would spend weekends at her parents' home, staying up all night watching MTV and eating loaves of white bread, b.u.t.ter, and apricot jam. We borrowed each other's clothes. We went out to nightclubs together and flirted with men. For years we were good friends, best friends. Until one day, long after we'd left school, I fell in love with her.

I fell in love with her the day I left home to audition for the movie Sirens. Sirens. I was nineteen years old when I left law school and flew to Sydney to audition for a career I didn't even think I wanted. I had spent my life studying to go to law school, and with one phone call from my modeling agency asking if I'd like to do a movie, I was prepared to ditch law and become an actress. By the time I disembarked and collected my baggage at the terminal, I had fallen in love with Sacha. She was no longer just a friend; she was the reason I had to get the movie. If I was successful, I could win her, seduce her with money and power just as Martina Navratilova and Melissa Etheridge had won their previously heteros.e.xual girlfriends. By their actions, these powerful, famous lesbians told the world that straight women were more desirable than gay ones and if you were rich and powerful enough, you could snag one of your own. I was nineteen years old when I left law school and flew to Sydney to audition for a career I didn't even think I wanted. I had spent my life studying to go to law school, and with one phone call from my modeling agency asking if I'd like to do a movie, I was prepared to ditch law and become an actress. By the time I disembarked and collected my baggage at the terminal, I had fallen in love with Sacha. She was no longer just a friend; she was the reason I had to get the movie. If I was successful, I could win her, seduce her with money and power just as Martina Navratilova and Melissa Etheridge had won their previously heteros.e.xual girlfriends. By their actions, these powerful, famous lesbians told the world that straight women were more desirable than gay ones and if you were rich and powerful enough, you could snag one of your own.

Sacha was not a lesbian. But then, neither was I. I just liked to sleep with women.

My girlfriend had to be heteros.e.xual because I didn't want to be a lesbian. If she was heteros.e.xual, then it suggested that I was also heteros.e.xual. Also, I was scared of lesbians. In fact, I would cross the street if I saw one coming toward me. One time I didn't cross the street and I ended up sleeping with a lesbian because I felt sorry for her. She had just lost her girlfriend in a car accident and I was devastated for her. Nothing sounded worse to me than losing your girlfriend; that the one precious connection that you had made in your whole life was gone, wasted, lost in a car wreck. It sounded so much worse to me than a wife losing her husband-it was worse than anything. I found this woman to be quite unattractive. She was overweight and had a shaved head and facial piercings. But I had to sleep with her. It was only polite.

My girlfriend would have to be someone I already knew, someone I could trust. The last thing on earth I needed at the end of my first season on Ally McBeal Ally McBeal was to be outed by some girl who just wanted to date me because I was on TV, who just wanted to sleep with me so that she could tell people that I was gay. The career that I once didn't think I wanted was now something that I couldn't live without, and a rumor that I was gay would be enough to end it. As it turned out, I loved acting. During the filming of was to be outed by some girl who just wanted to date me because I was on TV, who just wanted to sleep with me so that she could tell people that I was gay. The career that I once didn't think I wanted was now something that I couldn't live without, and a rumor that I was gay would be enough to end it. As it turned out, I loved acting. During the filming of Sirens Sirens I discovered that while in character with the camera rolling, I couldn't do anything wrong, that there wasn't a right way to deliver a line, merely a different interpretation. I loved interpreting meaning from words. My happiest moments of learning in school or in college were spent deciphering poetry, reciting John Donne or Shakespeare using inflection with my voice to convey my interpretation of the poem's meaning. I discovered while filming I discovered that while in character with the camera rolling, I couldn't do anything wrong, that there wasn't a right way to deliver a line, merely a different interpretation. I loved interpreting meaning from words. My happiest moments of learning in school or in college were spent deciphering poetry, reciting John Donne or Shakespeare using inflection with my voice to convey my interpretation of the poem's meaning. I discovered while filming Sirens Sirens that acting was transformative. I discovered that you could be someone other than who you were and get attention for it, be applauded for it. And all of that was very appealing to me-especially the part about being someone else. that acting was transformative. I discovered that you could be someone other than who you were and get attention for it, be applauded for it. And all of that was very appealing to me-especially the part about being someone else.

I had planned this vacation for us years before I could afford it, when I began to travel and thoughts of an island and Sacha and I together living on it, if only for a short time, kept me company. Over the years, each time I was away from home, I would write her long, romantic letters that explained my feelings, what our lives would be like together, and how I would take care of her. When I lived in London to complete postproduction after Sirens Sirens and then hung around to try to find a reason not to go back to law school-like a play in the West End or another movie-I would go down to the coffee shop in the morning to begin writing, and I'd finish the letter in the evening, sitting alone at the corner table of the local pub just off King's Road in Chelsea, close to where I lived. Writing to her, I was no longer lonely. I had someone waiting for me across the world in Australia. I could tolerate anything as long as I had a notepad and a pen and could pour my heart out to her in these letters. In airport lounges, thoughts of her would engulf my senses to the point where I'd almost miss planes, and in Los Angeles, thoughts of her would numb the pain of losing a job, of hearing no after an audition. My fantasy life with Sacha was as helpful to me as it was adjustable. For when I was in a relations.h.i.+p with Mel, or had a crush on Kali, Sacha would again revert to being just my best friend. Sacha also had relations.h.i.+ps of her own, long-term, serious heteros.e.xual relations.h.i.+ps. Because of that, I never sent her any of the letters that I had written. But she knew how I felt about her. I'd told her that I loved her after long drunken evenings of partying and making out with her on nightclub dance floors. I knew that given the chance to move to Los Angeles and be with me, she would no longer want to be tied down by these demanding, serious boyfriends. So none of that really mattered to me. and then hung around to try to find a reason not to go back to law school-like a play in the West End or another movie-I would go down to the coffee shop in the morning to begin writing, and I'd finish the letter in the evening, sitting alone at the corner table of the local pub just off King's Road in Chelsea, close to where I lived. Writing to her, I was no longer lonely. I had someone waiting for me across the world in Australia. I could tolerate anything as long as I had a notepad and a pen and could pour my heart out to her in these letters. In airport lounges, thoughts of her would engulf my senses to the point where I'd almost miss planes, and in Los Angeles, thoughts of her would numb the pain of losing a job, of hearing no after an audition. My fantasy life with Sacha was as helpful to me as it was adjustable. For when I was in a relations.h.i.+p with Mel, or had a crush on Kali, Sacha would again revert to being just my best friend. Sacha also had relations.h.i.+ps of her own, long-term, serious heteros.e.xual relations.h.i.+ps. Because of that, I never sent her any of the letters that I had written. But she knew how I felt about her. I'd told her that I loved her after long drunken evenings of partying and making out with her on nightclub dance floors. I knew that given the chance to move to Los Angeles and be with me, she would no longer want to be tied down by these demanding, serious boyfriends. So none of that really mattered to me.

Besides, I had a boyfriend, too. His name was Erik.

Erik was Kali's ex-boyfriend. He became my boyfriend when I invited him to be my date at a Hollywood event. Although he didn't see why it was necessary for me to hide the fact that I was a lesbian, he a.s.sured me that he would play the role of my boyfriend to the best of his ability, so I made Erik my permanent beard. The fact that he agreed to be my beard proved his affection for me. Hollywood events were something he had no interest in attending, and in fact, as a budding novelist, he had expressed contempt for the whole industry. His idols were Hemingway and Vonnegut, not Cruise and Gibson.

I had adored Erik from our first meeting at Kali's apartment in Santa Monica. He was deeply thoughtful, attractive, and intelligent. If I could have, I would've slept with him just to show him how much I adored him, but on the one occasion when he crashed in my bed and s.e.x had crossed my mind, the smell of him took the thoughts away. He didn't smell bad. He just smelled male. All men do.

Although Erik quickly learned his role, our first public outing as a couple was nerve-racking. I had never walked a red carpet with anyone before and his att.i.tude toward the media was not helping to quell my nerves. To Erik, a television camera was an opportunity to be a wisea.s.s. (He had told me that if he were to ever appear on Letterman Letterman, he'd give a shout-out to all the black people in the audience.) As usual, I'd left nothing to chance. I had memorized answers, this time to the right questions: What was I wearing? What are my workout tips? What is my must-have beauty item? In the rented stretch limousine on our way from my apartment to the event on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, Erik and I rehea.r.s.ed answers to possible questions the two of us might be asked.

"So, if they ask something like, 'How long have you been dating?' just say something vague like, 'just a few months.'"

"I think it's funnier if I say that we just f.u.c.ked for the first time on the ride over here."

"Erik! This is serious! Don't be a d.i.c.k."

It was all very funny to Erik. There was nothing on the line for him. He wasn't gay and trying to appear straight. He could attend the event like a spectator, listen to Bocelli, observe this weird Hollywood charade, and drink wine and eat food without concern of getting fat. He wasn't going to have to face the press and pretend that all this was real; he just had to say one easy thing or nothing at all.

"Please say nothing at all."

He shot me an unnerving wink from underneath his mop of blond hair as he got out of the limo, straightened his jacket, and stood with his back to me like a statue, offering his arm like the gentleman escort role I had asked him to play. Despite the fact that he was a smart-a.s.s in my ear all the way down the red carpet, he managed to obscure his disdain from the photographers, and my little plan worked. I was asked if he was my boyfriend and I decided that by answering coyly ("We're just friends"), I would pique their interest more than by announcing that we were dating. Plus it carried the added benefit of being the truth. Because of him the event felt less like work. As someone who wasn't particularly smitten with the world in which I lived, he gave me perspective on my job as an actress, served up with a drink and observations that made me laugh. The women at work a.s.sumed he was my boyfriend, and I did everything in my power to keep that a.s.sumption alive.

I had a boyfriend called Erik. He was smart and handsome and tall, and he was mine. Except Erik had a girlfriend. Erik left me for a woman who would have s.e.x with him because he didn't smell strange to her. He left me because I was never his to leave. It was a devastating breakup.

12.

COME ON in, Portia. How have you been doing this week?" Suzanne was holding an unwashed dinner plate in her hand as she opened the door. I a.s.sumed she'd noticed this dirty plate on her walk from wherever she was, through the living room and to the front door. She was surprisingly messy for such a thin woman. I said h.e.l.lo to her, but in my mind I was thinking how funny it was that I would equate thinness with cleanliness. That observation triggered a memory of being in art cla.s.s when I was asked to describe how Kandinsky painted and to explain why I didn't like him. "He paints like a fat person," was all I could think to say at the time, as his painting was messy, nonlinear, disorganized, as opposed to Mondrian, a painter who worked in the same period and used colors sparingly, modestly, and who stayed within the lines. He was orderly, clean, and thin. in, Portia. How have you been doing this week?" Suzanne was holding an unwashed dinner plate in her hand as she opened the door. I a.s.sumed she'd noticed this dirty plate on her walk from wherever she was, through the living room and to the front door. She was surprisingly messy for such a thin woman. I said h.e.l.lo to her, but in my mind I was thinking how funny it was that I would equate thinness with cleanliness. That observation triggered a memory of being in art cla.s.s when I was asked to describe how Kandinsky painted and to explain why I didn't like him. "He paints like a fat person," was all I could think to say at the time, as his painting was messy, nonlinear, disorganized, as opposed to Mondrian, a painter who worked in the same period and used colors sparingly, modestly, and who stayed within the lines. He was orderly, clean, and thin.

By the time I left art cla.s.s in my head and joined Suzanne, I was on the couch. I was beginning to trust her despite my initial fears and wanted to talk to her about my past. From my first session, I had become more aware of the abnormalities of my eating habits as a kid, and it felt good to talk about it out loud. I had considered going back to the therapist who had helped my husband and me realize that our relations.h.i.+p was doomed to failure, but food and eating seemed to be more of a nutritionist's area of expertise than a couples' therapist's, so I told Suzanne everything. I no longer cared whether she was shocked.

I told her that from the age of twelve, starving and bingeing and purging had been the only way to reach my goal weight. That starving was easy because there was always an end in sight. Junk food was around the bend just after the photo shoot or the round of go-sees. But by the age of fifteen, I needed to devise a plan to not only lose weight but to maintain my weight loss. At the end of the school year, I'd convinced my mother that the strict girls' grammar school I attended was "getting in the way of my education" and that I needed to take a year off to model, make some money, and then enroll in a more progressive private school the following year. The fact that I needed to lose weight was nothing new. Ever since I'd begun modeling, I'd always needed to "get ready" for a photo shoot. Me losing weight before a job was like an athlete training for a compet.i.tion. But if I was going to take a year off school to model, I had to figure out a more permanent solution to the weight problem. I couldn't starve and binge and purge like I had always done. By the time I was fifteen, the purging and the laxatives had become part of my everyday life, and although I wasn't concerned about the possible damage it could cause to the interior of my body, it was a drag to have to spend so much time in the bathroom. Plus, there was only one bathroom in my house.

I told Suzanne that I had asked my mother to help me. Every time I was booked for a job that I had to drop pounds quickly for, I'd beg her to help me the next time so I'd never again be in the predicament of having to starve before a job. I'd say, "Please don't let me eat chocolate." And, "If you see me eating too much of anything, just remind me what I go through every time." This request bothered my mother because, like an addict, when I was in the throes of eating, I could get quite angry and yell at her if she commented on my habit. "You don't want to eat that," was the most common thing she'd say as I was stuffing a chocolate-covered cookie in my mouth. She was wrong. At that moment, eating that cookie was all I wanted to do and I told her so in many different ways over the course of that little experiment. In sober moments, I'd apologize for my hurtful words and plead with her to continue to help me. I told her to hide the cookies. Then when I found them underneath the living room sofa, I'd angrily eat them, saying that all she cared about was how thin I was. That she didn't really care about me. That all she cared about was my modeling career.

"That sounds like a difficult situation for both you and your mother."

"It was."

Using my mother's watchful eye as a deterrent to bingeing was probably the worst thing I could have done. While I'd always binged, it had never disappointed my mother as much as it did during this time. It had worried her greatly that I had left school to model, and if I wasn't thin enough to book jobs, then leaving school didn't serve any purpose. Since I'd asked her to help me maintain my weight, we were in it together. We had a problem that we could overcome together. The list of taboo foods got a lot bigger, too. In the past, while I may've hidden the occasional chocolate candy bar, now eating any food that wasn't diet food sent the message that I was not helping myself. That I'd given up. It was simply heartbreaking to see the disappointment on her face as I sat the plate down on the dinner table piled high with the same food she'd once encouraged me to eat to make me big and strong. It disappointed me, too. Because a simple meal that my brother, mother, and grandmother would eat was never something I could eat. Models don't eat mashed potatoes with b.u.t.ter. And as my mother kept pointing out, I was the one who wanted to be a model.