Hungry: A Young Model's Story of Appetite, Ambition, and the by Crystal Renn

By Crystal Renn

AT FOURTEEN, i used to be a standard JUNIOR highschool scholar IN CLINTON, MISSISSIPPI, while A MODELING SCOUT instructed ME: you may BE A twiglet . . . yet YOU’LL need to LOSE a bit WEIGHT.

FOR GLAMOUR, reputation, AND break out, I misplaced SEVENTY kilos.

This is a photograph of me at SIXTEEN, while I signed an important modeling agreement, moved to manhattan urban, and commenced touring around the globe.

It can be whilst I constructed a ferocious case of anorexia and workout bulimia.

Until i made a decision sufficient used to be enough—I desired to stay.

And so I ate. And ate.

Offering a behind-the-scenes peek into the modeling undefined, in addition to a trenchant examine our weight-obsessed tradition, Hungry is an inspiring and cautionary story that might resonate with a person who has battled society’s small-minded definitions of good looks.

This is me NOW, the best plus-size version in the USA.

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Extra info for Hungry: A Young Model's Story of Appetite, Ambition, and the Ultimate Embrace of Curves

Sample text

I knew Mom wasn’t actually my mother; she was my grandmother. I knew Grandma wasn’t actually my grandmother; she was my great-grandmother. But I called them Mom and Grandma because that was who they were to me. My birth mother—we’ll call her Lana—was a teenager. She was the fourth of Mom’s six kids. Let’s just say she was absent for much of my childhood. I’m not comfortable going into Lana’s story. It’s not my story. Her demons were different from mine. My story is this: Lana dropped me off at her mother’s when I was three months old.

I started to imagine myself as a stepsister in a folktale. Lana wasn’t the wicked stepmother, but she was the master who had all the control. I couldn’t ask her to come, and I couldn’t make her stay. I didn’t want her to take me with her when she and her daughters left, but I felt a stone in the pit of my stomach when I watched the car drive away. One day when I was nine or so, Mom and I were driving home from school when she suggested casually that I might want to talk to a clinical psychologist.

Hurricane Andrew came to Miami. As the very serious TV newsmen droned on about Dvornak numbers and circulation centers, I followed Mom around the house while she moved the porch furniture into the garage, took down the hanging plants, closed all the shutters, and checked the batteries in our emergency-preparedness kit. I helped by self-importantly wheeling my bike into the garage. Some of our neighbors fled the city for higher ground, but Grandma, ever deadpan and ever amused, thought they were being great big drama queens.

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