An Ex Male Model Explains: Why Fame is Not For Me

His rock star lifestyle wasn’t fulfilling, and his Bipolar Disorder was driving him to the brink. Here’s what he learned.

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Lying on the ceramic floor in my drug dealer’s bathroom, the door locked, tears rolling down my face and my heart pounding, I promised myself I would never do cocaine again. I vowed to live a life of helping others if I could make it out of this night of misery.

Once sober I realized it was only a passing moment. A hellish moment of self-loathing and panic —  but only temporary. I also realized I needed to purchase airfare back to Virginia, as I had only bought a one-way ticket to Miami at 5:00a.m. days before in the midst of a manic binge. I had a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and a thousand-dollar suit I received from a modeling client a year prior. My roommates probably thought I was on a typical bender, out and about at the local strip clubs and bars, but they had to throw that theory out when I called for a ride home from the airport.

Getting home to my beloved spot for sulking, curled up in blankets on a mattress on the ground, all thoughts circled to one main theme — my life was at its lowest point, again.

Anxiety and depression conquered all, and my recent diagnoses of Bipolar Disorder by the doctors at Johns Hopkins hospital lead me to believe I was in this mind-fuck for life.

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Bipolar Disorder has been belittled by popular culture, as anybody with slight mood swings is labeled as such. There is much more to it that is not common knowledge. For me, it consists of two sides — Hypomania and Depression.

A weightless, high-speed hypomanic state is filled with racing thoughts and a disconnectedness to the world, where delusions of grandeur having me flying high. Under this hypnosis I have the ability to juggle my future career as a movie star and professional athlete. I can cruise the world on my super yacht while sleeping with every woman of beauty I cross paths with, serenating them with my irrefutable charm. An over-abundance of energy hijacks rational thought, usually leading me to the bar, forgetting my trouble with alcohol.  I could spend a thousand dollars on booze and drugs in a few hours without batting an eye. The feeling is untouchable.

Bipolar Depression is similar to the depression most of us will experience at some point in our lives. Low self-esteem, anxiety, and irritability are weighing on one’s psyche. Physical aches and pains, and the ability to sleep for days, or perhaps not at all. Craving affection but too afraid to reach out. Drinking while depressed brings out suppressed anger and segues to fighting and visits from law enforcement.

For me, a diagnosis made things a little more clear. I could now attempt to medicate this condition and lessen its burden. Identifying the demons made them much easier to fight, so to speak.

A few years prior, I had experienced a glimpse of true happiness and a simple feeling of well-being, for the first time in my life. I woke up in the morning with an ambitious desire to live. I could look people in the eye, conversing with meaning, as the world was not so cynical.  After this shift in emotion, I was under the impression I had conquered my childhood fears and would sail off into the sunset of confidence and success.  I had just learned life could change for the better, did I so soon have to learn that it is full of ups and downs?

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Before the happiness and diagnoses, I was your typical aloof, passive-aggressive know it all, failing out of college and living on a friend’s couch at the age of 19. An opportunity was handed to me when I was scouted by a small modeling agency a mile from my alma mater.

My first job was for a line of clothing that Ralph Lauren would release in JCPenney stores, called “American Living.” The photographer was Bruce Weber, a world renowned artist resembling a homeless Santa Claus who was known to jump start the budding careers of male models and actors. He took a liking to me, and I received his call about a week after our first shoot. He wanted to use me for Abercrombie and Fitch. Within six months I was on billboards around the world, snorting coke with movie stars trying to pretend this newfound lifestyle and recognition didn’t throw me back into a state of depression and suicidal thought. My happiness was thrown out and eaten alive by my ego’s relentless hunger.  Kind words to strangers and simple acts of compassion that I cherished were now so farfetched. There was only me, me, me.

So many people want to be famous, and I don’t believe they really know why.  They’ll do whatever demeaning act necessary or any foolish reality series to get their name out there. After my brief stint of popularity, years of pain and question would follow. This roller coaster ride through the entertainment industry and countless cities worldwide has come to teach me that peace of mind, and a simple, slow life, is worth ten times any fame.

I’ve always wondered what fame is exactly. People knowing who you are?  Does it require these people to respect you, or only recognize you? If you are famous for a particular talent, you can hone your craft and forge on, ignoring outside chatter. If you are famous for selling your soul, fulfillment will be minimal, as the ego will never be fulfilled. It will always want more.

The parents of aspiring young models will often ask me, “My son wants to postpone college, move to Miami and become a model, do you have any advice?”

“Don’t do it” I respond, and we share a laugh, only one of us knowing I am completely serious. Then I tell them what they want to hear, because I guess that’s what I’m supposed to do.

Maybe their passion for modeling is far greater than mine (which isn’t incredibly difficult to achieve) and I do not want to crush their dream, at least this early in the game. There will be plenty of others for that along the way. Maybe modeling is what they were meant to do, and if you believe this is true, by all means, go for it. But question if your motives are ego driven. Is it for attention, or for love of photography and fashion? Life comes down to finding what makes you feel alive, and doing it.  Whether it provides for you financially or not is secondary.  If you’re passionate, then fulfillment will be worth far more than money, providing happiness and paving the way for other aspects of your life.  For most men, selling your soul for a little cash and five minutes in the spotlight is just not worth it.

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Photo: Getty Images

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