Searching for the I in psycho
From Ghislaine Maxwell's skincare routine to "what I eat in a day" videos
TW: Discussion of eating disorders among other potentially triggering subjects.
At the beginning of the Ghislaine Maxwell trial, a chilling 58-page household manual from Jeffrey Epstein’s Palm Beach mansion was entered into evidence. Workers at 358 El Brillo Way lived in militaristic order: no use of colloquialisms like “yeah” or “no problem;” tissues in the cabana to be replaced if “less than ⅓ full;” fringe on all rugs to be straightened. It’s a rigidity fit for an elite sex trafficking ring—one that, much to their dismay, had believed themselves an airtight operation.
Ms. Maxwell is already post-left podcaster catnip. Epstein’s madam and the daughter of a disgraced billionaire media mogul/Israeli spy, her wealth and infamy forge ample distance from the public. But within those 58 pages lies the great humanizer of our time. Something so personal and banal, we latch on even in the face of pure evil: her skincare routine.
The internet exploded upon learning that all the way back in 2005, Maxwell required Kiehl’s, Lancôme, Clarins, Fekkai, and La Mer products in her bathroom. This information triggers our most conflicting impulses as members of a silent jury; we condemn the monster who whored out 13-year-old girls to wealthy old men, while yass queening the pretty socialite with $400 face cream.
Subsequently, skincare pundits couldn’t resist some Patrick Bateman nostalgia. And fair enough. Christian Bale’s portrayal of the American Psycho serial killer is the closest thing to Ghislaine Maxwell’s fictional contemporary. The ice pack on the face to reduce puffiness while cranking out 1,000 crunches. The “deep pore cleansing lotion” and an “herb-mint facial mask.” Magazine writers even tried it out to unpack why the thriller tops their film list in the first place.
The urge to see oneself in varying degrees of madness and neurodivergence is nothing new. It’s why some of the most memorable moments in good reporting are the most mundane; mundanity is sometimes our only connection to criminals, the mentally ill, and everyday neurotics. People who don’t strike us as conventionally aspirational, but to whose eccentricity we direct curious affinity.
I read Joan Didion’s The White Album some years ago. The titular essay explores a number of events and observations from Didion’s apocalyptic view of the 1960s: The Doors, the Black Panther Party, her own psychiatric unraveling. It’s an iconic piece of journalism and autobiography alchemized into something so potent, the writer’s truth became American dogma. When Didion died last month, I found myself glum, reflecting on her work. Something I couldn’t get out of my head was a moment in that essay when Linda Kasabian, a former member of the Manson family and key witness to the infamous murders, has Didion buy her a dress for the trial. The requirements were as follows:
"Mini but not extremely mini. In velvet if possible. Emerald green or gold. Or: A Mexican peasant style dress, smocked or embroidered."
Amid this brilliant selection of history and disorder, my brain lingers on the dress. The specificity of the request from a cult member, a criminal, a girl with a childhood sullied by neglect. The superfluity of wanting to look gorgeous in the court of law. I insert myself in the role of Kasabian. I, too, would make this request. Who cares that I’m risking it all to out a murderous cult?! I want the world to remember my beauty. Us troubled girls, you know…
Within that same essay is a bit of Didion’s own idiosyncratic mythos: her packing list. Having circulated Tumblr for years, it saw a huge resurgence in the wake of her passing. Didion’s suitcase was stripped down to the essentials as a journalist seeking “deliberate anonymity of costume” in order to “pass on either side of the culture:” skirts, leotards, cigarettes, bourbon. We could only wish to desire such inconspicuousness, but our modern compulsions bear stark opposition: we want to be seen, to be observed. Thespians before the iPhone camera controlling our own narrative so the Joan Didions of the world can’t. She was a woman known for her neuroses, as one could expect from a pioneer of a certain measured prose. Almonds and Coca-Cola for breakfast, supporting a sub-90-pound waifish frame. Unfinished manuscripts in the freezer. It’s enough for YouTubers to try her routine to see if their writing improves.
Image-based social media platforms only keep us searching for the I in psycho. Take Mugshawtys for example. The iconic Twitter account boasting 250k+ followers with a bio reading “hope bae gets bail” shares mug shots of Hot Girls and their associated crimes. Here is where vanity prevails: Hot Girls love this mainly because they see themselves in their hotness and therefore ride for them, even if they drive drunk or abuse their toddlers. Cardi B allegedly drugged and robbed men she met at the strip club where she worked, who took her back to hotels in hope of sex. If anything, this has strengthened her fandom. The same camaraderie even applies to fictional personas, like Joanne The Scammer, who shows us that shadowy corner of our soul that loves taking money from men.
In high school, my sister dated a goth Puerto Rican kid named Gavin. Gavin was so out of place in our cornfield town with his eyeliner and baggy, chained pants and gauged ears. His attitude matched his look, angry and outspoken about systems of power, the corniness of it all. Rumors circulated that Gavin did some insane shit, like throwing cats off of overpasses, and sleeping with the residents of the nursing home where he worked. I secretly wanted Gavin to like me. It frustrated me being reduced to some cheerleader in Victoria’s Secret PINK sweatpants with nothing meaningful to say. Thus, I looked for pieces of myself in Gavin. Music, food, anything I could connect with to shorten the distance between us. Because that distance meant I was boring and stood for nothing, and I couldn’t live with that.
There’s a recent debate about whether those “what I eat in a day” videos are helpful or harmful; i.e. is it innocent to hear celebrities and influencers share their obsessively tracked food, or will it trigger one’s ED backslide? For people in active recovery, this kind of media is a hard no. But for those of us who’ve accepted our ED as part of us, still weighing ourselves morning and night, still viewing our bodies through an irreparably “pro-ana” lens, it’s mild stuff. Yesterday I ran seven miles in the afternoon, and got on the treadmill again at 9 PM to walk three more miles on an incline. Sometimes I enter my food into MyFitnessPal. This is how I face the unforgiving mirror after weekend binges. My late best friend and I had a running bit where if one of us engaged in such behavior, we’d compliment them by saying “skinnyyyyyy” in intense vocal fry. We had pictures of models taped to the fridge at our apartment—women we hoped to see ourselves in, if we could only be so disciplined.
The closer we get to the evil or unorthodox, the more interesting or powerful we feel. We are absolutely dying to be a little fucked up and thus cling to commonalities with those who’ve proven their fucked-upness. This is currency in an age when no one is truly unique, and the lines of morality continually blur. So if you’re bored, you might as well take up smoking, steal a car, and diagnose yourself bipolar. For the performance, if nothing else.
Well written and engaging piece. Thank you.