>But even with her so-called magic pill, “she succumbed to what she fought against—the global corporate concept that all women have to be thin and perfect,” says Hall. The laxative abuse had gotten so bad, according to friends, that Margaret lost control over her bowels. “I’d get phone calls from her telling me that she’d had an accident in the dressing room of Victoria’s Secret,” Holmberg says. “When I cleaned out her apartment, I found dozens of pairs of boys’ socks. She never wore socks. She was carrying them around so she could stow her accidents in them.” She had also lined her apartment with towels. If she didn’t make it to the bathroom, she would go on the towels and throw them out the window onto Thompson Street.
>“I saw several soiled towels that I knew were Margaret’s on the sidewalk,” says Jennifer Flynn. Toward the end, the thing she obsessed over and cherished most—her youthful good looks—disintegrated. Her hair started falling out, so she began wearing wigs. Her hands had the shriveled, cracked look of an old woman’s. And she was achingly thin. “She looked like she’d aged twenty years,” says Juskow. And her appearance wasn’t the only thing that was deteriorating rapidly. “She came to my house a few months before her death and was yelling, threatening that she could beat me up and throwing stuff around,” Juskow adds. “I had to threaten to call the police to get her to leave.” She also began talking about suicide, leaving long, frightening messages on friends’ answering machines. “She went so far as to say who she wanted to do the makeup on her corpse and where to find the dress she wanted to wear,” says Holmberg. “But it always came back to her looks. One night she called me, completely hysterical, so I walked her around Washington Square Park to calm her down. All she could talk about was getting money for her next eye job.”
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