Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

It wound up being six years—and a very strange twist of fate—before my next chance at a
pictorial.
In the meantime, I’d decided to transfer schools so I could make my way to Los Angeles.
Before I left, however, there was one thing I needed to do.
I TOOK A DEEP breath as I plunked three brand-new credit cards down on the receptionist’s desk. Like
every college student, I had received a slew of credit card offers in the mail and applied for as many
as I could get. Since the limits were so low, it took three cards to cover the $7,000-plus my new set
of breast implants would cost me.
As each card swiped through the machine—maxing out one after the other—I carefully filled out
the paperwork with nervous excitement. You might think my failed Playboy casting was the reason I
was now sitting in the doctor’s office preparing for an expensive cosmetic procedure, but that was
really just the straw that broke the camel’s back. For the past several years I had struggled with
insecurities about my chest—or lack thereof. I’d always been naturally curvy from the waist down,
but from the waist up, I was as skinny as a stick figure.
This had plagued me through high school and I spent those years perpetually armed with a
heavily stuffed Wonderbra. I wasn’t trying to appear stacked per se—I was just trying to balance the
proportions of my body while I waited for the bombshell chest I was certain I would one day
develop. I remember gaping at Anna Nicole Smith’s GUESS ads when I was in junior high, hopeful
that I would be just as voluptuous one day, but it never happened. (I even sent away for herbal
supplements “guaranteed” to increase your chest by two cup sizes! Surprise! They didn’t work. I
actually called and got my money back.)
The nurse led me into the preop room and instructed me to change into the scratchy hospital
gown. I had never had even the most minor surgery before, but I was young, fearless, and determined
to look my best. After all, you only live once, right? I was sure I would pay the credit cards off in a
timely manner. It was no big deal.
After the procedure, I woke up feeling like I had been run over by a garbage truck. The doctor
had made the surgery sound so simple during my consultation that I actually thought I would be up on
my feet that same day. Foolishly, I planned on keeping the entire ordeal a secret from my parents. I
wasn’t in the habit of discussing my private anatomy with my mom and dad, and since I’d been
stuffing my bras religiously for years, I figured they wouldn’t even notice. There was no way they
would have allowed me to pile on all this massive credit card debt in one swoop, but I didn’t want to
hear anyone’s advice (I was always one of those stubborn kids who insisted on learning things the
hard way).
The nurse rolled me out of the facility in a wheelchair to meet my friend who was scheduled to
pick me up. Slumped over in the passenger seat, I realized there was no way I could keep this from
my parents. After she pulled into the driveway and walked me to the front door, I not so gracefully
stumbled through the entryway and flopped on my parents couch, clutching a barf bag full of bile to
my chest. In this state, I had to explain the whole ordeal to them as they shook their heads with a