ARTICLE: THE GUARDIAN UK BY JOHN GRACE
Day after day as a 13-year old girl I would go to the Tate and stare at the same Millais painting. I would look up at Ophelia and tears would be streaming down her face. She was crying for me.
Perhaps because I was 22, settled in Manhattan, with my first bestselling novel about to be published and my family back in England, it took a while for anyone to notice I had gone beyond the warm waters of weird. I did have a boyfriend – the Unfamous Boyfriend – but I was cutting myself six times a day and that was how I first met Dr R, after a spell in A&E. He saw the sadness in me, he came to all my book signings and told me I was the best writer in the world. Eight years later, after I had found out he had died, I rang his answerphone repeatedly to tell him how selfish he was for dying and leaving me on my own.
Dr R is furious with himself that he did not recognise the intensity of my pain immediately and could not prevent my suicide attempt, but I decide to forgive him this once. "I am like a broken doll," I said, "and I need you to put me back together again." "A broken doll I can mend," he replied, "but a broken record is beyond help."
I tell him about my first suicide attempt and how nobody at the Priory understood me. He nods deeply. I sense he is holding back his own tears. I tell him about my move to New York and how the first time I had sex it was almost against my will. I tell him how I have 36 bras hung above my bed, crucified for my sins. "Your writing really needs help," he says.
Six months after I get out of hospital I'm feeling great and I'm dating this drop-dead gorgeous World Famous Writer. "He's much better looking than you," I say to Brad Pitt. Brad thinks I'm joking. I'm not. Yet I know WFW is not the one for me. "That's OK," says Dr R. "Just write about him instead." So I knock out an Oscar-winning screenplay in two days and earn $3m. Somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic, my Gypsy Husband, whom I'm not going to name as he is a huge movie star but as you are bound to google him immediately we'll call him Colin Farrell, is landing in LA.
For the first time in our sessions, Dr R looks distracted. He tells me he has a famous patient who has overdosed in the Chateau Marmont. "That's sad," I say. "But I am your most special patient aren't I?" "Of course," he replies. I'm not wholly convinced, so I ring my parents and friends to ask if I am the most beautiful, talented and special girl in the world to them. They all reply, "Yes", but I cut myself anyway after writing a Bafta nominated screenplay.
I am in bed with GH, aka Colin. We are totally and utterly in love. Mum and Dad love him and say he's completely normal for an A-list Hollywood actor. I ring Dr R to let him know how happy I am. He starts coughing, so I put the phone down and melt in GH's embrace. A week later I discover Dr R has died of lung cancer without even saying goodbye. I sob for my loss and his rudeness.
After a year together planning a family, GH tells me he needs space. I am beyond desolate. My tears are projectile. My family rush to my side, but it's Dr R I need. I seek out one of his colleagues and ask her what she thinks of me. ''I know I ought to be moved by your story, but I'm left cold," she replies. "You are a high-maintenance narcissist who appears to have learned almost nothing about herself, despite eight years of therapy." I decide she wasn't quite the person I was looking for and find another who tells me I'm wounded and wonderful.
Time passes and I go out with an internationally acclaimed TV presenter; it's not Russell Brand, but it could have been. It doesn't last, but I feel curiously strong and remain so even when GH announces he is having a baby with his new Gypsy Wife. "You are now cured," my mother says. "You've had the world famous writer, the film star and the presenter. Now you're ready to fail to have a relationship with the Nobel prize winner."
I go back to the Tate. Ophelia dries her eyes, steps out of the river and hugs me.
Digested read, digested: The Oscar for most Self-Obsessed Writer goes to . . .
Perhaps because I was 22, settled in Manhattan, with my first bestselling novel about to be published and my family back in England, it took a while for anyone to notice I had gone beyond the warm waters of weird. I did have a boyfriend – the Unfamous Boyfriend – but I was cutting myself six times a day and that was how I first met Dr R, after a spell in A&E. He saw the sadness in me, he came to all my book signings and told me I was the best writer in the world. Eight years later, after I had found out he had died, I rang his answerphone repeatedly to tell him how selfish he was for dying and leaving me on my own.
Dr R is furious with himself that he did not recognise the intensity of my pain immediately and could not prevent my suicide attempt, but I decide to forgive him this once. "I am like a broken doll," I said, "and I need you to put me back together again." "A broken doll I can mend," he replied, "but a broken record is beyond help."
I tell him about my first suicide attempt and how nobody at the Priory understood me. He nods deeply. I sense he is holding back his own tears. I tell him about my move to New York and how the first time I had sex it was almost against my will. I tell him how I have 36 bras hung above my bed, crucified for my sins. "Your writing really needs help," he says.
Six months after I get out of hospital I'm feeling great and I'm dating this drop-dead gorgeous World Famous Writer. "He's much better looking than you," I say to Brad Pitt. Brad thinks I'm joking. I'm not. Yet I know WFW is not the one for me. "That's OK," says Dr R. "Just write about him instead." So I knock out an Oscar-winning screenplay in two days and earn $3m. Somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic, my Gypsy Husband, whom I'm not going to name as he is a huge movie star but as you are bound to google him immediately we'll call him Colin Farrell, is landing in LA.
For the first time in our sessions, Dr R looks distracted. He tells me he has a famous patient who has overdosed in the Chateau Marmont. "That's sad," I say. "But I am your most special patient aren't I?" "Of course," he replies. I'm not wholly convinced, so I ring my parents and friends to ask if I am the most beautiful, talented and special girl in the world to them. They all reply, "Yes", but I cut myself anyway after writing a Bafta nominated screenplay.
I am in bed with GH, aka Colin. We are totally and utterly in love. Mum and Dad love him and say he's completely normal for an A-list Hollywood actor. I ring Dr R to let him know how happy I am. He starts coughing, so I put the phone down and melt in GH's embrace. A week later I discover Dr R has died of lung cancer without even saying goodbye. I sob for my loss and his rudeness.
After a year together planning a family, GH tells me he needs space. I am beyond desolate. My tears are projectile. My family rush to my side, but it's Dr R I need. I seek out one of his colleagues and ask her what she thinks of me. ''I know I ought to be moved by your story, but I'm left cold," she replies. "You are a high-maintenance narcissist who appears to have learned almost nothing about herself, despite eight years of therapy." I decide she wasn't quite the person I was looking for and find another who tells me I'm wounded and wonderful.
Time passes and I go out with an internationally acclaimed TV presenter; it's not Russell Brand, but it could have been. It doesn't last, but I feel curiously strong and remain so even when GH announces he is having a baby with his new Gypsy Wife. "You are now cured," my mother says. "You've had the world famous writer, the film star and the presenter. Now you're ready to fail to have a relationship with the Nobel prize winner."
I go back to the Tate. Ophelia dries her eyes, steps out of the river and hugs me.
Digested read, digested: The Oscar for most Self-Obsessed Writer goes to . . .
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/jan/24/your-voice-in-my-head
OMFG! That's all I can think of!! The self absorbed bitch has left me speechless.
ReplyDeleteHi Virgo : - D
ReplyDeleteHope all is well with you & yours?
As for Ms Forrest... it's almost hard not to be embarrassed for her!