Once upon a time there was a hot, young, blonde star in her twenties, captive to her overbearing manager. He controlled her utterly, criminally: what she said, what she did, what she wore, where she appeared, and how thin she was when she did. He drove a wedge between the young woman and her family. She wasn’t allowed any phone calls and weeks would pass without her family knowing her whereabouts, except for what they were able to see on TV. He had dirt on her; compromising photographs to keep her frightened and tractable. He drugged her regularly and abused her with inconceivable cruelty, sexually, physically, and verbally. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash and valuables were stolen from her during his occupation. His control was absolute, and soon, so was her hopelessness.
I’m not talking about Britney Spears. I’m talking about my Mom.
Having exhausted every other path to help and solace, she lay in a bed in her home in the Hollywood hills and overdosed with a bottle of Valium.