This is Freud's room recreated in his home on Hampstead, North London. You can clearly see the famous couch many heads perched on during sessions. Though I do not lie on a couch when I go to therapy, the couch represents the center of the room. The most important piece of furniture. It is where the patient collects their thoughts, discusses and learns. I have always held my sessions as a special place for me to escape. A womb-like arena (not as beautiful as Freud's) that allows me to be open and honest without any judgement. On Thursday, my womb will be invaded by English gent. My name will be spoken many times. But I shall not be there. I have many mixed emotions--loss of trust, fear, anger--even hope. And I know that this womb is not just mine---many bodies enter it. But, none of them have ever spoken my name without me being present. I wonder how many "Freudian Slips" will occur on Thursday?

Dear Ether,

English gent has stolen Dr. W. Yep, it is official.  MY therapist and MY partner have now booted me out of the loop. Okay.  I’ll tell you the whole story, but here’s the irony. YOU GUYS are now my only source of therapy for the moment (well, at least until next Tuesday) and what’s even worse:  I’M footing the bill!!!!  

English gent and I have been going to therapy together for about 6 sessions now because our relationship has been in a really terrible rut of late.  He blames me for bringing him to Los Angeles and to this concrete grave of misery and I am angry at him for so many reasons, all you have to do is hit the sidebar under “English gent” or “Love” and you can read why.  It was my idea we start therapy because I felt that we needed a mediator–someone who could be in the middle and help us through our discussions (which normally end  in him walking out of a room needing a cigarette or me diving under the duvet crying and dreaming of the life I thought I should have had).  Dr. W took to the English gent (and to be fair, the old therapist has a soft spot for me too) and really wanted to help us.  So one session turned into many and we started to really open up.  But English gent was getting angry.  He felt that it was well and good that we spoke about our feelings in our sessions, but that nothing happened outside the 45 minutes that changed anything in reality.  He said today was his LAST session with Dr. W.  Now of course I was infuriated.  I felt really trapped and frustrated.  If English gent stopped going to see Dr. W, then what?  I mean, we obviously couldn’t handle this relationship problem on our own and we don’t have any other confidants, so what were we going to do?  

I slept until 2pm today, that’s how gutted I was.

3pm rolls around and with my face sullen and sombre we take our seats on the couch in Dr. W’s office.  English gent talks about how angry he is with me.  That I don’t act as a woman should when I expect him to act as a man should (this might be a good point—but his version of acting like a “woman should” is doing laundry, cooking, cleaning….you get my drift…..and as long as he has known me…..that just IS NOT me…….so I was really fucked off…….and my idea of what a “MAN” should be is having money to support himself, having good enough credit to have a fucking credit card for Christ’s sake, being able to drive and not have me chauffeur him around, buy me a thing or two every so often…….but no…….he is  a stinking baby who still calls his mother “Mumma” in Russian.  Kill me).  Then he goes on to say that I’m unsupportive of his work.  Ethers, he sits in the office all day doing work for his business abroad as a freelancer and makes it very clear he doesn’t want to be disturbed.  He is on English time so he drinks Red Bull’s 5 times a day (which are like $2 a pop, chugs coffee after coffee like it’s water and smokes at least a pack a day…have I mentioned he is up until 5am most nights?)  We never go anywhere together because I can’t pay for both of us.  We are stuck in this house and are ironically so far apart is is pathetic.  I’ll leave it up to your imagination to wonder what our sex life is like (he is 27–you’d think he’d be rearing to go—and truthfully, I haven’t been less interested since before puberty, anyway).  It’s dire straits.  It’s always a threat of, “I have a return ticket back to England, why don’t I just go?” Or I say, “This isn’t working anymore, but I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to lose you in my life and I know if we end like this and you fly back to London, I’ll never see you again.”  Ethers, am I bound to grow old with a man who I bicker with?  Where we’re just angry companions, but stuck together because we care for each other from memories and a feeling of family?  And if he goes, I know I will always wonder if I lost the great love of my life because we went through a bad patch and maybe couldn’t work through it.  I mean, no one is gonna be happy in their late 20’s living with parents with no money, no license, no visa, no job (the list can go on).  And me!  You guys know I am dying for that golden ticket.  And soon, that will fade and stop shining and I’ll just be and ugly old hag that no one will want—then that will be the final nail in my coffin.  

So why do we stay together?  Why is the question he and I have been asking for almost a decade.  And we come up with so many pros and so many cons.  Our great times and our hideous times toughing it out.  No one knows either of us better than we know each other.  We are too afraid to let go.  I know many of you would say it’s like a plaster/Band-Aid.  Rip it off fast and it hurts less.  No. No.  I can’t even imagine the idea of unveiling the wound that the bandage shows underneath.  The last look in his eyes before he boarded the plane with no return ticket.  The last time I’d smell his neck.  The smell of his body on the sheets when I returned home from that agonizing drive.  The few gifts he gave me.  The albums full of memories.  8 YEARS OF MY LIFE SHARED WITH HIM.  Every reference of my 20’s with HIM.  Help me Ethers.  But please, don’t tell me yet to leave him.  Please?  Can you try to be constructive?  Can we go into salvation mode 1st?  I beg you out of desperation.

I’ve lost track of where I was.  Right. So. I cannot make it to our twice weekly session the second time being this Thursday, because I have a meeting and then an event to cover.  So what did Dr. W suggest?  That English get come sans me.  I was shocked.  He is MY therapist. The guy I pay.  The man I introduced English gent to.  And now THEY are going to have a pow-wow about ME behind my back?  Yes, yes, yes.  I know.  This will be all fine and dandy.  He’ll get to say his piece and Dr. W might coach him and this is only to help.  But I feel so vulnerable.  As I chauffeur him to that session, I wonder, how many times will my name be mentioned and what will be said?  And the truth is I have NO right to ask.

I wish I was free.  That I could be 21, just out of school and fresh.  I wish this was the beginning.  That I had more time.  That I hadn’t made so many mistakes and hadn’t given into love so fast and hard.  Some of us do it easier than others.  I’m a sucker.  I’ll keep you updated, as you guys are now my clearest and cleanest form of therapy.  Thank you for listening.  I just wish I wasn’t sitting here with my face full of tears and the tops of my hand wet with the drippings of the falling droplets all over them.  What a mess—in so many way—what a giant mess.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Celebrity is all a bit blurry. The girl in the picture has a stunning figure and stands out in a red dress, but where she's standing and what her emotions are seem fuzzy. What goes on behind the scenes of the rich and famous is an odd one. They will never fully be just like you and me. But when you get close enough and things become clearer some of the fantasy goes away and it takes the magic with it.

Dear Ether,

So, I covered a red carpet on Thursday night.  I can’t tell you anything (yadda, yadda…the close lipped contract….) and this entry isn’t going to be about the party itself, but about the vulnerability of the celebrity.

My job went as it should.  I did the normal carpet chit-chat.  Some celebs were better interviews than others.  The waifish ladies did their poses for the cameras looking confident and gorgeous.  And then they sauntered off into the affair itself.  After I was finished doing my interviews, I went into the party for observations, to grab a drink and take some visual notes on what the event looked like because sometimes cameras aren’t allowed in.  Also, you might get a chance to chat with a celeb a little more in-depth and get something juicy.  It’s also a fun perk (though I find it a little awkward because I don’t know anyone and hanging out with famous people for the sake of it has never been my thing).  You might also walk away with a goodie-bag and you are guaranteed amazing food and cocktails.  My favorite perk of going to V.I.P. shin-dig’s has always been that I get to explore a club or a hotel that you would normally never be granted access to.

But Thursday I had the strangest epiphany. As I was observing these make-up clad women and trendily dressed men that I had seen on the big and small screen, I realized that they were vulnerable.  I think all my life I’ve always thought of celebrities as being super men and women.  That they were touched by fairy-dust and were infallible.  I think some of these people think they are too.  Look at the classic case of James Dean.  But, I think as the walls are crumbling with privacy between the media and the public, stars are starting to realize that they actually are just like “us” with a bit more cash and possibly more problems (though don’t get me wrong, I’d like to have the problem of what dress to wear to the Academy Awards or what movie to choose from instead of how the hell I’m going to pay my water bill….).

I can’t drink heavily when I attend these parties for 2 reasons.  1: I’m on the clock so it would be unprofessional.  2: I drive and so I have to be sober come time to leave and go home.  But a lot of these celebs either come with PR people who drive them home, they have drivers or scarily, they might even take the risk of the road themselves.  So, if you’ve ever been to a party where everyone around you is drunk and you’re sober, it’s like walking through a madhouse of slanted eyes, cockeyed grins and loose limbs.  And that’s what I saw straight and clear with these well-known folks.  It was like a weird party at college.  Their eyes were darting around if they were standing around without anyone to talk to looking desperate and embarrassed.  They used the old texting on the mobile phone trick if they were sitting alone so they “looked busy” and they seemed jittery and had uncomfortable silences just like you and I would have at a party if we were in their position.  I was really surprised.  You always think they have a zillion people to chat with and are the king’s and queen’s of the balls.  Not so!

You know, when I went to parties for my previous line of work, very few of them were celeb functions.  They were mainly cozy press affairs so most of the people who attended were PR’s and fellow journalists.  Also, Hollywood is a whole different kettle of fish than London.  People are star crazy here.  The people who are reporters are so hungry for some sort of claim to fame that they froth at the mouth when they see any celebrity.  It just doesn’t do it for me.  Do I smile or chuckle to myself when I see someone famous?  Of course!  But these people—they will literally stab you in the neck if you get in their way of a possible meeting with anyone recognizable.  I find it really pathetic and it actually made me feel sorry for them.

But I digress.  When I saw the vulnerability and the desperation in many of these celebs eyes, and the look of being lost and not having anyone to talk to, I actually felt depressed.  I felt sorry for them.  I know I shouldn’t and I’m probably reading WAY too deeply into this, but it just felt like the barrier between audience and stage had fallen and I had seen the actor through their make-up.  It was kinda ugly.  I grew up in Los Angeles and my dad, as mentioned in earlier posts, was a TV writer.  I also went to a school that was laden with celebrity parents.  I used to go on studio lots and see famous people daily.  Fame is not anything terribly shocking or heart-stopping for me (except for Sienna Miller—and I keep meaning to explain that one—but alas, it will have to wait for another post).  But I can understand how people who aren’t jaded like I am are crazed when they see someone they adore in the flesh. A couple of the other reporters wanted to stay and try and see if they could hang out with some of the famous folks.  But as soon as my revelation came, I wanted out.  I busted a move, handed the valet my ticket and thankfully got in my car and was pleased to leave and get on with my work.

Look, I’m sure I am over-analyzing.  But, it really is weird when you see the mask fall and underneath isn’t the glorious face of Dorian Gray but the plain visage of John Doe.  These people get pit stains, spill on themselves, step in shit, and get lonely and lost at a party.  I guess the reason it made me feel so bad is because somewhere in me was the dream of wanting to be famous. The perks are great—the money, the opportunities, the chance to play roles in locations that are exquisite.  But a the end of the day, they go home and check their e-mail where they delete their spam about Viagra, open up the fridge and stare wondering what they want for a snack and cry when they have a down day.

Funny how one stupid event can just remind you of that, eh?

I love the magazine I’m working for.  I’m grateful for the opportunity and I adore the inside chances I get to experience and the interesting people I get to speak to.  But for some reason on Thursday something hit a bad chord in me and I had to share it.  I don’t know, I’ll let you know if the next one brings out these emotions in me.

In conclusion, flashbulbs and canapés, there will always be famous people.  And there will always be fans.   But there are very few people who actually get to see what goes on behind the curtain.  And you know what, a lot of their life is a big old set.  A fake reality.  Their truth is no different than ours.  So next time your eyes are darting back and forth wondering “why isn’t anyone talking to me” or “shit, I don’t know anyone here, I’m nervous,” just know your favorite celeb has been there too.  She’s just been wearing a designer dress that’s more expensive than you have on while doing it.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365