Nothing that is said here is considered an assertion. Around such serious issues even my opinion is wrinkled. From prodigy girl to crazy to tieFrom self-harm to liberation, from the evil and greedy father to the empty head based on drugs, there is a range of possibilities so wide that I consider it impossible to get a diagnosis right.
A childhood as stolen as it is exposed statistically proves to end in a bad adolescence. A crazy adolescence almost never ends in maturity. A post-prison maturity, post-motherhood, post-descent of your ego to hell usually has feet of clay. As soon as you wet them with whiskey, they fall apart. There is no giant that can take it, no matter how Britney Spears you are.
Jorge C. Parcero
Spears means haul. Lance is an event, episode, event, event, fact, incident, case, affair, trance, mishap, contest, complaint, and ends up leading to a fight. Always the RAE to the rescue. The cascade of meanings as a summary of biography. When the father’s surname ends up marking a path. An incomprehensible destiny for such a cute girl.
A perfect smile, eyes like suns, an uptight expression from the world of Disney to the hearts of America. Girls who wanted to be Britney, children who dreamed of having her, parents at last with reference, grandparents dehydrated from drooling so much. Ten years lasted the idyll of formal, white and structured families, with the princess of the ball. Lists, audiences and records consolidated the plot. A Lady Di from the village across the pond. A girl “p’a eat it” who ended up devouring for having it even in the soup. Another collateral victim of cruel marketing. A daughter only “business”, blood of blood transfers, a heart made heels, pain covered with a dollar, a gold dust watch marking the few hours that remain of being beautiful.
I think of that fine voice – that of dazzling schools, driving high schools crazy, stirring universities and, why hide it longer, even disturbing teachers – and how it will sound inside. That we all have crushing our lives It gives me that poor Britney, paradoxes of life, is masculine and husky. From “you don’t have to do that” to “what do you paint in this world” torturing your brain, with that tone as serious as I imagine it, it can’t bring anything good. “Your father is stealing from you”, “he only wants sex”, “I am the only one who understands you”, “and what’s wrong with you taking that too” they are setting limits that limit behaviors. The result is complex, I have already declared myself incompetent and I will not be the one to judge it. The result is … complex. That even I see. As a thousand minibars and the odd hairdresser have seen it.
That tormenting voice we all carry inside. It seems to scream louder the more noise there is outside. There are people who domesticate it, tune it to the soul and turn it into a crutch to be able to lean on when the trip comes to you. I envy whoever gets it. Mine gets tired sometimes and leaves me one day off. Then it comes back with more force. “You have not done anything in life”, “you only think of yourself”, “when will you let them love you” he yells at me in there. It scolds with an echo echoing in my head. The day he leaves me there is more light, I am more lucid. When he comes back and booes me, everything seems like a world to me. I take a deep breath in his absence and my anxiety kills me the moment he returns. I don’t know how to close the door. I don’t know how to silence their voices. I don’t know why you have to have it. Why was she born so against me or what does she gain? But there it is and it remains with me, and I don’t know if I will survive. However that is what remains after suffering this life, bad eternity comes to me. Because, from what I already know her, protesting, arguing and complaining until the end of days, no matter how much to heaven I go, it’s going to make me hell. I laugh at Dante’s, with how little I laugh at this true hell.
“You don’t take care of those you love,” he interrupts me as I write. Another ten minutes for two lines as an imminent result. I can almost tell you enjoy blocking my brain to chase a ghost that only exists inside me. “You are the most cowardly” he whispers to me slyly then from the right lobe. “You don’t deserve what you have”, “you’re not going anywhere” and today is Saturday, it is supposed to be one of his quietest days. Some they say that alcohol silences him, I attest that it is not true. Upside down. Many times what happens is that that second voice, whether low or high, takes command in the throat and begins to speak for you to all. In the enervation of neurons, due to weakness or agitation, your own voice cowers and lets out the horror of all the shit that you have inside, the one that man shits. I don’t know how to evict him, I give him compensation, his lawyer send me, ask for support.
If this is the degree of torture of a life as vulgar as mine, what will it not be in a girl exposed to all the noise in the world, a father in question, to live under the spotlight. What else has he not said or done to that poor girl throughout her challenges, frustrated or achieved. How not to end up locked up, drunk or addicted. How to be a mother, how to be even a daughter. How do you want me to explain to us with minimal coordination, between words and ideas, that new situation of recovering your lost tutoring. At forty years old no less. You watch the video in which he explains it and you really want to run away by surprise so that your voice does not follow you.
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Britney Spears, victim of her voice