When Miley Cyrus, got tits, discovered weed, shaved her head and inked some cool tats on her body she became bad ass. Her newfound discovery of her body, long legs, use of a bold lip and addiction to shocking and awing the public seems to be what any famous Millionairess who wants to drop her Mickey Mouse ears would do. Britney, Christina. Snakes. Mud. Leather. Sweat. And massive group shots of humping and heaving and twerking.
I get it. I get her need to “find herself.” To be a bad ass. To want to be cool. I too have done many dumb things in my lifetime to be cool. Unfortunately I didn’t have a couple mill- in the bank to bail me out when shit hit the fan.
Unfortunately I didn’t have bodyguards watching the creepy guy for me in the corner or a driver that made sure I got home safe. I have me, myself, and I. Oh yeah and my metro card and a few crumpled dolla bills from “not stopping” at my party where “I do what I want to.” After that party is over, after you curl up next to that stranger with your foam finger and your lips gently caress his janky, sorry, sexy sweaty, torso, life sucks an awful lot.
When I see Miley’s VMA performance, risqué photo shoots and overall raunchy new image the waspy prep school part of me wants to be shocked. Oh! Shame on her! How could she wear such a thing as a role model to young girls! Meh. Well, if I’m honest here, myself and 100 percent of college Greek life has worn far worse, skanky costumes. Always in theme, of course. So I don’t really hate her for that at all. I mean, she’s getting nasty, but she looks hot. The insecure once anorexic part of me is slightly jealous. She is really skinny and has really nice boobs. Damn it, Miley.
No, I don’t care about her image makeover. I mean more power to ya if you decide to become a rappers dream. However, I don’t remember any of those guys I kissed in my skanky little cowgirl outfit ever calling back. They didn’t. And what we call “shacking” in college the rest of the world refers to as being taken advantage of. Or “used”. Well, that’s NEWS to me. I was certain that boy in Sigma Chi was the one. He was only wearing bubble rap and I was wearing a duct tape-garbage bag dress. I looked hot. Hot and 18. Fresh meat on Sorority row. I gave him my gift. It was my second time, EVER. He drove me home in his Range Rover. I was certain, by the following week we would be going steady. I was wrong. Very, very, wrong. I stealthy followed him around at parties, and he avoided me for the rest of the year. Because when you are 18, or 19, or….dare I say twenty and finding yourself….you think that’s what boys want. Sexy garbage.
I hate being told what to do. Miley, I sooo get it. Sinead O’Connor is an old, has been. Who wants to be told what to do from her? Not me. Not you. Not anyone. And if somebody told me I was a skank that’s whoring myself out, as my mother does on the regular, I would detest it. I would wear my skanky red lip stick, as I do. And my high-waisted jean shorts and crop top American Flag T-shirt because damn it, I am 25 and I can do what I want. So yeah, fuck the haters. Fuck the people that tell you what to do. Who judge you.
Haters gonna hate. But what happens when as a result of protecting yourself. Your heart. Your image. Your new bad-ass-I-don’t-give-a-fuck-self.
What happens when in reaction to your, “haters” you become the hater yourself?
I think that’s what Sinead O’Connor is now getting at. Ya know that old Irish lady who you once immortalized but then she called you out on your skanky shit (screw her!) so you retaliated by finding some old tweets she posted when she was contemplating suicide and poked fun?
Fun. You sing a lot about fun.
Like, Molly. E. MDMA. A drug used at raves and when you want to watch Across the Universe four times in a row until the sun comes up. For a moment of increased ecstasy, this tiny pill permanently depletes the serotonin in your brain. Miley doesn’t tell you that. Ya know, the fact that the happiness you are experiencing when you hump the ground and make out with girls and dance with bears is physically impossible to feel ever again. Ever.
Funnily enough, I too take drugs. I take a drug to produce Serotonin in my brain. This my friends is called an antidepressant, because like 26 Percent of Americans over the age of eighteen, I suffer from a diagnosable mental illness. PTSD and Depression. It’s a dark cold lonely path to take, because you take it alone. Nobody else is on this roller coaster of will I, wont I, do I deserve to be here babble in your brain.
26 percent is an awful lot when you take into consideration that Miley Cyrus has 14,593,647 followers on facebook and counting. Now, I’m no math genius, but 26 percent of Miley’s followers is: 3,794,348. Thanks Siri. Wow. 3.79 million people who follow Miley on twitter suffer from a diagnosable mental illness. It’s in the statistics.
Now, what happens when you tell 3.7 million people who look up to you that they are freaks, that they are not worthy? That they are “crazy”? That they should be embarrassed to ask for help. That if you too were to know about their illness, and they crossed you on the interweb, you would crucify them with your hatred, laughter and humiliation. Or worse. They once considered asking you for help, but decided against it because they are ashamed and scared that you will make another spectacle of them.
According to Miley Cyrus, Amanda Bynes is nuts and Sinead O’Connor is too and in an instant, this mature, bad ass, musician has become a mean girl. A perpetuator of hate. I say this because Sinead O’Connor has received messages from Miley’s followers to kill herself. Amanda Bynes probably suffers from Schizophrenia or Bipolar Disorder and has been hearing voices since her teens. But we all like to point fingers and take pictures and make fun at the “crazy girl” instead of offering help and support. We are no better than the Nazis. Did I just say that? Yes. Yes I did. Because in the world of mental health one small comment can ensure certain death. If it isn’t the voices that get them, it’s the hatred. The stigma. The fear that we will be painted with a scarlet letter if we speak up. The fear that no one cares. Or worse yet, that they detest us and will shame us. Are scared by us. Our minds. Our crazy thoughts. Our pain.
I’ll tell you pain. Pain ain’t being told you’re a skank that is being taken advantage of by the music industry. Pain isn’t that new tattoo you got last week or this “super hard struggle” to self-discovery you are going through at the age of twenty.
Pain is cowering in your room. Pain is the fear of others. Pain is watching your little brother who was once a star athlete shrink in fear to the other side of the room because he genuinely believes you are a ghost. And the voices. The hateful, terrifying voices that tell him to hurt himself. To hurt his family. Pain isn’t this terrible burden of the Disney Channel that you have to unload with all your might through child-like antics.
Pain is the hatred that you have instigated in the world. Through your power. Through your fame. You have let your 14 million followers know that it is okay to poke fun. It is okay to hate. It is okay to push others away who are different. People who need help. Who desperately need help, from someone like you. Someone who has the power to create change for good.
I know that you “claim” to be accepting of all…as seen by your obvious display of multiple races on your stage and little people. I’m sure you are nice to them. I am sure that you were nice to my classmates this past week when they groped you on SNL. But I am not sure that you realize the full power of your voice. The voice that 14 million people follow. Because in just a few characters you crushed my brother and 3.7 million others. You were a bully. A rich, famous, skinny, 20 year old bully. And that, it not okay.
I believe that deep down, Miley is a good person. I would probably want to party with her all night long and want to have a twerking contest, because unlike Miss Skinny Minnie, this white girl has some serious booty.
But when given power, wealth, and fame there is a level of responsibility that must be taken. Actions. Reactions. The ripple affect. One person’s tweet is another person’s reason to end their life. This may sound dramatic to the average reader, but in the world of those struggling with inner demons, whose false voices tell them to do so on a regular basis. What is one more voice? One more, real, voice. Validation.
I believe that everybody has the right to let their freak flag fly. Even Miley Cyrus. In this moment she has been given the gift of great power. Power that can be used for good. For supporting those who suffer from mental illness. Power to make a positive difference in the world. By supporting the 26 Percent. By letting them know that it is okay. It is okay to own it. To be proud. To ask for help. We all know somebody who suffers and we have been given the gift through this open door to let them know that we love them. That we support them. That it is okay. That we will not stand for bullying. Not by kids at school. Not even by a celebrity.
P.S. Sinead O'Connor is the shit. Don't you forget it. Respect your elders.