I sacrificed so much for my career. I gave my best: my anger, my grief, my tender gaze... my spirit, and it gave me nothing in return. I was the darling of the Russian theatre, the lover of Clifford Odets. I won a scholarship, a dream win. I fought my mother tooth and nail for independence and it turned out she was just a pawn in the Hollywood factory. I wanted to act, it's all I ever wanted. And so I acted like my life depended on it. I smouldered to the camera, I married the Hollywood dream boy, I batted my eyes and lay back in that bathing suit until I couldn't take it any more. They took my face, my body and turned me into a commodity. Who cared if I could act? I had lips, tits, hips... a caustic wit. A diet of liquor and cuss words, because I would never, NEVER, let them break my spirit. I lived through insulin-therapy, shock therapy, I may have lived through a lobotomy but the truth will never be known. I did it all for you mother, you who handed me over to the asylum when the movie studio didn't want my drama anymore. They didn't want my attitude, they didn't want to hear my opinion. Neither did the doctors. I did it all for you mum. I didn't break. And now? Now my face is on t-shirts, my face is on mugs, my face is on a fucking phone case so surely it was all worth it.

RK