She will be trying to get away, but they will chase her, just as they chased her into that church yesterday. There were dozens of them, jostling their way into sanctuary, elbowing past each other, just to creep closer to her. Even her last-minute, folded-hand prayers can’t be kept sacred. There can be no silent moments in a crowd; no silence, and no secrets.
All this fresh, painful frailty costs her so much, but it lines their pockets very well. A kings ransom was paid for those tabloid-ready cheap shots of her with messy hair, tear-soaked eyes, and the half-smile of a desperate baby girl.
“I’m scared,” she told them yesterday, when they later mobbed her at court. “Move back,” she said. “I’m scared. Stop it. Stop it. I want to get back in the car. Just stop it. Let me get in the car, please.”
Sometimes it really is too much. Internal wires cross. Anxiety hits. Panic sets in the heart. Dread. Fear.
But she asked for it, she’s a public figure.
At eight years old, she bravely stood before a microphone. By 17, she had sold 25 million records. Where were the sidewalk-skinned knees, the chalk stained hands, the monkey bars, the passed notes? A Disney set is not a childhood, no matter how many bright colors they use, or how cheerful the script.
Not a girl, barely even a woman yet, they chased her. A mob of stalkers for whom no stalking laws have been written. Smother. Crush. Flash. Photo Credit. Even Dr. “Get Real” Phil got in on the action. Unreal.
83 million albums sold so far. How many pictures?
The tunnel is crowded now. There are only inches of separation between vulnerability and disaster.