Open Letter to Lindsay Lohan

Hello, Lindsay. I don’t know you and you certainly do not know me! That said, I do not really expect you to actually read this letter, and if you do, I really do not expect anything from you. Still, it is an open letter for you, and regardless of who else reads it, it is meant only for you.

I don’t have a very clear idea why I am doing this, and if anything actually comes of it, I will probably regret it at some point. I’m not even sure how to begin. I am not your friend. I am not even asking to be your friend — I don’t want anything from you. I appreciate what you have done in your life as an artist more than enough. I do have a kind of selfish interest in you, and honestly it’s weird enough to scare you if it is looked at in a certain way. So, I’ll run the risk of weirding you out right up front: I probably would have liked being you.

I’m not talking about the fame and money, and definitely not the problems you’ve had — I’ll get to those in a bit! No, I would have just been happy to have been a normal, red headed girl who was encouraged to take on the world from a very young age. I didn’t get that. I don’t know why that matters, but it does, and there’s not much I can do about it but to be considered — and feel like — a freak, simply because I know who I am and am not able to deny it for my own convenience or anyone else’s. So, yeah, you’re living the life I always dreamed of!

I’m sure you’d tell me that it’s not all it’s cooked up to be. I certainly get that impression from what filters through all the tabloid abuse. I am sorry for that. I mean, I really don’t know you so the only reason I know anything about you is because you have a public life and millions of people are eager to invade your privacy. Maintaining my privacy has been the only thing that kept me sane while my condition was driving me to explore every avenue of self-destruction available to me. It was never my intention to kill myself, or ruin my life — but it doesn’t really have to be, does it?

Life is, well, messy and complicated, and I’m pretty much convinced that it’s a kind of proving ground. We’re here to see what makes us crack, and if we’re lucky we can find our flaws and fix them before we run out of life. I don’t know if there’s any point to it, or any reward. I think that knowing what all of this is for might invalidate the reason for us having to do it. I don’t think it is necessary for us to suffer through this alone — but when there is no one you can turn to, no knowing who you can trust, you face it alone in spite of being surrounded by family and friends.

If anything, it makes you even more alone. It takes that particular dagger and twists it into your gut. I totally get that. Been there. Done that. Someday I’ll write a book about it and become rich and famous! Or… not. It doesn’t matter. I faced my demons and am now perfectly safe in the company of sharp, pointy objects and guns. Like my personal demons, they’re still dangerous, but I know how to keep them from mixing dangerously, and that’s a strange sort of life skill to acquire. I don’t know what you need, Lindsay, honestly; again, I don’t really know you.

I am a stranger, and a strange individual to boot. I am probably the last person you would turn to for help. The point of all this, though, is that I would help. I know a part of me would die if you met a tragic end, so I have gone to this — actually, quite pathetic — effort to send this letter via six-degrees of separation. I am not sure what will come of it. I only know that you need something of the heart, something of the mind and soul, something to restore your center or make you whole. I don’t have it. But if you ask me to, I will help you find it.

I’m not your friend, but if you really need one you can always try asking a stranger.

A stranger.

Now, as for all you potential spectators. I know this is somewhat absurd, and the most likely way for this letter to come to Lindsay’s attention is because one of you is reading it. I am concerned, and I am genuine, and I don’t expect anyone to take my word for it. If you are reading this, and you really are her friend I hope she can get what she needs from you. I’m only providing an option, a very, way out of the way, out of the blue alternative to the long dark night of the soul. A different perspective.