Paris: The Memoir(36)
I mean, think about it: On the advice of a mental health professional, you send your struggling kid to this beautiful boarding school that costs a fortune. When the kid tries to run away, do you believe the kid who’s been royally pissing you off? Or do you believe the psychiatrist who says the kid is a crazy, incorrigible liar?
I’m not the crazy one, you are!—say 100 percent of crazy people.
Local law enforcement often have financial arrangements with these places; they get a reward for returning runaways and ignoring allegations of abuse. And c’mon. Dead kids in the woods? That’s like a B-movie plot.
Isn’t it?
I mean, that can’t be real.
Or do we just not want it to be real?
We don’t want to believe that a monster named James Lee Crummel—a convicted child molester and serial killer who hanged himself in 2012 while on death row at San Quentin—was connected to a long string of horrific crimes, including the murders of two boys who disappeared from CEDU’s Running Springs campus in 1993 and 1994. Department of Justice missing-person investigator Bill Gleason reported that Crummel regularly accompanied the visiting psychiatrist, Dr. Burnell Forgey, on his trips to CEDU. I don’t know if Dr. Forgey is the same doctor who consulted with my parents, but he was there at the same time I was, hard-selling parents on the idea that their kids needed to “work the program” for two years.
According to a June 7, 2012, article in the Orange County Register (“Mom vs. Child Killer: Guess Who Won?” by Lori Basheda), Crummel was “not the first or the second, but the third convicted sex offender who, over the years, had lived with Forgey.” Forgey was arrested the year after I left CEDU. He was charged with multiple sex crimes that went back years. From the Los Angeles Times (“Other Possible Molest Victims of Psychiatrist Are Being Sought,” May 6, 1998, by Thao Hua and Scott Martelle): “According to court documents filed by the Orange County district attorney’s office, Forgey is suspected of having oral sex with the teenager under his care while Crummel allegedly sodomized—”
Oh, Jesus.
I can’t.
Just—no.
Just google it.
Fuck.
Fuck that place.
What the fucking fuck?
Why do these monsters get to be part of my story? I fucking hate this. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to think about it. I can’t think about it.
I have to think about—think—fucking think—
Something that makes me feel strong.
Platform boots.
My Burning Man boots. Or the sick platform boots I wore with my hot-pink bride’s dress for the neon carnival part of my wedding. The boots were white, but my stylist spray-painted them to perfectly match my Alice & Olivia high-low gown, which incorporated yards of tulle with a brilliantly constructed bustier, and it was everything. Every. Thing.
Think.
Something that makes me feel safe.
My dogs.
My little fur angels:
Dollar
Prada
Slivington
Harajuku Bitch
Marilyn Monroe
Prince Hilton
Princess Paris Jr.
Tokyo Blue
Peter Pan
Diamond Baby
Tinkerbell, the OG Hilton pup
Think. Goddammit.
Something that makes me feel happy.
My friends.
One time Demi Lovato and I were shopping, and the topic of Taco Bell came up, because we’re both obsessed with Taco Bell. She told me she has Taco Bell pillows on the furniture in her screening room. I love Demi.
Another time, back in 2006, Britney Spears and I were at a party in a friend’s bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We got bored and wanted to go back to my house, but these people didn’t want us to leave, because—let’s be real—I know how this sounds, but if you had Britney Spears and Paris Hilton at your party, would you want them to leave? They were like, “No! You can’t go yet!” and I didn’t want to be rude, so I pulled Brit into the bathroom and said, “Let’s use my little trick.” I opened the window and popped the screen out.
Brit was like, “I can’t climb out the window.” Because she was wearing a cute little cocktail dress.
I told her it would be fine and helped her climb out. We were dying. Laughing so hard. But we got out. We ran down an alley, and the second we came around the corner, we were swarmed by paparazzi. I pulled Brit back into the shadows so we could check each other. As friends do. I tweaked Brit’s hair. We did lip gloss.
Finest Girls. Camera ready, bitches.
We went back out, trying to make our way to the car. The paparazzi did what they do, calling out to get us to look their way.
“Paris, look left! Left, Britney!”
“Britney! Paris! Over here!”
“Paris, is it true you and Lindsay got into an altercation last night?”
I didn’t really respond. We were just trying to get to the car, right?
“Paris! Britney! One more, one more, one more!”
“Paris, Lindsay says you hit her!”
“What’s the feud between you and Lindsay?”
Now they all got on board: Did you hit her? Did you hit her? Did you hit her?
It was raining a bit, and Britney was freezing cold and in a hurry to get in the car. I was wearing jeans, so I opened the door for her and stood there to block any immodest shot that might result from her getting into the passenger seat. I went around to the driver’s side.