Brave. Rose McGowan

to look away. And then the US election happened, making sexism far harder to deny; it paved the way for obvious truth to be revealed to those who’d for so long turned a blind eye.

      In early 2017, I’d been working on BRAVE for a few years when I made contact with two investigative reporters. It was time. The story took many twists and turns as it all unfolded, and I’m proud to have had a hand in starting the worldwide conversation.

      Since I and so many brave survivors have come forward, titans of every industry have toppled. We survivors have gained our power. We survivors are using our voices in record numbers. We cannot let up, and as hard as it is, we must continue to get even louder, to push even harder. We all count. We all matter.

      Here’s to freedom, yours and mine.

      Now go breathe fire.

       RM, 2019

PREFACE

      “Did you break up with someone?”

At first the question made me angry. I thought it sexist, stereotypical, disheartening. There was no death of a relationship that made me so in need of freedom that I’d alter myself. The more the breakup question was asked, the more it made me think about my motives. I realized I had broken up with someone. I broke up with you. The collective you, the societal you. I broke up with the Hollywood ideal, the one that I had a part in playing. The ideal version of “woman” that is sold to you by every actress in every hair commercial telling you, “This is the secret to being beguiling, the secret to getting a man to want you.” Long, glossy Kardashian-esque hair that says, “Fuck me, big boy.” As if that’s all we are and all we can be. Hair. Hair is what I broke up with. And it was a breakup that was years in the making; it took a lot to wake me from my brainwashed slumber. My long hair had always made me uncomfortable. It made men look at me while the real me disappeared. I would use it to cover my face, to check out, to sleep. And sleep I did. The real Rose slept while the fake Rose lived a bizarre alternate life playing the part of someone who played parts.

Most of my life I had short hair. I preferred it that way. The classic film stars and punk women I most admired had short hair. I liked very much being an individual. I liked looking neither female nor male, but hovering somewhere in between. The two periods of time when I had long hair were the hardest in my life, the times I was most lost from myself—my teen years when I suffered from a raging eating disorder and later when I suffered from a mental disorder called Hollywood. The Hollywood disorder lasted a much longer time, but both had to do with being absent from self. Both times were driven by society’s number one propaganda machine—Hollywood. I was told I had to have long hair, otherwise the men doing the hiring in Hollywood wouldn’t want to fuck me, and if they didn’t want to fuck me, they wouldn’t hire me. I was told this by my female agent, which is tragic on many levels. So, so evil and so, so sad. Evil because I took the information from an older woman who was the mouthpiece for what Hollywood wants. Sad because she was right. This message gets filtered down to all women and girls, telling us to have long hair so we too can be sexy, but I got the direct message, like a hotline phone call straight from what “the man” wants.

      Well, fuck Hollywood. Fuck the messaging. Fuck the propaganda. Fuck the stereotypes.

      If you’re a Jennifer Lawrence, America’s sweetheart type, you have simple blond hair. If you’re the vixen, it is long, dark, and big. Those are the rules, do not deviate. My long hair was beautiful, like beauty pageant contestant hair. My hairdressers were gay males and I was their Barbie come to life; at least that’s what they told me. I didn’t think I looked like Barbie. I thought I looked more like a blow-up sex doll, the kind with the hole for the mouth. I had been turned into the ultimate fantasy fuck toy by the Hollywood machine. All the men and women hired to make me look like said fantasy fuck toy did a good job, but I was dying on the inside and embarrassed by what I looked like on the outside. But I didn’t know how to change what was wrong when there were so many levels of wrong in my life.

      I meet so many women and girls who tell me their hair is a security blanket and what they hide behind. I find this not only relatable, but heartbreaking. Of course you should have long hair if YOU feel like having long hair, but examine your motives. What part does society play in telling you how you should look? What part does media play in showing you what you should be? And if you are hiding behind your hair, why do you want to live a life in hiding and what are you hiding from?

When I shaved my head, it was a battle cry, but more than that it gave me an answer to the question I so hated.

      Did I break up with someone?

      Yes, I broke up with the world.

      You can, too.

      My name is Rose McGowan and I am BRAVE.

INTRODUCTION

      There once was a famous actress named Frances Farmer. She hated everything about her artificial life. She wanted to be free. Frances tried to escape fame and the toxicity of Hollywood’s male-dominated world, but the studio had her captured. They took Frances to a mental institution. They locked her up. There was nothing wrong with her mind, she just didn’t want to be famous. She screamed, begging for her life. Instead they took it. They laid her down, restrained her, and shocked her mind with electricity. Shock. Shock. Shock. Over and over. The male powers that be in Hollywood wanted Frances to be a submissive good little girl, and remain so. What they left of her was an empty shell, a husk of a woman. Frances was never Frances again. And all because she didn’t want to be sold as entertainment.

Very few sex symbols escape Hollywood with their minds intact, if they manage to stay alive at all. The streets of Hollywood are paved over the bodies of the vulnerable, the fucked with, the lied to, and the hurt. I know, I was almost one of them. You may think that what happens in Hollywood doesn’t affect you. You’re wrong. My darlings, who do you think is curating your reality? Who is showing you who and what you want to be?

      I want to have a frank conversation about an inner sickness that I see few, if any, addressing: how and why Hollywood creates a fucked-up mirror for you to look in. How you are seeing yourself through your own eyes, but perhaps not your own mind. Hollywood affects your life in ways you may not even be aware of.

      In my past of being sold as a product, I have been a part of massaging your brain. I wiggled into your mind professionally. I was the cigarette the advertisers told you you needed. I’ve also been on the other side of the looking glass. Watching you. Studying you. Impersonating you. All of us in Hollywood, media, and advertising do. And you know what? We are really good at it. We have had it drilled into us how best to be marketed to you. How best to be sold to you. How to implant what “we” want into your brain, into your thoughts, into your wallet. And it works. You’re sold a fake reality all for the rock-bottom price of $14.

The men who thought they owned me think that they own you. They are the latest in a long line of myth peddlers, from the men behind the Bible to these modern-day “content creators.” They’re mostly self-aggrandizing, egomaniacal abusers of power. And they’ve never been more dangerous. Few in Hollywood, and no actress that I can recall, has gone rogue. Hollywood operates like the Mafia when it comes to protecting its own. Especially if your “own” is a rich white male. Yes, I said it. But here’s the thing, it’s true. I didn’t make it so, it just is. In other news, the sky is blue in Los Angeles today.

      By telling some of my story, I aim to shine a light. For those who think Hollywood is a silly joke . . . it’s not. It’s a deadly serious business and one that keeps its winnings. You may think it’s as simple as forking over hard-earned cash for a night out at the movies or paying a cable bill to be entertained. I’m here to tell you the price you are paying is much higher than you know. You are paying with your mind, your behavior, and your patterns. Things that should have no price tag. In our as-seen-on-TV society, the simple fact is that what