Diary Of Norma Monologue

1926 A deafening cry arose from the small child, her body a pasty white. The infant was avowed Norma Jeane Mortenson. Her father—his whereabouts unknown—and her mother—inapt to care for a child—was withdrawn from her life. This was the beginning to her spontaneous life as Marilyn Monroe.

Age 11: Before “No!” Norma screamed as her mother was dragged to the white and blue ambulance. Tears streamed the child’s face while her mentally ill mother screamed and laughed, the two suited men clutching her upper arms forcefully. Sirens. Loud, obnoxious screeches of sound exploded from the vehicle; Norma was temporarily deafened. The child was unconcerned with her living situation, oblivious to the fact that she had no family. Norma’s small head was
This role sometimes infuriates me because, well, I am actually very smart. This factor enrages me, but I must play the part because, otherwise, how will I be valuable? I have asked myself this question multiple times, and could never come up with a reasonable answer. Maybe, I think, I am not worth anything—I’m not valuable—unless I pretend to be something I am not. So, I plaster on a smile and let the flash of cameras, the hands of men and women constantly touching my body, take
I told them no. My miscarriage that everyone involved said was “the right thing; it’s easier this way, hon.” Bullshit. The surgeries, the sex, the old men, everything. I am nothing. But I am everything. My life is no longer mine; it belongs to my handlers. I want out! “LET ME OUT!!!!!” I scream to no one. Let me out . . . The pills, I need more. The burning sensation of bourbon rubbing my throat raw, I need it. I crave the empty abyss that has become my life. I crave the emotionless black-hole. I crave the escape. What is wrong with me? I had everything . . . but it did not feel like everything. The money, the expensive jewels, the elegant gowns, they meant nothing to me. I am no longer conscious of what I crave, but I feel a longing. A longing for freedom, for a choice. One pill, then five, then seventeen. Forty-five, seventy-nine. A full bottle, then another. White and orange and green and yellow; anything I can get my hands on. I feel the pain—it needs to go away. “MAKE IT GO AWAY!” I shout. The pills, they will make the pain go away, I know it. My body is going numb, my mind taken far away. The edges of my vision, blurry. Blackness takes over me, and I willingly let my body go. The pain, it’s gone. It’s