Paris: A Memoir for Young Women in the Age of Influencers

by Paris Hilton

Know your worth, girls. You’re not lucky to be at the party; the party is lucky to have you. Apply as needed to relationships, jobs, and family.

I’m not saying the world revolves around me; I’m saying my world revolves around me, just as your world revolves around you. And we can’t see far enough to know how many worlds intersect with our own. But they do.

Do you ever wonder why two out of three sexual assaults go unreported? Or do you have the luxury of not caring? A lot of people who hear the story of a fifteen-year-old girl being sexually assaulted or exploited automatically think: Stupid girl. Our culture is so good at spinning it that way, we even say it to ourselves. For decades, every time that creepy mosquito voice whispered through my nightmares, I woke up thinking, Stupid stupid stupid girl!

Pouring adolescent hormones into an ADHD brain is like dumping gasoline on a fire. Many teenage girls with ADHD struggle with mood swings, weight gain, anxiety, panic attacks, and a lot of unfamiliar, frightening physical and emotional turbulence that lead to their being isolated, judged, bullied, and punished, which makes it all a thousand times worse.

Fathers and daughters. It’s a tough dynamic. I don’t know anyone who’s gotten it 100 percent on either side. Ultimately, We the Daughters must accept that a father is more than the sum of his most difficult choices. I don’t doubt my dad’s love for me. I hope he knows how much I love him, how grateful I am for the advice and guidance he’s given me, and how much I respect the role he played in our family’s genetic opera.

Troubled-teen facilities hid behind skillful marketing and daytime-TV endorsements. Thinking they were literally fighting for their child’s life, parents signed over custodial rights and medical powers of attorney and agreed not to report suspected child abuse. Traumatized “graduates” were threatened and shamed into silence. The few who were strong enough to speak out had no way to connect or tell their stories until decades later.

I don’t recall ever being allowed outside. Eleven months without seeing the sky or breathing fresh air.

Obs was an oddly shaped cinder-block chamber, not square, not circular—a hexagon maybe—about the size of a public restroom stall. There was nothing in there except a bucket and a roll of toilet paper on the cement floor near a drain hole. In the light of the open door, I saw blood and feces smeared on the wall. When the door slammed shut, the only light filtered through a small window with wire mesh inside the glass. It was freezing cold. I read somewhere recently that they keep it between fifty-five and sixty degrees, but it felt as raw and frigid as a meat locker. They took your underwear and bra when you went to Obs so you couldn’t use them to kill yourself. Sometimes they gave girls shorts and a tank shirt made of a sort of gauzy muslin. Other times not. I don’t remember having anything on that first time. I paced, rubbing my arms, trying to warm up, staying close to the little light of the window. A girl in another room screamed and screamed for what seemed like a long time. She screamed herself hoarse and then fell into a rhythmic moaning that rose and fell like the sound of the ocean. I was reluctant to sit on the floor. It felt like ice under my feet, and a sickly crap smell lingered around the drain hole. When I couldn’t pace anymore, I scrunched down in a corner and put my arms around my folded knees, rubbing my legs. My hands and feet were numb. My core clenched in a hard knot. I couldn’t even cry. I just meeped like a baby bird who fell out of the nest. Stunned...

Time slipped out of joint, like a dislocated shoulder. Silence. The darkness was so all-consuming, the only way I could stay alive was to find a source of light inside myself. I don’t know how else to explain it. I fell inward, and I found a beautiful world. I built a beautiful home. I created a beautiful life.

Here’s what I believe: Your reality is totally up for grabs; if you don’t create your own life, someone else will create something based on their own agenda and project that on you. Don’t let them do it, my loves. Don’t let them tell you that their something is bigger than your everything.

My life after Provo would be everything. Instead of numbered sweats, I’d curate a designer wardrobe and never wear the same outfit twice. Instead of bloodshot eyes and a bruised face, I’d have lush fake lashes, a seamless spray tan, and a touch of glitter on my cheekbones. Instead of shame, I would wrap myself in audacity, and I would make so much money and be so successful, no one could ever have control over me again. Fuck trust. Fuck entitlement. Fuck inheritance. I would never take another dime from my parents. My belongings, my well-being, and my body would belong to me and me alone.

Rick and Kathy Hilton didn’t raise a fragile little Fabergé-egg rich girl; they raised a badass kid who kept fighting, climbing, running. We’ve actually laughed about it a little.

I try not to think about how easily I slipped through a crack in the floor. It’s like, if you were walking down the street with your friends, and suddenly one of them slipped down an open manhole, you’d notice, wouldn’t you? I certainly would! I mean . . . I think I would. I hope I would. Or maybe we’re all so focused straight ahead, people slip away when we’re not looking. Shit. Let’s all take a sec and check our people. Make sure no one has slipped down a manhole.

The future belongs to girls who refuse to do as they’re told.

The character I played—part Lucy, part Marilyn—was my steel-plated armor. As a teenager, I created her: the dumb blonde with a sweet but sassy edge. I used her to get into clubs, portrayed her on TV and in movies, and let her out to play with the paparazzi. People loved her. Or they loved to hate her, which was just as marketable. I leaned into that character, my ticket to financial freedom and a safe place to hide. I made sure I never had a quiet moment to figure out who I was without her. I was afraid of that moment because I didn’t know what I’d find.

I know we’re supposed to spin terrible things to make it sound like they were actually good, but that’s bullshit. That heart attack did not save your life. Cancer is not a gift. Your abuser did not give you strength. Terrible things are terrible. Let’s just acknowledge it. If you found strength, wisdom, or a new way of thinking, that’s awesome, but notice that the strength, wisdom, and new worldview came out of you, which means it was all there inside you to begin with.