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288 pages, Hardcover
First published October 24, 2023
At what point did I promise to stay seventeen for the rest of my life?
Even though I was being described as so rebellious and such a wild girl, all my best work was accomplished during that time [*]. All in all, though, it was a terrible time.
[*while I was supposedly so incapacitated that I had to be controlled by my family]
Freedom means being goofy, silly, and having fun on social media. Freedom means taking a break from Instagram without people calling 911. Freedom means being able to make mistakes, and learning from them. Freedom means I don’t have to perform for anyone—onstage or offstage. Freedom means that I get to be as beautifully imperfect as everyone else. And freedom means the ability, and the right, to search for joy, in my own way, on my own terms.
‘There is no need to believe it’s either Everything was Britney’s choice, and therefore she was always a sex-positive feminist or Nothing was Britney’s choice, and the evil adults made all her decisions. Both assertions sound desperate to protect her respectability — another version of her purity, in fact — as a prerequisite for compassion. They remind me of how readily conversations about abuse and assault focus on the moral character of the victim in order to confirm that they have indeed been victimized.’
‘It was always incredible to me that so many people felt so comfortable talking about my body. It had started when I was young. Whether it was strangers in the media or within my own family, people seemed to experience my body as public property: something they could police, control, criticize, or use as a weapon. My body was strong enough to carry two children and agile enough to execute every choreographed move perfectly onstage. And now here I was, having every calorie recorded so people could continue to get rich off my body.’
‘Shaving my head was a way of saying to the world: Fuck you. You want me to be pretty for you? Fuck you. You want me to be good for you? Fuck you. You want me to be your dream girl? Fuck you. I’d been the good girl for years.’
“Thirteen years went by with me feeling like a shadow of myself. I think back now on my father and his associates having control over my body and my money for that long and it makes me feel sick.
Think of how many male artists gambled all their money away; how many had substance abuse or mental health issues. No one tried to take away their control over their body and money. I didn’t deserve what my family did to me.”
“That’s the thing about this industry. I never knew how to play the game. I didn’t know how to present myself on any level. […] I can see now that you have to be smart enough, vicious enough, deliberate enough to play the game, and I did not know the game. I was truly innocent—just clueless. […]
So I was young, and I made a lot of mistakes. But I will say this: I wasn’t manipulative. I was just stupid.”
“The woman in me was pushed down for a long time. They wanted me to be wild onstage, the way they told me to be, and to be a robot the rest of the time. I felt like I was being deprived of those good secrets of life—those fundamental supposed sins of indulgence and adventure that make us human. They wanted to take away that specialness and keep everything as rote as possible. It was death to my creativity as an artist.”
“I’d been taught through the conservatorship to feel almost too fragile, too scared. That’s the price I paid under the conservatorship. They took a lot of my womanhood, my sword, my core, my voice, the ability to say “Fuck you.” And I know that sounds bad, but there is something crucial about this. Don’t underestimate your power.”
“I sometimes thought that it was almost funny how I won those awards for the album I made while I was supposedly so incapacitated that I had to be controlled by my family.
The truth was, though, when I stopped to think about it for very long, it wasn’t funny at all.”
“Shaving my head was a way of saying to the world: Fuck you. You want me to be pretty for you? Fuck you. You want me to be good for you? Fuck you. You want me to be your dream girl? Fuck you. I’d been the good girl for years. I’d smiled politely while TV show hosts leered at my breasts, while American parents said I was destroying their children by wearing a crop top, while executives patted my hand condescendingly and second-guessed my career choices even though I’d sold millions of records, while my family acted like I was evil. And I was tired of it.”
“My father shoved aside my bowl of receipts, setting up his things on the bar. “I just want to let you know,” he said, “I call the shots. You sit right there in that chair and I’ll tell you what goes on.”
I looked at him with a growing sense of horror.
“I’m Britney Spears now,” he said.” pg. 182
“The saddest part to me was that what I always wanted was a dad who would love me as I was—somebody who would say, “I just love you. You could do anything right now. I’d still love you with unconditional love.” pg. 23
“Why was it so easy for everyone to forget that I was a human being—vulnerable enough that these headlines could leave a bruise?” pg. 100
The night before we recorded “… Baby One More Time,” I was listening to Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” and fell in love with that sound. I stayed up late so that I’d go into the studio tired, my voice fried. It worked. When I sang, it came out gravelly in a way that sounded more mature and sexier.
Once I felt what was happening, I became so focused on the recording. And Max listened to me. When I said I wanted more R&B in my voice, less straight pop, he knew what I meant and he made it happen.
Then, when all the songs were done, someone said, “What else can you do? Do you want to dance now?”
I said, “Do I want to dance? Hell yeah, I do!”