R’s help, she “fell out of love with madness” (as he put it) just months before his death, she published an essay empathizing with Britney Spears’ descent into mania and praising him for saving her from a similar fate. Vincent’s after she downed a bottle of pills, who sang show tunes - “It’s just his neurosis that oughta be curbed / he’s psychologically disturbed!” - with her in sessions, and who tried, with no hint of salacious intent, to confiscate a fashion photo she showed him of herself, bleeding from self-inflicted cuts, in her underwear. This was the man who rushed to her side at St. Three years ago, her psychiatrist died of lung cancer she didn’t know he had.
If you’ve ever been in therapy and liked, trusted and worried about losing your shrink, Emma Forrest has lived your nightmare.
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