Guests

What If It Was Him?

"Athena! Who is that guy?"

"Athena! Athena! Is Gareth a thing of the past now?"

"Athena! Did you know him before breaking up with Gareth?"

"Are you using drugs again, Athena?"

"Athena! The guy has a ring! Is he cheating on you or are you engaged?"

"You're gaining weight. Could it be a health problem?"

"Athena! You're depressed again!"

"Athena! Athena! Answer us! Or are you hiding something?"

Do you know what it's like to hate your own name just because they won't stop associating it with despicable questions? They repeat it so much, dragging it with words filled with malice and lies, that more than once I thought about changing it.

I would love to grab their cameras, smash them, make them swallow their microphones, and if I could... Well, it's better to cut that thought off now. They bring out the worst in me! You know what I do? I smile at them, greet them, and walk away.

I know I chose a life as a celebrity. I accept that my privacy may be diminished when I'm out and about because when people see me, they want to take photos with me, ask me how I'm doing, inquire about my next song or the next season of Killing Floor. All of that is understandable. The wicked spectacle and the harassment that some journalists subject me to are not. It seems they don't care that, despite being a famous woman, I am still a person who is hurt by their questions in search of my reaction, pain, or fury.

They don't care if I don't respond. It's all the same to them whether I talk about Gareth—yes, I mentioned that bastard—or about Rick now. They want to find any tiny piece of information to use against me, and I can't allow that.

I've limited the number of interviews with traditional media to the bare minimum. I'm using my social media platforms to make announcements or to let journalists and influencers interview me via TikTok, Instagram, or Twitch because their respect and warmth are infinitely greater. They see me more as a regular woman who was fortunate enough to work in what she loved, rather than a piñata to be hit until I break and there's nothing left of me. Ultimately, I believe these media outlets are seeking the downfall of a star—in this case, mine. And they came dangerously close to achieving it.

If it hadn't been for therapy, the support of my family, Kay, Connor, and the messages from many fans who showed genuine concern for me, I don't know if I would be here in the Azores today—I don't even know if I would be alive.

It's not easy to talk about the fact that suicide crossed my mind. It's very complicated to understand that money isn't everything—it helps, but it's not the only thing that matters in life. Love, friendships, having a purpose... Those kinds of things are what help you stand up in difficult times, when you don't even want to wake up. It has been—and still is—a tremendous effort for me to find myself again in this world, so harsh, so cruel even to a woman.

I reach the door of my room, and I don't need to use the card to open it because the door is ajar, pushed by Kay. I can't hold back, and as soon as I see her, I burst into tears and embrace her.

She leads me inside, closes the door, and we sit at the foot of the bed. Now it's Kay who embraces me and cries with me. I can't recall how many times this scene has repeated itself during this past year. What would I do without her?

"I knew you were worried about me, but this much?" she comments, trying to coax a smile out of me that doesn't come. "What happened?"

"Life, Kay. Life reminds me that the scale of karma remains balanced for me. For every good thing that happens to me, something equally bad occurs."