In those books, she explores clinical depression, substance abuse, an overdose, the extremely public separation of her superstar parents, her father’s death, her melancholy friendship with Michael Jackson, her weight gain and obsession with her looks, her therapy and treatment, and her lifelong low self-esteem. And the only real hint of tenderness or even affection between them comes in an anecdote where she does an impression of him to make him laugh - a cute story weighed down by her desperate, miserable inner dialogue:įisher’s previous memoirs, Wishful Drinking and Shockaholic, are also about heavy, hurtful experiences. In private, they had sex, but barely spoke to each other. In public, she says, he largely ignored her. While carefully avoiding any intimate details, she portrays Ford as monosyllabic, withholding, forbidding, and intimidating. More than a third of Princess Diarist is devoted to her talking in mournful circles around their hook-ups. It’s deeply weird and dysfunctional how the media has presented their brief relationship as the giddy confirmation of a collective fandom fantasy, rather than the way Fisher actually portrays it, as exhausting and gutting. And there’s nothing sexy, sweet, or even appealing about Fisher’s three months with Ford in her recounting here. But there’s nothing cute about the party anecdote, which on every level feels like a bunch of older men taking advantage of a younger girl.

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