I don’t really know that much about Marylin Monroe. Not really. Just the things we’ve all read in biographical accounts of her life, here on the internet, or perhaps in books.
I’ve never had much interest in her either. I mean, she seemed nice enough from afar. No doubt she was a beautiful woman. And. A mediocre actress, at best.
But somehow, in it all. I feel sorry for her. This is the anniversary date of her death, August 5, 1962. I wasn’t even born yet.
We all know how they found her. There she was, dead in her home in Los Angeles. They discovered Marilyn lying nude on her bed, with a telephone in one hand. Face down. Scattered throughout the room were empty bottles of pills, all her prescriptions to treat depression.
Her life started out just like everyone else in this world. That one moment, when we come out of the womb and into the bright of day. Her date of entry was June 1, 1926. A Gemini.
Her name at birth was Norma Jeane Mortenson. Her mother, Gladys Pearl Baker (née Monroe), was emotionally unstable. I don’t think anyone knows who Norma Jeane’s father was. But Gladys spent a lot of time in asylums. As such, Norma Jeane was passed around between foster parents and the orphanage.
When she was 18 years old, she took up modeling. By 1946 signed a short-term contract with 20th Century Fox, and that is when she settled upon her screen name Marilyn Monroe. She started her career with a few bit parts and then returned to modeling, famously posing nude for a calendar in 1949. Acting was right around the corner. People noticed her, it seems.
Now jump ahead just 12 swift years. Movies, red carpets, fame. The whole bit of it. The entire world knew — and wanted — Marilyn Monroe.
By 1961, Monroe fell under a great depression. As such, she had the constant care of a psychiatrist. Things were going wrong for her. A couple of years earlier, she was the belle of the ball. But, by this point, she has become increasingly erratic. She resorted to living as a virtual recluse in her Brentwood, Los Angeles, home.
Then it happened. Whatever “it” was. After midnight on August 5, 1962, her maid, Eunice Murray, noticed that Marilyn’s bedroom light had been left on. The maid tried the door but found it locked, and Marilyn was not answering. So Eunice, the maid, called Marilyn’s psychiatrist, Dr. Ralph Greenson. He rushed right over and broke a window to get into her bedroom. And there she was. Dead Marilyn.
Of course, we know the rest of the story. The police were called sometime after. An autopsy found a fatal amount of sedatives in her system, and her death was ruled a probable suicide.
Recently, a number of conspiracy theories have come forward about her death. Most of these stories claim that she was murdered by John and/or Robert Kennedy. It is alleged that she had affairs with both of them. The base of these theories claims that the Kennedys killed her (or had her killed) because they worried she would go public about their affairs. Apparently, she had other government secrets she was gathering. As a note. Robert Kennedy was, in fact, in LA, on August 4, 1962.
Clearly, she was troubled late in life. And, given her fame, she probably felt like she had no outlet for this. No resolution. Whether she died by suicide or murder makes no difference. Her life spark — and she did have a great one — ended early. Only 36 years old.
And.
I just feel sad for her. That’s all.
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“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; oftentimes, we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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“We need never be ashamed of our tears.”
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
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“Those who do not weep, do not see.”
― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
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Her name was Norma, all the while.
