Unbreakable: My New Autobiography by Sharon Osbourne Read Free Book Online

social call. She’d been there before. Twice. And she’d been there when we did an intervention for Jack, and of course for her father.
    We eased our way in. The boyfriend was watching TV and Kelly was repeating, ‘Look, I’m tired. Can’t you see I’m tired?’ Gradually the others made their way up the steps and into the house, a host of friends including Melinda, our Australian nanny who was with us when we were shooting The Osbournes and who turned into a staunch family friend. Within four minutes the house was full.
    The way it works is that the therapist drives the intervention. They’re like a referee; there to calm everyone down, to stop the bickering that goes back and forth and to get it to a level where everybody is chatting nicely and saying their bit. That’s the idea, anyway. But Kelly wouldn’t take it. Within minutes she was throwing herself around the place, shouting and screaming at us to get the hell out.
    I saw the panic in her eyes. She was frightened and ashamed. I could see all of this in her face and my heart was breaking for her. This was my little girl, the sweetest, funniest person ever with a big heart. I could picture her on her swing, with her little welly boots, sucking her thumb, running around the garden with the dogs without a care in the world. Now here she was, embarrassed, frightened, lost. And it wasn’t just me. It was the same for Ozzy and Jack. All we wanted to do was help her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She had hurt no one but herself. She was just our little girl, the joy of our lives, and she was hurting herself. And now she was like a caged animal, lashing out. I know in my heart she must have wanted to break down, curl up in a ball and cry. But she’s got my front and my strength, so she just lashed out.
    ‘Get out,’ she screamed. ‘Get out! I’m calling the police.’ And she did.
    And they came; they had to. She was the householder.
    Two uniformed officers arrived, casting a practised eye over the room before their gaze settled on Ozzy, who was pacing around and muttering to no one in particular.
    ‘What seems to be the problem here, ma’am?’ one of them asked Kelly.
    ‘These people are in my house and I want them out.’
    ‘Who are they?’
    ‘My mother, my father, my brother…’
    ‘It’s an intervention,’ I explained, and introduced the therapist. Then I talked to them, and then Ozzy talked to them. Eventually they left, agreeing that it was ‘a highly personal situation’.
    All the time she was repeating, ‘Why are you doing this? What have I done? I’m not doing anything wrong.’ How do you begin to explain to someone that the only thing they’re doing is hurting themselves? By this time I knew that she had been fired by the BBC for not turning up. And yet I know Kelly. The last thing she would want would be to let anyone down. The only person she’d let down was herself. It’s like a web you weave to cover up your actions, a web of lies, reasons for not turning up, reasons to justify bad behaviour, and she was so entangled in it she didn’t know how to get out.
    What she didn’t realise is that it’s easier to throw in the towel, to own up to what you have done, to become truthful. But it takes years to get there. And once you do, it’s freeing. It only comes with maturity, however, and whatever qualities my darling Kelly had, maturity wasn’t one of them.
    She was like a volcano. Someone would say something and Kelly would erupt. Someone else would speak, she’d calm down and then she would kick off again. It must have gone on for three to four hours. And all the time Kelly was venting her anger on me. Because I was the person closest to her and she knew I’d take it. We’d made arrangements for Kelly to go into Hazelden, a rehab facility in Portland, Oregon. They don’t care who you are. It’s not a rest home for the rich and famous with paparazzi lurking in the shrubbery. It’s a serious, serious treatment centre.
    I