When I was thirteen, I went to see Hannah Montana in concert.

Standing there, watching her electrifying performance as both Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus, I thought she was the best thing to have ever happened to this world. Surrounded by thousands of screaming fans just like me, I respected her, looked up to her, and would have given a piece of my soul to be in her place.

Eventually, Hannah Montana disappeared, and Miley Cyrus is who remained. The girl behind the wig, so to speak. She broke away from her squeaky clean Disney persona in a very big way, and though it offended many, she always said she did not care.

Still, I never bashed her. Did I understand why she wanted to take drastic steps to separate herself from what she was before? No, but I was never an international icon, my face was never on plastic cups, so I figured she was doing what she believed was best for her.

But, I draw the line when she curses her old image.

She says in an interview with Marie Claire that she would have hot flashes, anxiety attacks that left her fragile eleven-year-old self scarred beyond belief. It was like an episode out of Toddlers and Tiaras; only she was old enough to really understand what was going on.

Well, in the truest Hollywood fashion: Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

While she was being dolled up for the red carpet, I was struggling to understand how eyeliner worked. While her concerts sold out, I was at home, seemingly buried under the drudgery of homework. While she performed on TV as a not-so-popular pre-teen girl, I was one.

No one slapped my face all over page six because, frankly, no one cared. No one tracked my every move, taking my picture each time I went out. There were millions of girls like me, ones who hung posters in their rooms, in their lockers, and wished for a life like hers.

It’s a big slap in the face to hear that she doesn’t even care about it.

Why is it celebrities spend their entire lives trying to be famous, and then when it happens, complain? Isn’t this what you wanted? Didn’t you know what you were getting into when you decided to audition for a Disney show? If it was really so terrible, why didn’t you quit, why didn’t you walk away from the fame, the fortune, turn your back on it all, and fade into obscurity?

The truth is simple: because, no matter how high a pedestal you put yourself on, no matter how many costumes you wear, how many times you say the industry is awful, how many nude pictures you post, how many times you allude to being so into drugs, you’re a part of it.

People like Miley Cyrus are insecure, they crave the attention, the constant need to remind you that they’re different, because, in reality, they’re like every other famous person. You can put a new spin on the game, but the rules don’t change; you’re only as popular as the public decides.

So, you say what you can to be relevant. Inevitably, it’s a poor-little-rich-kid story. My life was so terrible, everyone wanted to be me, I never had to face the pressures of regular school, on set they portrayed me as someone I wasn’t and now I believe I have body dysmorphia because of it.

She equates not looking like a pop-star, but still having access to makeup artists, hair experts, and God knows what else, as the same as someone who looks in the mirror every day and thinks of how lovely it would be if their body looked more like hers.

At thirteen, I thought Miley Cyrus was the sun, and all other planets revolved around her.

At twenty-one, I wonder if she’s desperately trying to believe it, too.