Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

warm water and rested my stoned eyes on the wall opposite me. But could I really do it? I dipped my
toes in and out of the water and listened for the quiet echo the splash made as it bounced off the tile
walls, feeling like an exotic fish trapped in some enormous aquarium. Outside the bathroom, the
mansion was eerily quiet.
It was unusually calm at this hour of the night. We spent yet another evening out at one of
Hollywood’s hottest nightclubs (like clockwork, we went clubbing every Wednesday and Friday),
before coming home and retiring to Hef’s room, where we all smoked weed and went through the
weird bi-weekly “bedroom routine” (which was nothing like most people imagined it to be). To an
outsider, our evenings looked incredibly glamorous: seven beautiful women dancing the night away
behind velvet ropes and bulging security guards, private table service to cater to our every desire,
and exclusive access to the club—all at the expense of the world’s most notorious boyfriend: Hugh
Hefner. But if you looked close enough, each girl appeared to be just a little bit vacant and merely
going through the motions of what life ought to be. Life inside the mansion wasn’t at all what I
expected to be—not even close.
Everyone thinks that infamous metal gate was meant to keep people out. But I grew to feel it was
meant to lock me in. I wasn’t quite sure how I ended up in this curious, often dark world, but I was
petrified by my own fear of what it would mean to ever leave. Tucked away inside Hugh Hefner’s
rolling Los Angeles estate, I was controlled by a spur-of-the-moment decision I made at 22 years old
that I had grown to deeply regret despite the extravagant world it afforded me. It was a decision that
changed the course of my life.
I had to believe that there was a greater purpose for the choices I had made: whether it was to
help advance my career or whether it was truly for love. And depending on the month, the week, and
sometimes even the hour of the day, I would waffle back and forth between precisely why I was
living a life as nothing more than “Girlfriend Number One” to a man who was old enough to be my
grandfather. I didn’t want to admit that I had sold a bit of my soul for the chance at fame.
Would anyone even miss me? It’s amazing the dark places your mind can wander when you’re
depressed. The depths of my own depression had led me down this very dark path, and there was no
gleaming light, however distant, at the end of this tunnel. Maybe it was the pot and the alcohol, but
drowning myself seemed like a logical way to escape the ridiculous life I was leading. I just couldn’t
take my misery anymore. Of course my family would be devastated, but I rarely saw them enough for
my absence to make a difference.
From a distance, it appeared as though the girlfriends’ days consisted of bopping around Beverly
Hills shops, driving flashy cars, and toting designer handbags. I played the part of the perfect
girlfriend well: a bubbly, fun-loving, carefree girl who loved her dogs, her lifestyle, and, most
important, her boyfriend. Playing that role quickly became second nature, and the blurred lines of
reality made it so that some days I struggled to even remember what I was like before moving into the
mansion. It was like a high-stakes version of teenage politics: sometimes you try so hard to fit in that
you almost forget it’s all an act. I was afforded many things while I lived in the Playboy Mansion . . .
but never the opportunity for the sort of self-discovery most 20-somethings enjoy.
Public criticism and speculation have always trailed Hef and his harem of young, blond