Peace From Broken Pieces: How to Get Through What You're Going Through

by Vanzant, Iyanla

  I left for a three-day trip to finish up the album. When I called home the next evening, I got no answer. Several calls, still no answer. I didn’t worry; I knew my grandson was with my husband, so there was little chance for hanky-panky on his part. He called me back after midnight. They had been to dinner, he and my grandson and his best friend. Then, because the hot tub was finished, they had all gotten in. I suddenly felt as if someone was trying to pull my eyeballs through my ears.

  “Who was in the hot tub?”

  “Me, Oluwa, and Jerry. It is really nice. I know you’ll love it.”

  “Are you telling me that you let Jerry into the hot tub with my grandson?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jerry has AIDS. Jerry has full-blown AIDS! He has no business in a hot tub, and he has no business in that hot tub with my grandson or my husband.”

  “Well, he is my best friend and I don’t have an issue with it.”

  “Well, you should!”

  “You can’t catch AIDS like that.”

  “Did he sweat?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, my love, sweat is a bodily fluid and that is how AIDS is transferred. You must be crazy.”

  “No, I’m not, but you are!”

  I am not sure who hung up first. I just know we both did.

  Now I knew that my husband either had left or was about to leave our marriage. The man with whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life was communicating to me in a passiveaggressive display the depth and breadth of his rage. I had no clue how to address it. So we did not address it. When I arrived home the next day, I called the contractor and had him come and drain the hot tub. By the time my husband returned, there was fresh hot water bubbling in the tub waiting for us to immerse ourselves. He went to bed. I sat in the tub alone and wept.

  Once the album was complete, I embarked on a 16-city tour to promote it. The plan was to debut the album on my first fall appearance on Oprah and begin the tour the next day. In each city, I would be joined by one of the artists who appeared on the album. I would perform the spoken word, they would perform the music. The producers at Harpo, Oprah’s production company, wanted the exclusive right to promote the album and announce the tour. I was fine with that until I learned that it meant they did not want me to make my annual appearance on BET with my friend Tavis Smiley.

  Tavis and I share the same birthday. Each year, I would appear on his show on our birthday, and we would discuss our plans for the coming year. The producers wanted me to forego it that year so that my first appearance for the season would be on Oprah’s show. Tavis and I discussed it, and we agreed not to talk about the album. I told the producers, but either they were being overly cautious or they didn’t believe me. They insisted that I not do the show. Numb as I was, though, I was not quite ready to have people tell me what I could and could not do.

  Oprah sent me a message that it was my birthday and I could do whatever I wanted to do. Though I was delighted to have her support, I also sensed that something had subtly shifted. The producers seemed a little less cordial and a little less amenable to my suggestions for the show. I decided to pray about it and hoped that everything would turn out for the best. Little did I know that I was revving up to sabotage everything I had dreamed of and worked for. Lesson number two: You do not get full-time blessings for part-time devotion.

  The album debuted on Oprah as planned. Shortly thereafter, I got a hand-written note from a vice president at Buena Vista Television. I read the note in total amazement. The VP praised my work and wished me good luck. She gave me a telephone number and invited me to lunch at any time. So I picked up the telephone and called the number. Perhaps I thought I would leave a message letting her know that I had received her note. Perhaps I thought that it was good business to have the private telephone number of a television executive. Perhaps I just didn’t think. My personal lie of not being good enough simply could not pass up such a selfdestructive bonanza.

  I was completely unprepared when she answered the telephone on the second ring. When I introduced myself, she squealed and thanked me for calling. She said she’d been trying to contact me for some time but had been told that I had a six-figure deal with Harpo. You would think that, knowing I did have a deal on the table at Harpo, I would just keep my mouth shut. You would be wrong. Instead, I helpfully explained that while I had a wonderful working relationship with Harpo, I did not have a six-figure deal.

  A few days later, she called me. Her boss had an idea for a television show on relationships that she thought I could help her develop. She assured me that all they wanted to do was pick my brain. When she told me her boss’s name, my mouth dropped open. Why in the world would Barbara Walters need my advice? Apparently they were getting nowhere with the show, and Ms. Walters felt that I could help them find a new approach.

  This is me, I thought, a poor, ugly, unworthy girl from Brooklyn, talking to an executive of a major television network who, on behalf of Barbara Walters, is asking me what to do. This could not be happening to me! But it was. I was amazed. I was scared to death. I was primed for self-sabotage.

  I had become so busy, so self-directed, I had lost touch with my inner voice and my sense of self. My marriage, my most intimate relationship, was failing. What better way to boost my sagging ego than to have the two most powerful women in the television world talking to me, courting me, wanting to make a deal with me? That was not my first thought, but I must admit, it was a thought. Beneath it all, I now realize that I was still trying to heal the poor, dysfunctional, ugly, bad girl who needed to prove to herself and everyone else that she really was good enough. Someone once said that those who are buried alive do not die. They smolder. They steep. They emit a lingering stench that invades the most secret parts of your life. They stimulate the pathology and ignite the patterns. The only reason I could even consider living beyond what I was feeling was because I remembered to pray—Oh God!Please help me! Please! Tell me what to do!

  The network flew me to New York and put me up at the Plaza. Over a lovely meal of food that I could not spell and did not recognize, Barbara Walters and three other network executives plucked my brain and stroked my ego. Back at home, I got the first in a series of telephone calls from the network asking that I consider an offer to host a new show. My response was, “No, thank you. I am happy where I am.” The executive said she understood. She just wanted to ask in case I had changed my mind. There were changes going on at the network, she said, and they needed to make some decisions very soon. If I changed my mind within the next week or so, I could call her. She gave me her home telephone number. That bothered me, but it was also intriguing. Why are these people so hot on my tail? What do they want from me? What do I have that they want?

  Until and unless you know that you are enough just the way you are, you will always be driven to look for more. Knowing that you are enough is a function of consciousness. Your enough-ness develops in direct proportion to the relationship you have with your true identity. Until you wholeheartedly believe in your own worth, in spite your of accomplishments and possessions, there will be a void in your Spirit. I had more than a void. I had a gaping hole that no amount of achievement, money, or acknowledgment could fill. I’m not good enough, and I will never be good enough to deserve this kind of attention. It was the personal lie, the core belief running my show, encouraging me to blow up my life just to prove once and for all that I wasn’t good enough to have or keep what was coming my way. There was a part of me that knew that I was on purpose, the same purpose the spiritualist had made me aware of so many years before—ushering other people on their spiritual journey. I wanted to do just that, be of service and support to others. There was, however, a part of me that refused to believe I could be that valuable.

  After the fourth or fifth telephone call from the executive, I concluded that the offer warranted my attention. I knew there was a lesson I
needed to learn, but I had no clue what it was. I decided to reengage my spiritual practice of prayer and fasting. I committed to pray and fast for seven days or until I got the direction I needed. The issue at hand was whether to stay at Harpo or leave and start my own show. My preference was to stay put, but I had that black hole in my Spirit to be filled.

  On the sixth morning, I awakened with the thought, The time is now. I shot straight up in my bed and spoke aloud, “I am not leaving Harpo.” As if someone were whispering in my ear, I heard it again, The time is now! Time for what? I concluded that the message meant that it was time for me to stand on my own. Then I came face to face with the belief that I was not good enough to stand on my own. That meant I was avoiding the offer because fear was driving my choice. But I really didn’t want to leave Harpo; it was the opportunity of a lifetime. Why would I walk away from a blessing as huge as the one on my plate? Then I had one little egotized show me that I am good enough! thought. The thought was: Tell Oprah what is going on and ask her if she would be willing to back my show. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

  I followed the thought into action, with a few minor and perfectly devastating adjustments: I did not reveal to Oprah who had made the offer. I just said it was someone very big in the television world. I shared with her—honestly, I thought—why I should move forward with my own show now, even though I had said just the opposite in our meeting. I asked for what I thought would be an appropriate next step—to create a pilot project for a show I would host. Oprah seemed to receive my request with gracious consideration. The executive producer asked me who had made the offer. I told her that it was not important. What was important for me, I said, was to listen to the guidance I had received after praying and fasting. Instead of pressing me, she simply said that I would hear from Harpo soon. Oprah remained silent.

  A week later, I heard that I should accept “the offer,” because it was evident that I was not moving in the same direction as Harpo. My attorney received a similar curt call. He too was shocked and confused, since I did not actually have a firm offer from the Walters camp. Yes, there had been inquiries, but we had dismissed them, saying that I was happy with Harpo. Not one to give up on a dream that easily, I pursued the executive producer for a better explanation of why they had decided to drop me. When I finally got her on the telephone, she let it rip!

  “We were offering you the chance of a lifetime. We were offering you something that not many have been offered, and you have the nerve to tell me that someone ‘big’ made you an offer. Someone big! Who is bigger than we are? Because you prayed and meditated, you think that someone big can do more for you than we can? I’m not sure what you want, but we must not have it.”

  For the next two weeks I could barely eat or sleep. I waited and I prayed, but there was no more information forthcoming. Not a word, a note, a card from Harpo, and only self-condemnation from my own mind. How could you be so stupid! Now look what you’ve done! You have totally and royally f——d up! Each thought made me more nauseous than the one before it. While I had often been numb to the excitement of appearing on Oprah’s show, I was intensely aware of the pain I felt at being put off it. Pain was something I had learned to anticipate and expect. Joy was a completely unfamiliar emotion in my life.

  When your life starts to fall apart, it doesn’t always happen all at once. One fell swoop of the universe’s backhand across your face might be more merciful. I had no idea that this was just the beginning of a collapse that would span seven years. It was October 1999 when the Oprah pebble landed, sending an unmistakable ripple through the river of my life. It was December 25, 2003, when the proverbial brick hit me in the head. And it didn’t stop there.

  When you don’t know who you are, Chances are you don’t know what you want.

  When you don’t know what you want, There is no chance for you to get it.

  CHAPTER 10

  ME AND MICKEY MOUSE

  Almost a year had passed since I had last heard from Harpo. Other than a few close friends and Gemmia, no one knew the pain I carried in my heart and soul about what happened. Greater than the pain, however, was the shame. How do you explain to people that Oprah Winfrey kicked you to the curb? I had a bizarre kind of loyalty to her. I wouldn’t talk about what had happened, because I didn’t want anyone to think ill of her and I was ashamed to admit my role in it. Instead, I convinced myself and everyone else that I had left of my own accord to do more writing and, perhaps, my own show.

  Then I received a call from Buena Vista saying that since I was no longer on Oprah, they really would be interested in talking to me about launching my show. It put a smidgen of truth in my fabrication. It gave me something to focus my energy on. It forced me out of the house, away from my depression and sadness.

  The contract negotiations went quickly. I was about to make more money than I had ever imagined. With the deal inked and ready to go, Gemmia and I started planning for the future. I still had most of the huge check I had received from my Oprah appearances. I did something that Gemmia and I had been planning for years. I bought a building. Finally, I was going to have a spiritual center, a place where the work could continue long after I had ceased to be. We decided to pay for the building outright and borrow the money to do the renovations. We created a business plan, established a board of directors and went to the bank. With the promise of future income in my contract, the bank gave me a loan for the amount I had paid for the building, $1.3 million. They put the money in escrow and struck a deal whereby I would pay only the interest for five years. They would roll the cost of the building into the overall loan for $3.5 million.

  The sight of that many zeros on one line, attached to my name, made my head spin. But Gemmia was totally comfortable; she had a business acumen that I had never developed. I was afraid to have money and afraid that if I had it, it would go away. She believed that money was just a means to an end, and our end, as we had envisioned it, was a good one. Her calm gave me the tummy comfort I needed to move forward. She and my business manager handled all of the details. I just showed up and signed wherever they pointed.

  I was so proud of myself. In fact, when I sat and thought about it, I could feel a bit of joy brewing inside of me. Everyone at Inner Visions was totally elated. One of my board members had a canvas sign made with my picture on it. It read, “The future home of Inner Visions Worldwide.” He had it hung on the side of the building. I was smiling in that picture, and for the first time in a long time, I was smiling on the inside. Many nights on the way home, I would drive past the building and stare at the picture of me smiling at me. I would allow myself to think about how far I had come. I had a very lucrative contract from a major television network. I was about to start a new project for my publisher. I owned a building that was about to become my dream come true. I had money in the bank. All systems were go in every area of my life, except at home. There, we were coasting cautiously. I didn’t say much to my husband about the building except to talk about a space for his men’s program. The bigger my life became, the more I could intuit his fear and resentment. True to my pattern, I mastered the art of growing very small in his presence.

  Nineteen-ninety-nine was a huge income year for me. That meant that 2000 would be a huge tax year. I had no idea how huge until I sat down with my longtime accountant. It was just a few weeks after we had purchased the building, so the joy was still brewing when he informed me that I owed the federal government $1.3 million. That was the exact amount I had paid for the building, the same as the amount I had put in escrow in order to get the loan to renovate. It was also the exact amount of money I no longer had in the bank.

  I was still functioning with a paycheck mentality: Someone else took the money out of your check and sent it to the government on your behalf. What I learned that year was that as an independent contractor, I needed to pay quarterly estimated taxes. My accountant and business manager, with Gemmia’s input, worked out a payment plan with the IRS. What none of us had anticipat
ed was the amount of income one guest expert appearance on Oprah would yield. I had landed in an entirely new tax bracket. I was still thinking like a pauper and driving a Honda when in fact, I had become a millionaire. Who knew?

  Buena Vista spared no expense in getting the Iyanla show off the ground. The production office was in the high-rent district of Upper Manhattan, with the studio directly across the street. I had an assistant, a hairdresser, a make-up artist, an apartment, and a chauffeur-driven car on call. I worked with executive producer Bill Geddie and my supervising producer, Mindy Moore, for weeks before I arrived in New York. We discussed the theme of the show, the look and feel of the show, and most important, a vision for the show. I was just beginning to get excited. In no time at all, I would be living out a dream I had held on to for many years.

  I was assured that Mindy and Bill as well as Barbara Walters and the executives in Los Angeles understood my vision and were committed to making the show a success. I was their latest and greatest find. The day I arrived in New York, I realized that things were not as they seemed.

  The first clue was that I did not have a space of my own in the production offices. Mindy had a huge office overlooking the West Side Highway. They reminded me that most of my time would be spent in the studio, where I did have an office and a dressing room. In the interim, there was a small alcove outside of Mindy’s office, and I could set up there.