River of Time

by Naomi Judd

  When I asked what was going on, she announced, “I have a new manicurist, Charlotte. She really wants to meet you.”

  I shook my head no. “Please, Mother. I can’t even smile I’m so exhausted. I’ll meet her tomorrow.”

  She ignored my plea and drove to the salon. I could see through the window that there were eight strangers waiting to meet me. I took a minute to run a brush through my hair and apply fresh lipstick, but I still looked like a cat pulled out of a well. I dreaded having to be social, but it was obvious that I wouldn’t be able to rest until I fulfilled Mother’s selfish wishes, once again. After about ninety minutes of small talk and photographs with each employee and invited guest at the salon, we finally got back to the car.

  Mother glowed with self-satisfaction all the way to her house. I glowed, too, from a high fever.

  The next year I planned a huge birthday party for Mother. I took her to the stationery store to pick out a design for her invitations. She wanted to have about eighty guests, so I rented out the nicest restaurant in town, along with a combo of musicians to play her favorite songs. I promised I would stay next to her and sign autographs and take pictures with whoever asked, which delighted her.

  All of our family, Larry, Wy, and Ashley, and my siblings and their children were in town for the event, and most of us stayed at the house. I craved one-on-one time with them to catch up on our lives. The only thing I asked of Mother was to please not let any fans or press into the house while I was staying with her. It was one of the few times I ever requested anything of Mother. I had finally set a boundary. The morning after the big party, I was coming down the stairs in my bathrobe at eight o’clock, craving a cup of strong coffee and chat time with my siblings. Through the front window I could see a man in a “Judds” ball cap sitting on the front step. He was a superfan. Before I could stop her, Mother ignored her promise to me and opened the front door, inviting him in for a cup of coffee, breakfast, an autograph, and time with me, in person. I was furious with her for stealing the precious time I had to catch up with my sister and brother and nieces and nephews and hear about their lives. I knew that if the fan was sitting at our kitchen table when they came downstairs, they would be upset, too.

  I tiptoed up the stairs and packed my suitcase. I called my tour bus driver and blurted out, “Come get me. I’m out of here.” I left from the back door without saying goodbye to anyone. Mom didn’t have a clue about what boundaries meant.

  A couple of nights later, I turned on the TV in my hotel room to see footage of my childhood bedroom and my mother describing me as a girl. She had invited Hard Copy into the house even though I was long gone. I guess the only lure she could promise them was a peek into the closet of my teenage years and a couple of photos long left behind in a dresser drawer. It was humiliating and I felt invaded, but I was willing to let it be the past, especially when Mother told me she had “no idea it was a tabloid TV show.” When they asked what it was like raising me, she replied, “It was like having Shirley Temple in the house,” rewriting my desperately unhappy childhood as her own Hollywood fantasy.

  The next time one of our tours had a stop in Lexington, Kentucky, I decided to surprise Mother by leasing a coach and picking up all of her friends and neighbors to attend the concert. I loaded the bus with snacks and drinks. I told Mother she could invite whomever she wanted and they would all have free tickets in one of the first couple of rows. This was a special concert, being filmed for a CBS TV special about the Judds.

  Mother became like a cruise ship director and the life of the party. During the concert, she insisted that I not only acknowledge her, but also include the names of the twenty-four people she had invited. I hesitated, thinking that the ticket-paying audience didn’t care about that, but I proceeded to do what she asked, not wanting to upset her. Apparently, I left off one name as I hurriedly introduced them down the row. After the concert, when I thought my mother would be appreciative of the trouble I went to in making sure everyone had fun, she wouldn’t look at me or speak to me. She was furious that I had neglected to mention the young pastor’s name and title. He didn’t seem to mind, but Mother sure did.

  One of my favorite roadies finally approached me to inquire, “I know it’s none of my business, Mamaw, but why do you let your mother treat you that way?”

  I was so used to being treated disrespectfully by Mother that I forgot that other people, besides my family and friends, were noticing. It was embarrassing, but eye-opening. Still, I tilled the garden of this relationship with Mother, hoping to find a new beginning where something might have a chance of breaking through and growing.

  These memories of my relationship with my mother began to surface as I tried my hardest to stay afloat, back home in Franklin. I didn’t want to be hospitalized again, so I did my best to keep my anguish to myself.

  I’ve always been good at compartmentalizing my emotions. It allowed me to do what I needed to do to survive when I was young. During my singing career, being able to compartmentalize was helpful, too, as so many people relied on my judgment and decision making for important issues. But now my emotions overflowed with each new memory and I couldn’t seem to push them away unless I was distracted with something else. As soon as the sun set every night my anxiety level would rise. I would know that with the nighttime would come the quiet in which my thoughts would push to the surface, refusing to be ignored. Hell was the long hours of winter darkness. I rarely slept and had begun taking Klonopin every single night, sometimes three or four within eight hours. By 3 a.m. my thoughts would carry me once again to the imagined relief of suicide.

  I decided to write my will. Larry and I had already started the process before the Encore tour because I wanted to be sure our gorgeous farm that I’d worked so hard to get and the land would be protected, but now I became obsessed with having the will completed. My frame of mind was that my life could end at any minute. I mourned the person I felt had already died.

  I have often said to audiences that attend my speeches that our tombstones are engraved with the date we were born and the date we die. In between the dates is the dash. The life you lead, what happens during that dash, is what is important. As a performer, I’ve had an electronic press kit for years, which gives the viewer a three-minute overview of my career. It was always a source of satisfaction. Now that I was certain my career was over, it seemed as if that three minutes would be all I would be remembered for.

  During my panic attacks at night, since I couldn’t sleep, I would clean out my drawers and closets. I started to give away my clothing, some to friends, some to charity, by the armloads. I gave away handbags and belts and most of my jewelry. I did everything with the mindset that I had very little time left.

  At one point I found the small handgun I had hidden in my boot months before. I carefully held it in my hand. The metal was cool and solid. I walked into the bathroom and stared in the mirror. I held the gun up to the side of my head and looked at my face in the mirror. I thought about my grandfather, Howard. Did my maternal grandmother, Edie Mae, murder him or did he actually pull the trigger and end his own life? It suddenly didn’t seem like such a terrible way to go. The gun I held wasn’t loaded, but my hand trembled at the thought of what it would take to pull the trigger. Suddenly Larry appeared unexpectedly in the mirror as he came up from behind me. His eyes were filled with fear and he gently unfolded my hand from the empty gun and took it away. He couldn’t even speak to me for almost an hour.

  My depression and anxiety had such an effect on Larry that he had gone into his own tailspin since my return from Scottsdale. He had also been prescribed Klonopin by his general practitioner to help him deal with the stress at home. He soon figured out that I was sneaking pills from his prescription, which is how he knew I was back on it myself.

  When he could talk, he said one thing: “I’m not going to leave you alone at all, anymore. Not until you get better.” And he didn’t. I was under constant observation every waking moment.


  Chapter 14

  May I Borrow Your Hammer?

  Dr. Mona Lisa Schulz and I had been talking by phone at least once a week since my return from Scottsdale. She could tell by my voice and reaction to her questions that I was slipping lower and lower. I didn’t tell her that I had self-prescribed Klonopin from my hidden stash and even had asked my general practitioner doctor to write a prescription for more, which he gave me without asking questions. I didn’t tell her but it’s hard to hide something from such a gifted medical intuitive, so Dr. Mona Lisa already knew. It’s uncanny being around her, since she knows things about you before you can tell her.

  She convened a family meeting with Larry and Ashley once again.

  The truth came spilling out that I was taking Klonopin again. I was very forthright that I refused to go through the risky phenobarbital detox protocol at Vanderbilt a second time.

  Dr. Mona Lisa already had an alternate idea. She felt strongly that I needed treatment specifically for my panic disorder, because that was what had pushed me back toward Klonopin. Her suggestion was inpatient therapy at a rehabilitation facility in Malibu, California. This would have three benefits: get me through Klonopin withdrawal, teach me coping skills to deal with panic attacks, and be in sunny California during the winter. Everyone was in agreement that this was a good idea, except for me. The thought of being in another situation where I would be under observation twenty-four hours a day, treated like a child, and have my days and nights structured and monitored made me want to kick and scream like a toddler being forced to an early bedtime. I did not want to go.

  Larry wouldn’t be able to stay with me, but he vowed to find a nearby hotel to live in and promised to be with me for every available visiting hour. I still dreaded having to go, but I was more concerned that Larry would give up on me if I didn’t go. He couldn’t keep up his currently imposed arrangement of never leaving me alone. He was trapped in the house with me and I was feeling completely mistrusted. I knew he had every reason to not trust what I would do next, because I doubted my own ability to reason in reality.

  Singer Stevie Nicks has been very public about how difficult it is to detox from benzodiazepines like Klonopin. After Stevie went through rehabilitation for an addiction to cocaine in the late 1980s, she was prescribed Klonopin. She went on it and didn’t get off for eight years.

  When I met Stevie more than a decade ago, she described the feeling of her addiction to me, but at that time I could only sympathize, because I didn’t have an addiction issue. She told me that her creativity vanished on Klonopin. She felt calm but completely dead inside. She said she became a “whatever” person who didn’t care about anything anymore.

  Remembering this conversation with Stevie Nicks made me shudder in anticipation of what I could become. I’ve never been known as a woman without passion or drive. Having a cause or a purpose has always mattered greatly to me. I took Stevie’s warning words as a harbinger of my future if I continued taking Klonopin.

  Yet her description of the detox process scared me equally. I hoped that it wouldn’t be as severe as Stevie described: “My hair turned gray. My skin molted. I couldn’t sleep; I was in so much pain. Legs aching, muscle cramps… The rock star in me wanted to get in a limousine and go to Cedars-Sinai and say, ‘Give me some Demerol because I am in pain.’ And the other side of me said, ‘You will fight out this forty-seven days.’ I felt like somebody opened up a door and pushed me into hell.”

  The rehab treatment facility in Malibu, Promises, is in a lovely, expansive resort-type of building with large sun-filled windows, set far back into the hillside from the main road. There is nothing that looks threatening or institutional about this place. Still, I was feeling like I was rushing headlong into “hell.”

  When Larry drove me up the long private road to the treatment facility, his face reflected both somber resignation and relief that the end of my problems might be in sight. I could feel my heart thumping against my rib cage and my hands were tingling and turning numb. It was difficult to take a deep breath in. I realized that being able to take a Klonopin when I thought I needed one would no longer be an option. This terrified me since I had become very dependent on it, once again, in the last four months. I knew as I was admitted for this inpatient treatment that everything would be taken away. In preparation, I thought I was being crafty and hid a couple of Klonopin in the strap of my bra. I wanted to have them available, just in case it got really bad. It didn’t work. Promises is pretty used to desperate clients trying to come prepared. They go through everything you bring with you, including the clothing on your body. I found the search invasive and humiliating. I wondered what would it take to convince Larry to take me back home.

  * * *

  Everything visual about Promises would make you think you were there on vacation, from the beautiful landscaping to the spa and swimming pool; a massage therapist and acupuncturist were there almost daily. However, you aren’t there for fun or good memories. From the first day it becomes very clear that your schedule is not your own. In many aspects it’s like being locked up in a high-end jail. Almost every waking hour is scheduled and even during your free time you are still under observation. This would be my life for at least the next month. I begged Larry to not leave me there. He gently reminded me that nothing else had worked thus far.

  The curriculum at PCS in Scottsdale had many hours of individual therapy with the adage, “If you can’t name it, you can’t solve it.” In Malibu, it was the complete opposite. Twice daily patients would all meet in one large room for therapy called “Process Group.” Often these ninety-minute sessions had outside speakers, professionals who would lecture about specific topics like skills to prevent a relapse into alcohol or drug use. The group sessions seemed endless, since most of the information the speaker was giving was not new to me. I am well-read on many psychological techniques so I would get extremely bored as the speakers droned on. Plus, I actually speak on these topics myself. My fuse was pretty short, especially as I was detoxing from Klonopin. I was restless and resented having to be there at all and I let everyone know it, too. I had no filter left between my thoughts and my speech.

  One afternoon a dull-as-dirt psychologist who was robotically talking about the eight stages of psychosocial development, from Erik Erikson’s model, noticed I was jiggling my foot with impatience, which he must have thought was rude. With a snippy tone, he asked me if I knew the names of the eight stages.

  Of course I do, I replied. I took a deep breath, like I do when I have to sing a particularly long phrase. “Trust versus Mistrust. Stage One. Stage Two is Autonomy versus Shame and Doubt.” I rattled them off before he cut me off with, “Well, if you know so much, why are you here?”

  I could tell that he was purposely trying to shame me in front of the group. I wasn’t having it.

  “I’m here because I have a disease of my brain,” I snapped and then added, “but I can see exactly what your problem is, you fat-ass moron.” The other patients started to laugh. The frustrated therapist was now angry and declared that he was going to report my behavior.

  I stood up and yelled, “Go ahead. You have borderline personality disorder with impotence problems!” His hands were balled into fists at his sides and I thought momentarily that he might come after me. The only response I felt was: Finally! Some excitement!

  The room fell silent. Everyone looked at me as though Toto had pulled the curtain open revealing that the Wizard of Oz was a dumpy psychologist going through the motions of doing his job. Were we really afraid of him “reporting” us? Did we have to endure speakers who wanted to be there less than we did? One of the other patients raised his hand and said, “We’d like Naomi to lead the group from now on. We like her better, plus she knows more.”

  The others clapped and whistled in agreement. I didn’t intend to rouse the rebels, but it reminded me that I have a strong mind of my own, a mind that would hopefully heal and return me to the woman I once was.

 
; To pass the time, I found myself observing the personalities of my fellow patients at Promises, the eleven other people in my group. We became a tribe. The Mamaw Judd side of my personality asserted itself as I questioned each person about his or her life and spent time dispensing comfort or courage. It was helpful to both of us.

  One twenty-something woman was admitted for her second stay after a relapse on drugs. I could tell she felt strangely at home and protected in this setting. I discovered that her parents were wealthy globe-trotters who were happy to pay for her treatment instead of participating in her therapy. Promises became like family to her. I thought she probably would not make it past her addiction if there weren’t more acceptance and love for this girl in the real world.

  Another patient was the son of a well-known politician and had gotten into the habit of drinking red wine and taking Klonopin to relax. He never expected to lose control over his ability to get by without it, but finally he had to admit he was powerless to change his habit. Larry and I would spend our visitations with him. There was too much potential for scandal or tabloid leaks if his parents visited and people saw him with his famous family.

  One of the most famous singers in the world was there, as well as a woman who looked like a June Cleaver–style housewife. You would never pick her out in a crowd for having a heroin problem. The insidious nature of addiction floods across every social, racial, educational, and economic line. More than 20 million people in the United States have an addiction problem; that’s one in ten Americans. People who are depressed are more likely to have an addiction problem.

  A week after I arrived, a young man from New York City checked in. He was slender, well dressed, and wore black horn-rimmed glasses. He was given a room directly across from mine. He seemed paranoid and high-strung and after I gave him a hug of welcome on the first day, he began to shadow me everywhere I went for the next week. He would save me a seat at every group session and would come into my room uninvited.