Many of my belongings were kept in the barn. Steve knew that my modelling portfolio, early family photographs and my books on faith were stored there. Many of the items I had kept from my early business ventures were kept in sealed boxes. One day, I wanted to fondly look back on my life, and let the girls know about their mother’s own career before their father became the biggest star in professional wrestling.
These keepsakes were the remnants of the girl before she met the boy.
I wanted to salvage what I could, but it was too late. Housebound by the sweltering Texas heat, my addictions had sucked all energy from my body. I would lay motionless for hours, weakened by unremitting fatigue.
Steve frequently reminded me to go through the barn, but I couldn’t seem to muster the will to do so.
Devoid of strength, I pleaded to have the fire postponed. But there was no stopping Steve. In his eyes, he had given me repeated notice, and I had dismissed his request to clear the unit.
He arrived at the hacienda with Ricky and Sandra, who brought a digger and some gasoline.
Steve looked over at me with disappointment. In his eyes, he had seen that I had not bothered to retrieve anything from the barn. He needed to make a point, and he did.
Immobile, I sat from the hacienda as they ripped everything from the barn, and dumped it in a pile on our grounds. Without any compassion, the fire started.
My past was left in ashes, and there was little I did to resist it. The little girl from Southend-on-Sea no longer existed. She was just a memory. Underneath my skin, I was screaming. I wanted to function but my addiction was becoming hard to bear.
I was neglecting myself, and tried to find ways to shake off my melancholy. One day, I had been shopping in the local supermarket, and came across some hair dye. It had been months since I had went to the hair salon, and realised that my dark roots were showing. If I smartened up my appearance, it might give me the boost I needed to function.
I picked up a packet of dye, which was a nice strawberry blonde colour, and bought it. Once I got home, I put the product in my hair, and left it on before rinsing it off my head.
When I got to the mirror, I was aghast. It was far removed from the colour I expected, and was a luminous orange. I had to get the carrot tone out of my locks, so I headed back to the store to get some lightener.
The lightener didn’t work. My hair was just a paler, thinner version of the previous tint.
To rid myself of the orange, I sourced some high strength peroxide. Bleaching my hair, I left it on for a while before washing.
I walked to the mirror to see how it looked.
The bleach had completely fried my head. All that remained were lifeless, frizzy strands of fluff above my scalp. Unhappy with how I looked, I made a decision.
I went to find Steve’s clippers and shaved my hair.
When Steve got back that morning, I was still asleep, and laying on bed. When he got into the bedroom, he just stared at me, gaping in stunned disbelief. His wife was as bald as him.
“What have you done?” he sighed, as he looked into my innocent eyes with compassion.
I told him I had a bad experience dying my hair.
“With those big eyes and no hair, you now look like an alien,” he painfully smiled.
After he asked what I was going to do, I told him I was going to get a baseball cap and a wig. He laughed. I felt comforted by Steve during the shock of losing my hair, and he even nicknamed me ‘Spike’ as a term of endearment when it started to grow again.
Considering how radical my appearance was from what Steve was accustomed to, he was very gentle with me. He seemed to sympathise with my plight.
Even though there was empathy, Steve was becoming increasingly concerned by my behaviour as a result of my use of GHB.
The following week, we were expected to attend Billboard Music Awards at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, Nevada. Held on 7th December, it was a star-studded ceremony, featuring many of the top music acts in America. Steve had been invited to attend due to the popularity of his compilation album.
When we got there, I noticed Steve was walking slightly ahead of me during media interviews and any promotional spots that were being filmed. I realised that he perceived me as a loose cannon, and was worried at what this unpredictable wig-wearing vixen would do next.
Cautious around me, my husband was acting like he did not want to be associated with me. And it hurt. As the night drew to a close, Steve looked at me with pity. He placed his arm around me to comfort me. I looked into his eyes and smiled.
With his gentle embrace, I could feel that he still had love for me.
But I could see that his eyes were starting to look at me in a different way.
19 IN DARK DESPAIR
From the beginning of 1999, Steve had become distant and introspective. I feared that my unpredictable behaviour over the last year was driving him away from me.
I didn’t believe it was in Steve’s nature to cheat, even if he was thousands of miles away on the road. But various sources had called to tell me that Steve was now travelling with Debra McMichael, the new valet of fellow WWF performer Jeff Jarrett. I initially dismissed these rumours as fiction.
As problems were being reported in our marriage, we were smothered by the presence of Ricky and Sandra whenever Steve was home. They dropped by to share their latest complaint.
Ricky had been drinking an open beer while driving his pickup truck, and had been pulled over by Sheriff Hodges. Wanting to give him a chance, Hodges told Ricky that he was going to let him off with a warning.
“I like that Sheriff Hodges, he’s a really nice guy,” I said.
“I don’t care if that Sheriff Hodges drives a Cadillac or has a college education, he is still a stinkin’ nigger,” Sandra barked.
Appalled, I raised my eyebrows at Steve and walked away from them. Stephanie and Cassidy were in earshot of the foul language, and I quickly ushered the children into the house.
Due to Steve’s demanding schedule, our alone time as a couple had become increasingly rare, but he spent an increasing amount of time with the toxic pair. I had really become unsettled by their friendship with Steve, as he was spending more time with them than his family.
Within days of his return to work, an unnerving situation started to occur at the hacienda.
While Steve was touring, I had started receiving threatening phone calls late at night, frequently when I was alone in the house.
Unsettled by the altered voice, the caller would often tell me that my time was due at a specific hour. The caller was vague to the point that I was watching my back at all times.
I was terrified that someone was intending to hurt me, or worse still, kill me in front of the children.
Every night, I would get these calls, sometimes I would even be awakened by them.
The person knew my routine, and each of my movements. It was clear that I was being watched.
I feared that someone had overheard my outspoken views against the culture of racism in Boerne, and was trying to drive me out of town.
On Sunday 24th January 1999, I got another call. My time was to be up that night.
Frozen with fear, I paced around the living room of the house. The night was particularly dark, and there was a torrent of rain that was quite unusual in Boerne.
Distressed, I was shivering when I heard the rumble of a pick-up truck coming down the road.
The truck turned into the drive, and the beams of the headlights came closer and closer to the house. With the rays beaming through the windows of the hacienda, the vehicle stopped and the door opened and an obscured figure approached the door.
There was no way I was going to let myself be murdered in front of the children. I had to make a decision between fight and flight.
Determined by the maternal instinct to protect my children, I ran.
I was alone and scared, but I needed to lead danger away from the house.
Stumbling onto the ground, I scra
mbled to pick my body up, and ran to the gate.
I sprinted across the road, and hurtled myself over a fence, treading on a rattlesnake as I journeyed into the woods.
With rain pelting off my face, I could not stop. I was determined to get away from my stalker and journeyed into the thick darkness of the forest.
I could see beams of light in the night sky, flickering off the falling rain. I was convinced that there was somebody searching for me. But I would do whatever was necessary to prevent anyone catching me.
Exhausted from the running, I needed to hide. My sweater and jogging bottoms had soaked right through, and my face was being hammered by the icy downpour.
Finding shelter under a crooked tree, I ripped my skin as I scratched at my watch to remove it. I could not take the chance that it would reflect any flashlights, so I clawed at the wet earth with my nails, burying its glass face under the mud.
Crouching down, I wrapped my arms around my legs. Closing my eyes, I tried to shut off from the horror of the outside world.
The silence wouldn’t last. Within minutes I could hear the abrasive cacophony of barking dogs.
Convinced I was being tracked, I had lost hope. It was only a matter of time before I would be found.
Dejected, I looked to the stars, and sighed.
As my eyes wandered upwards, I saw the tree offering itself to my hands. I had to climb.
Clutching at the timber, I ascended, making it high before resting myself on a high branch.
As I sat, I tried to get a better view, but my vision was obscured by tear droplets and heavy rain. I had to come up with an exit plan if the worst was to happen.
I could not allow myself to be torn apart by the hounds, or tortured and raped by their master. In these remote woods, there would be no witnesses, and I would have simply been reported as a missing person if my body had never found its way back to the hacienda.
If I was going to die, it would be by my hand.
I took off my sweater, and tied it around a nearby branch, which I knew could take the weight of a person. I was trembling in my bra, as I prepared to say goodbye to the world before hanging myself.
I closed my eyes, and would take in one last inhale. I prayed for God to listen to my desperate plea for help, and to show mercy to my soul.
Then there was a silence. It was a hush that I had never heard before. The rain had stopped, and the wail of the pursuing dogs had calmed, then faded.
I opened my eyes, and there was nothing. In disbelief, my wide eyes looked all around. There was no danger, and I was in amazed disbelief.
Gathering myself, I unwound my sweater, and followed the noise of a passing truck to lead me to the civility of the road.
Exasperated, I started to feel an incredible thirst. Cupping my hands into a nearby pond, I started to drink the water. It was rejuvenating, and I wandered towards the sound of the passing carriageway.
I turned the corner and noticed a familiar garden shop. I knew it was close to the hacienda, and knew my way back from the shop.
When I returned, the hacienda was empty. A message was left that Jade had taken Stephanie and Cassidy to stay with Ricky and Sandra, and had disrupted Steve’s work during the Royal Rumble pay-per-view to call him.
Despite happening in the most remote setting imaginable, the tabloids had been notified of my sudden disappearance that night, and a story had been printed in The National Enquirer about my crazed run from my home.
There was never any interview with the press for my side of the story, nor had there been any mention about the death threat calls that led me to run.
The article was solely trying to smear my name, painting me as an unfit mother. I could not understand the motive, nor could I figure out who had tipped off the media about the incident.
Terrified by the repeated phone calls, I was driven by a maternal determination to shield the girls from sharing my threatened fate. I loved my children to the extent I was willing to accept the worst possible ending on my own.
When the story hit the papers, I got a call from Steve.
“What are you doing? Are you trying to ruin my career?” he asked.
He had grown concerned at my unpredictable behaviour, but the attention caused by The National Enquirer story forced him to ask what was going on in my head.
After a brief reprieve, Ricky and Sandra returned Stephanie and Cassidy to me, but my relief was short lived.
I received another call.
I needed to ensure the safety of the girls, so I took them to Mary’s house. I was growing tired of having to put the girls through my misery, and I wanted them to be in the company of someone who cared.
Trembling, I checked myself into a hotel for a couple of nights. I hoped the distance would allow me to evade the fate that was promised by the mystery caller.
Increasingly paranoid, I vowed to get off the GHB which had been dulling my senses.
Even if the withdrawal symptoms heightened my anxiety, I had to become more vigilant if I was to survive the pursuit. I was still using other medication, but the GHB had altered my perception of reality to the point I was not as alert as I needed to be.
Shattered from a few days’ inner reflection, and coupled with the drain of a self-imposed detox of the GHB, I returned home.
On the way, I drove to Mary’s to pick up the girls. We had dinner together, and laughed before I put them to bed.
Stephanie and Cassidy fell fast asleep, and then it happened.
When I put down the receiver, I knew I could no longer run away.
Fragile, I sat and stared at the walls, hoping that the cloud of uncertainty would pass. But it didn’t.
I was standing in the hallway, and a blinding light shone into the house. The walls were floodlit by a stark illumination.
Peering out of the window, I saw a black truck. It had driven all the way into our garden.
Rigidly facing the house, I realised it was hostile. For over ten minutes, it just stayed there, with its engine grunting.
Steadfastly decreeing that I was not going to be forced out of my house, I looked into the light, staring at the truck until it eventually turned and drove away.
There was only one way out of my predicament.
Knowing that I could no longer live a life filled by running away, I wanted the girls to grow a normal life, even if it meant one without their mother. There was no way my situation was going to improve and they could no longer be around the worry that was consuming me.
For months, I had tried to ignore the threatening calls and strange occurrences that were happening around the house. To ensure I was assessing my predicament with lucid thought, I even rid myself of numbing drug dependence.
But it was all in vain. I was now completely beyond hope.
I had picked up some tablets and cleaning fluids from the nearby convenience store, and returned to the house.
Walking to the kitchen, I was careful in my footsteps as I did not want to wake the children.
I quietly opened up the bottle of pills and swallowed them all.
I wanted to make sure I did the job right, and washed the drugs down with some detergent and disinfectant.
In my mind, I had finally done it. I had killed myself.
I felt an intense burning in my throat. It rapidly got worse, and I was no longer in control of my body.
Projectile vomiting, I went to lie down on the kitchen floor, before mustering up the energy to complete my task.
Life had clung to me like a disease, so I staggered into the hallway, towards the cupboard by the bedroom. It was usually locked, but I managed to get inside.
In the unit was what I had needed to find; a gun from Steve’s collection. I reached down with my hand, and curled my hand around its grip, and looked into the barrel.
I pulled the trigger but nothing happened.
Desperate, the gun was supposed to be an escape from my living hell. I needed to find bullets. I turned on the lights and looked inside the
cupboard, hurriedly shifting things that were in the way in search of some.
Frantic, I entered the bedroom, and started raiding the drawers of the bedside unit and nearby chest of drawers. I was adamant to keep looking, and continued the search. But I was becoming increasingly tired.
I started to fade, and drifted away.
Waking up the next day, I went to the kitchen to fix some breakfast and clean the mess I had made. Saddened by the evidence, I could see the trail of my despair, with scattered pills, vomit and a pool of detergent all over the floor.
I was scared at how I had been driven to the point of taking my own life.
The next day, Steve came home earlier than expected. Having thought about our last conversation, he wanted to come home and offer me support. He dropped a number of scheduled appearances, and arranged for Ray Traylor to fill in for his commitments at WWF live events.
His first action was to locate all ten of my remaining GHB bottles, and flushed them down the kitchen sink.
By leaving the drug around our home, Steve felt guilty that he had introduced me to it. I admitted to him that I had ordered the stash from his contact at the gym, but assured him that I had made the effort to get clean.
Steve wasn’t going to take any chances. He remembered the car crash on the day of his interview with Rolling Stone, and requested that I no longer drive until he was certain I was clean. Conceding with his request, I relinquished my car keys to him.
As a temporary measure, Steve would arrange for Ricky and Sandra to help me on my trips to take the girls to school or to their nanny.
Over the course of his time off, Steve really tried to help me and doggedly wanted to save our marriage.
He spent the time to take the family out of the hacienda in an effort to help me get well, and he even cooked to ensure I was eating right.
It was not long before the front office made contact with Steve. They were aware of my problems, and wanted to know how I was doing. Furthermore, it was explained to Steve that the WWF were willing to send me to rehab if I needed professional help.
Through The Shattered Glass Page 20
