by Mariah Carey
I slipped on some heels (mules, most likely), neatened my ponytail, slapped on some lip gloss, and got in the backseat of the squad car. Being hauled off by cops was certainly no comfort, but I was defeated and needed to get away by any means necessary. The firm seat cushions and the bulletproof protection inside the car provided a twisted sense of security. My body was reminded that it was still in critical need of rest. Morgan slid into the backseat next to me.
I looked at him, empty of everything, unable to accept what my family had just done to me. I couldn’t believe it. I had to outsource my pain, to put the blame on a substitute villain. I thought back to how it had all begun—when had things started to unravel?
In a daze, I whispered, “This is all Tommy Mottola’s fault.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed, and he flashed that sinister smile again. “That’s right.” He nodded. “That’s right.”
We drove off into the darkness.
BROKEN DOWN
That night, I did not “have a breakdown.” I was broken down—by the very people who were supposed to keep me whole. I knew of a place the locals called a “spa” that was very close, and I asked the police if they would take me there. They obliged. I wasn’t familiar with the services or reputation of the place, but I figured at the very least I could finally get some sleep, some nutritious food, and perhaps some medical attention. After all I’d been through, I was very concerned about my physical condition. I knew enough to know I needed healing from the compounded trauma I had just experienced. My body was there, but my mind, my emotions, and my spirit were all powered down, in what I now realize was protection mode.
I remember getting out of the squad car and pacing in the parking lot, knowing I didn’t belong in that place, but I didn’t belong at my family house either. I didn’t know where I belonged. After a long and groggy battle, Morgan convinced me to go inside. I could feel nothing. I signed myself in, believing I could sign myself out. I had no idea what I had actually signed myself up for. After speaking with some of the staff, Morgan left me there. The size, color, and smell of the place, the names, the faces of the people—I don’t have much memory of the details. I was led to a small room at the end of a hall. I perceived it as windowless, though it most likely was not. There was a door to close me in. There was a bed. I curled up tight on top of it.
Terror came quickly.
I could hear the dull thud of a heavy mop hitting and sloshing on the floor in the distance, and the muffled, mingled voices of young girls chatting and giggling. Every once in a while, I clearly heard them say “Mariah Carey.” The mop and the voices were getting closer and louder, settling right outside my door. Their laughter was ringing in my head. I coiled tighter into myself, shut my eyes, and tried to disappear. No relief came. I was deeply scared and completely alone. Prayer wouldn’t come. Fear was my only companion. The whimpering of frightened people behind doors like mine never ceased as the tortuous night crawled toward morning.
The next day came. I was far from rested or clear-headed, but I was no longer totally numb. I knew I was in need of healing, peace, therapy, food, rest, and restoration. I needed care, and the rash decision to come to the closest place possible had clearly not been the right one. I was bombarded with frantic thoughts: Where is my purse? Where is all my stuff? What the fuck am I doing in this terrible, random place, sharing a bathroom I’m too scared to pee in? How do I get out of here?
It was clearly not a spa; there was nothing therapeutic or restorative about it at all. It was closer to a prison. Full of confused young people, unruly and unsettling, it was run like an upscale juvenile detention center. The food was disgusting. My mind was racing. Had my mother really called the cops on me? Humiliated me? Escorted me out of the house I bought? Was I really here now, in some institution posing as a “spa”?
The most frightening thing was that I had no control over my situation. I didn’t have my car, my things, or any money. I didn’t have my two-way pager to communicate with my people. There was only one single, shared pay phone. When no one was looking, I tried to call a few people, but to no avail. There was no privacy. I was walking around as a deflated Mariah Carey, stripped of her professional mask and powers, fully exposed to God knows what.
While my memories of my interactions with staff and other patients are mostly vague, I distinctly recall being brought into a bare little office that felt like a police interrogation room, where an older, balding white administrator conducted a haphazard intake interview. I was clearly still upset, and it was difficult to quickly paint a picture of the misunderstanding that had happened at that house the night before, combined with the intensity and severity of all the work obligations I had ahead of me. I went on about having to shoot a video, about the film premiere preparations for Glitter, and about all the people dependent on me. I was riddled with anxiety and frustrated that this man wasn’t understanding the stakes. Not only was he not caring, he was hostile.
“Looks like you need a dose of humility,” was his condescending response to all I had told him. Oh, he thoroughly enjoyed spitting out that line. It was such an obvious and pitiful power grab. I could almost see him puffing up, believing he’d taken the diva down. Not only the tabloids revel in watching stars crash to the ground. I was defenseless—knifed in the back by my ex-husband and stabbed in the heart by my brother and mother. And they all left me to bleed out inside some hellhole.
I went to try to sign myself out, but to my horror, I discovered that I couldn’t. I don’t know what my brother told the staff, but people were treating me like I was out of control and out of my mind (and most seemed to be enjoying it). It took several days of red tape and paperwork to get out.
I knew Morgan and my mother had been communicating, and I strongly believe they orchestrated the whole thing. I returned to the scene of no crime, my mother’s house (correction: my house). “Coincidentally,” there were paparazzi waiting in the woods to greet me. The cover of the next day’s New York Post was a photo of me, shot with a long lens through the trees, in pajamas, with little dark sunglasses and a messy bun, sipping juice through a straw. The photo was emblazoned with a giant caption, “World Exclusive! Mariah: The First Photos.”
My mother was thrilled. She exclaimed, “Look, it’s just like Marilyn!” (It was not.) The Daily News cover even gave her a mention: “Mariah’s Crack Up! Mother’s desperate 9-1-1 call as diva unraveled.” When I went back to the house to retrieve my things with my road manager, my mother, in a drab housedress, was sitting on the floor of the porch in the rain, playing jacks, in what appeared to be a trance. It kinda freaked my road manager out. What pathetic irony.
Her glee at the tabloid coverage was no surprise to me. Even though I was the child who didn’t break the rules (or laws, or bottles), my mother didn’t seem to have the capacity to fully celebrate me as I matured into an accomplished artist. Sometimes I wondered if she couldn’t even tolerate my achievements. I often felt like there was an undertow of jealousy pulling on her smile, though I still included her in many of the major events in my life.
* * *
One of the greatest honors of my career was receiving the Congressional Award. I’d dreamed of receiving Grammys and Oscars for music or acting, but to be honored by my country for my service to others was a distinction beyond even my dreams—and I dream big. I was the recipient of the 1999 Horizon Award, which is given for charitable work focused on promoting personal development in young people, for my work with Camp Mariah, through the Fresh Air Fund. I’ve never been deeply involved in politics, and at the time I really didn’t fully understand the significance of the award and the event. It’s one of only two medals legislated by a congressional act (the other being the Medal of Honor). I was being honored along with former secretary of state Colin Powell.
We were hosted like dignitaries, and there was a very elegant, formal sit-down dinner before the ceremony. My mother and I were in high-powered, bipartisan company, including Tom Selleck; former Republican
Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott, from Mississippi, and former Democratic House Minority Leader Dick Gephardt (who ran for president a couple of times). This is one of the few events where both political parties put politics aside and proudly participate equally as Americans. On this night, in a room full of politicians, it’s understood no one discusses politics (even I know that). I was proud that a little girl who grew up feeling like an outcast now had an honored seat at one of the most esteemed tables in the world.
I had my mother all dolled up: hair, nails, professional makeup. I bought her a new, fancy dress—the whole nine. This was an occasion to look our best and be on our best behavior.
Well …
She had a few cocktails on the short plane ride from New York to Washington, DC, and continued to booze it on up during the dinner. As the effects of the drinks kicked in, her decorum slipped away. She began to theatrically express her political opinions, which you absolutely don’t do at a distinguished event like this, even stone-cold sober. Her thoughts descended into insults, which melted down into a small but disturbing tirade. The one thing everyone knew not to do was what my mother was now fully engaged in. I was mortified.
My security leaned over and whispered, “We have to get her out of here.” I agreed. They whisked her out of the dining area and hid her in my dressing room near the stage for the awards ceremony—apparently just in time, because it was reported to me that when she got into the room she started yelling, “I hate Mariah! I hate my daughter!” When I escaped from the dinner table to go and check on her, she was completely sloshed.
I slid back to my seat and cheerfully performed as if all were well (Lord knows I’ve had lots of practice). I was escorted to the stage accompanied by two beautiful young Black women from the Fresh Air Fund, who, thankfully, anchored me in the purpose of the evening. I managed to make it through my speech and accept the award. When I got offstage, it was clear we had to get my irate and inebriated mother out of the venue fast, as she was now throwing a full-blown fit. My security worked swiftly to get her into the car, to the airport, and on the plane. On the flight, still decked out in the designer dress I had bought her, she slinked into her first-class seat, continuing to drink and drone, “Morgan is the only one I love. Morgan is the only one who loves me.” Security got my mother safely home and poured her into bed. Alone in the back of a limo, in my black silk gown, hugging an award from my country, I cried.
She may have been in a blackout and unaware of what she did or said. But I had to process the sadness, embarrassment, and pain of the experience. The next morning, I was nervous her booze-induced performance would make it into the press. But it didn’t. I had protected her. I don’t know who saw her, but mercifully, her congressional calamity did not make it into the tabloids.
She didn’t call to apologize. She didn’t say anything.
* * *
Being Mariah Carey is a job—my job—and I had to get back to it. I knew there would be eyes and lenses everywhere. I needed someone to light the way out of the darkness that place had become. By that time, I trusted only a handful of people. So before I was able to see my way out of the shadowy “Cabin in the Woods,” I called on my trusted friend and anchor makeup artist Kristofer Buckle for support. He lifted me up, reapplied my protective public face, and walked with me into the sunlight.
I was wounded, but I got myself back to my penthouse in Manhattan. There was so much recovery and repair to be done. I was still quite fragile, very concerned with the condition of my very new, very big deal at Virgin, and a very short time away from the release of Glitter. The coverage of my “crack-up” had everybody understandably shook—not least of all me. I had not regained my emotional or spiritual strength. I was still very much inside the nightmare, and Morgan was still very much in control. But I didn’t see him as a puppeteer just yet. I still held a desperate, distorted trust in him. He had snapped me out of my screaming fit at the hotel by saying “birthdays at Roy Boy’s.” He was not in sight when the cops came in Westchester. He had ridden with me to the “spa.” So I didn’t associate him with the current collection of catastrophes. He seemed at best an ally, at worst an innocent bystander. I needed someone. And I needed to believe that not everyone was against me.
The pedestal I’d erected for my brother when I was a little girl had long since been reduced to rubble, but I kept trying to place him back on top of it. Though I could not see it then, we were clearly in ruins. If I had had my wits about me, or if someone on my payroll had known better, I would have had a team of specialists and professionals lined up to evaluate and treat me at my home. I did have the wherewithal to want to tuck myself away at an actual spa for a few days, where at least I could get some rest, wholesome food, maybe some body treatments—all the things I’d wanted on my way to that first hellish “spa.” I also wanted the opportunity to clear my head and protect myself (and the label) from more salacious headlines.
Morgan recommended I go to Los Angeles, where he was currently living, making the case that there were actual spas there (true) and no New York newspapers (also true). A spa in LA seemed like a good idea at the time. I allowed Morgan to make the arrangements (not a good idea, at any time, but I was desperate).
When we got to LA my anxiety and disorientation was intensified by the tragedy of Aaliyah’s sudden and horrific death. Just a few days earlier she had told the press, “I know this business can be difficult, it can be stressful. Much love to Mariah Carey. I hope she gets better soon.” The entire music industry was rocked by her death, but the R & B and hip-hop community was devastated. She was indeed our little princess.
So much was happening, and I couldn’t fully understand the magnitude of the damage being done to me. Morgan hooked up with some random guy who he said would be helping us. I remember driving around on the highway for what seemed like an eternity. We finally stopped at a place that did not look like a spa at all but, rather, a detox facility. I was still in the hold of extreme exhaustion, so while I wasn’t thrilled, I didn’t resist. Morgan even went so far as to say, “Come on; it’ll be fun.” It was not fun. It was one of the most harrowing times of my life—and I had seen some times.
Once more, I didn’t have control of the situation. I could not speak up for myself, and when I could, I was ignored and overpowered.
The facility in LA turned out to be a hard-core detox and rehab center. The first thing that happened to me was they administered drugs—heavy, hard narcotics. They were giant horse pills the color of Pepto-Bismol. At first, I refused to take them, but I didn’t have the drive to fully fight. I was so weak. I thought maybe I would just be able to get a little sleep (where was the Ambien when a girl needed it?). Eventually I did sleep, but fitfully. The drugs blocked me from whatever energy and will to fight I had in reserve. They put my big, bright God further in the shadows. They made me sluggish, puffy, and compliant.
I was in a fog much of the time.
Frumpily ensconced in some piece of shit hideous institutional ensemble, I was drained, and my soul was heavy. My face was vulnerable and hadn’t had any protection in many days. That’s one function of makeup—even while giving a natural look, it can serve as war paint, an invisible force field. It often does for me. It shields me from people literally getting into my pores and under my skin. But I had no such protection in that place.
One morning, I was in my bleak room, feeling drowsy, when an attendant came and brought me into the common area. It was crowded with staff and inmates—I mean, patients—and all were staring up at the large television in silence. On the screen was what looked like the view from the kitchen window in my New York City penthouse in the sky. But the picture was framed in chalky, gray clouds of smoke. Orange and red fireballs were shooting out from the top of the glistening silver Twin Towers like meteors against a vibrant blue sky. Then the proud, monumental buildings crumbled from within. One at a time, they came crashing down in excruciatingly slow motion. The effects of the drugs I’d been kept on were no mat
ch for the shock I was experiencing. In that instant, I was stone-cold alert as I watched my majestic skyline disintegrate. My home city was burning and collapsing, and I was thousands of miles away, locked inside a dismal detox—drugged, devastated, and alone.
I was frozen, eyes locked on the horror unfolding before me, when someone from the staff tapped me on my shoulder. They told me it was being reported that terrorists had attacked the World Trade Center, and that they would now be releasing me. I was free to go. Miraculously, it seemed, I was no longer in need of containment or sedatives. I was no longer crazy and out of control.
So I was magically “good to go,” because terrorists had attacked America and a “cracked-up diva” wasn’t interesting anymore? (Hello?!!) But I didn’t ask questions. It felt like the world was coming to an end for all of us. And if it was the end, I wanted to get the fuck out of there. Between being there, getting out, and the chaos and terror of the attacks back home, I didn’t even realize it was the day the Glitter soundtrack was scheduled for release.
The coincidence of my sudden release from “rehab” and the release of the Glitter soundtrack and the 9/11 attacks was haunting. You know how, in a sci-fi horror film, the apocalypse happens and then there’s a lone survivor wandering around surveying the devastation? That was me on that warm and cloudy day in LA. On September 11, 2001, I walked out of detox pumped full of toxins. The city of LA was solid, but I was shaky. I felt alone, untethered, and out of my body. I got myself to a hotel and had the first uninterrupted rest I’d had in weeks. With the tiny bit of strength that rest provided, I was able to finally get to an actual spa, because I still had to do “the best I could” to prepare for the Glitter movie premiere, which was now only ten days away.
