Never when I was with him did I feel I could breathe easy and fully as myself. His power was pervasive, and with it came an unspeakable unease. In the beginning of our time together I was walking on eggshells. Then it became a bed of nails, and then a minefield. I never knew when or what would make him blow, and the anxiety was relentless. In the eight years we were together I can’t recall ten minutes with him when I felt I could be comfortable—when I could simply be at all. I felt his grip was steadily choking me off from my essence. I was disappearing in installments.
It felt like he was cutting off my circulation, keeping me from friends and what little “family” I had. I couldn’t talk to anyone that wasn’t under Tommy’s control. I couldn’t go out or do anything with anybody. I couldn’t move freely in my own house.
Many nights I would lie on my side of our massive bed, under which I would keep my purse filled with essentials just in case I had to make a quick escape—my “to go” bag. I had to wait for him to fall asleep. Keeping my eyes locked on him, I would gradually inch my way to the edge of the bed and surgically roll my hips and swing my legs to the floor. Never breaking my gaze, I’d tiptoe backward toward the door, which seemed a full city block away. Ever so carefully, I’d back out of the door. It was such a victory when I made it out of the room! I’d softly creep down the grand dark-wood staircase like a burglar stealing a little peace of mind, then make my way to somewhere in the manor. Often I just wanted to go to the kitchen for a snack, or to sit at the table and write down some lyrics. But every time, right as I would start to settle into the calm of the quiet dark and begin to find my breath—Beep! Beep! The intercom would go off.
I’d jump up, and the words “Whatcha doin’?” would crackle through the speaker, and I’d gasp and once again lose my own air. Every move I made, everywhere I went, I was monitored—minute by minute, day after day, year after year.
It was as if I was being crushed right out of myself. Everything he felt he didn’t create or control was being strangled away. I created the fun and free girl in my videos so that I could watch a version of myself be alive, live vicariously through her—the girl I pretended to be, the girl I wished was me. I would view my videos as evidence that I existed.
I was living my dream but couldn’t leave my house. Lonely and trapped, I was held captive in that relationship. Captivity and control come in many forms, but the goal is always the same—to break down the captive’s will, to kill any notion of self-worth and erase the person’s memory of their own soul. I’m still not sure of the toll it has taken on me, how much of me was permanently destroyed or arrested—perhaps, among other things, my ability to completely trust people or to fully rest. But thankfully I smuggled myself out bit by bit, through the lyrics of my songs.
I left the worst unsaid
Let it all dissipate
And I tried to forget
As I closed my eyes
I sang some of what I couldn’t say. Though I do try, I cannot forget. Sometimes, without warning, I am haunted by a nightmare or flashes of suffocating. Sometimes I still feel the heaviness. Sometimes I have no air.
ALONE IN LOVE
When I was in seventh grade, I had my first professional recording session. I did background vocals on a few original songs, including a cover of the classic R & B ballad “Feel the Fire,” originally written and recorded by Peabo Bryson. The session took place in a dinky little home studio, but it was a real job, and I got paid real money. It was also when I began to discover how to create nuances and textures in vocal arrangements and how to use my voice to build layers, like a painter. This was when my romance with the studio began. This was a major moment that began my journey, my drive to succeed.
One session gig led to the next. I was a little big fish in a puddle. The Long Island music scene was pretty small, and word of mouth was the method of marketing yourself. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen, I was writing songs and recording background vocals and jingles for local businesses. I was doing background vocals regularly for these young Wayne’s World type of guys. They were into wild, loud guitar riffs and stuff, while I was listening to (rather, I was obsessed with) contemporary urban radio, which was mostly R & B, hip-hop, and dance music. I lived for the radio. Though our tastes were clearly very different, I liked the work nonetheless. I was making demos for songs and commercials, and learning how to adapt my voice to the task, whatever it was. The studio was my natural habitat. Like being in the ocean, when I was there, I felt weightless, and all my outside concerns fell away. I focused only on the music, and even if I didn’t like their songs, I respected the work it took to make them. One day, while we were working on one of their mishmashes of a song, I told them I was a songwriter too. I figured if we could work on
