When we pulled up to the property, there were more than ten security personnel standing outside, preparing two large black SUVs to go on a search. They stopped me before I could get up the driveway to the garage, as if I was a fugitive crossing the border. I was promptly whisked back into the house and back into the studio—back into my tower, my jail.
JD was visibly shaken. My spontaneous, mischievous little scheme had had real consequences for him. I hadn’t brought my phone, so security had no way of contacting me. There would be hell to pay from Tommy for such sloppy surveillance. While Jermaine was in the studio, concentrating on laying down the beat for the track, security had busted in and interrogated him, with their guns out in broad daylight. I assume they figured that since Jermaine was the producer, Brat was his artist, so he was in charge, he was responsible. They yelled at him: “Where is she? Tell us where she is!” Of course, he had no idea where we were. He was working. He was at my studio. This was the first time he’d been at my house. He was only twenty-three years old.
After Tommy was assured of my safe return, the situation settled down. Brat rolled a fat blunt, but God knows she couldn’t smoke it around me, so she just held on to it throughout the shoot, like a security blanket, and began to work on her rap for the remix. Her nerves were a bit of a wreck now too. In addition to everything else, she probably felt guilty we had caused such drama while recording her first big rap feature with me. But when the mic was hot and the camera was rolling, Da Brat killed it. Her delivery was happy and hard, playing with clever references and sophisticated rhythms inside the space of the song:
Who rocks your Music Box
And breaks down your structure
You fantasize as you visualize me as your Dreamlover
Fuck with your Emotions Unplugged in your Daydream
—“Always Be My Baby (Remix)”
We got it done: a remix, a video, and a prison break all in one day. You would never know from the video I directed that we were surrounded by armed security. I was a master at editing out the pressure.
SIDE EFFECTS
I was a girl, you were “the man”
I was too young to understand
I was naïve
I just believed
Everything that you told me
Said you were strong, protecting me
Then I found out that you were weak
Keeping me there under your thumb
’Cause you were scared that I’d become much
More than you could handle
Shining like a chandelier
That decorated every room
Inside the private hell we built
And I dealt with it
Like a kid I wished I could fly away
But instead I kept my tears inside
Because I knew if I started I’d keep crying for the rest of my life with you
I finally built up the strength to walk away, don’t regret it but I still live with the side effects
—“Side Effects”
When Tommy suggested we go to couples therapy, I was surprised. Unsurprisingly, he told me it would have to be with his therapist, who he had been seeing for years. Nevertheless, this was a monumental step for both of us. Our careers, and consequently our marriage, were constantly in the public spotlight. But no one had ever been allowed into the dark interior of our relationship. I’d never had anyone to confide in about how I was living—or not living. I had carried the burden of believing that because I was able to write, sing, and produce my songs, become famous, and gain access to unimaginable wealth, I didn’t deserve personal happiness too. I truly believed everything good in my life would cost me, and that Tommy’s control was the price for my success.
Honestly I was really only trying to gain five minutes of peace—the opportunity to be able to walk down the stairs into my own kitchen to grab a bite to eat without the hiss of the intercom and his menacing “What ya doin’?” buzzing out of it. Also, I didn’t trust anyone—by then I was estranged from my immediate family, and everyone around me was connected to Tommy and scared of him. I knew that anything I said would get back to him, and I would suffer his constant rage.
I had started to develop hives-like breakouts. I went to see the dermatologist, who assured me that my otherwise unblemished skin was having a reaction to severe stress. It was suggested I make some dietary changes and add a few new cleansing routines to help soothe the symptoms. When I told Tommy the doctor’s diagnosis (it was not good business for your top-selling artist to be hived out), he barked back, “Stress?! Fuck you got to be stressed about?” Lawd, let me count the ways.
Therapy was a lifesaver. Our therapist was a kind, older Jewish woman with short amber hair and alert eyes. She had a cozy office in her classic Westchester home. I liked her more than I thought I would, as I assumed she would be on “Tommy’s team,” but she was refreshingly impartial and a real pro. And he respected her. (Which was a major thing.) At that point in my life, I didn’t have many relationships with stable, professional adults whose livelihoods weren’t connected to my record sales. There were very few places where I wasn’t overcome with anxiety: first, there had been the recording studio, and now there was the therapist’s office.
Though even in my “safe” spaces, Tommy’s presence would infect the atmosphere. I would be in the recording studio writing and vibing with producers or other artists, and he would often crash in at 6:00 or 7:00 p.m. to pick me up, as if I was his nine-to-five “office girl” and not a recording artist who had her own creative process, which you couldn’t place on a timer. (Not to mention, who
