And I wish you well …
—“I Wish You Well”
So, by “normal” standards, a record label reaching out to family for help in communicating with an artist was not a risky move. But they did not know the bad, bad moves my family could make.
You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them,
Because the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world
1 John 4:4
To say I was on the edge by the time Morgan got to Tots’s would be generous. Exhausted and hungry, I was deprived of all care. Looking into my wild and weary eyes, he tempted me: “Hey, how about a nice trip up to Pat’s house?”
Though I hadn’t ever had a nice trip to my mother’s house, in my shattered state, my brother made a convincing argument. Nobody, he contended, would dare to disturb me at my mother’s house. His voice was sugary sweet, and I was too drained to access my gut instincts. If I were at full capacity, I would’ve known my mother and her son were the last people I should be around when I was so vulnerable.
Even if she cared for me, at that point, my mother knew nothing about me, and nothing about what I was currently going through. She had absolutely no idea of the burden and responsibility of being an artist who generates so much money and energy: To have so many people living off of you, counting on you, and pushing you to constantly work and work. To sing and smile, dress up and twirl, fly and write and work and work! She had no concept of the humiliation I was suffering from the ravenous media monster that was feeding off of me. She couldn’t imagine how wounded and hunted I felt. My mother never could acknowledge my fear. In fact, she often triggered it.
But now, I was going to go back with them. Any house my mother was in never felt like a safe haven, especially if Morgan was present, yet I was far too fragile to resist. In my fogginess, it actually made sense to me to go upstate to the house I had bought her, the house I knew so well, where it was quiet and comfortable and there would be plenty of room for everyone. Stripped of my better instincts, I agreed to go. But if I was going, I decided, we all were going. Safety in numbers, I thought. So Morgan, Tots, and I went off on a ride upstate. Over the river and through the woods, to my mother’s house we go.
CALAMITY AND DOG HAIR
My mother wasn’t home yet from being in the city with the record-label delegation at the hotel, and I was relieved. It meant I wouldn’t run the risk of being provoked by her and Morgan together, and I especially didn’t want to use the little energy I had left to try and explain to her why I just needed sleep. Thankfully, I also had my girl Tots as a buffer. As we approached the house, I began to relax a bit. I thought, This is the house I purchased for my mother and my family to live in, to find comfort in. Now I was the one who needed it more than anything. I had designed a guest bedroom for anyone in the family who needed a place to stay, that I knew I could surely use now. I could already picture its inviting warmth in my head. All I wanted to do was get a little bit of food in my stomach, get upstairs, close the door, and go to sleep before my mother got home.
As we walked in the house I was struggling to hide how wrecked I was, especially in front of my nephew Mike, who was still living there. He was just a kid and had already been through so much with his addicted mother. I wanted to spare him the traumatic history that was pulsing through me, through all of us. But I was also beginning to panic, realizing I was now isolated from the city and my actual home. I didn’t have my driver, I was with Morgan, and my mother would be coming back any minute. They could be poisonous and manipulative together. I felt myself swinging back and forth, out of the house and back to the shack. I was in their world now. The past and the present felt the same—unsafe.
The house smelled of calamity and dog hair. I scanned the clutter and disarray. (I never liked the way my mother kept the house; that’s why I always had cleaning staff for her.) Like my father, I’ve always liked things really clean. Mess causes anxiety for me. I began to put things in order, an activity I commonly do to recenter myself. I thought if I could bring some order to the chaos in the house, even in a small way, that I could stay in my body. But I kept slipping.
I’m not helpless, I told myself. This was the beautiful house that I had bought, created, and managed as an adult. I was not a little girl in a haphazard shack. I can bring order to this. But God, I was so tired. Maybe, I thought, by some loophole of time and space, we really were back in the shack. I needed to sleep. Desperately. And I was starved. My mind again began to race.
I went to the kitchen to see if I could scrounge up a little morsel to eat. Typically, when visiting my mother, I would bring all the provisions needed, including disposable plates and cutlery, to ensure everyone would have enough to eat and with an easy cleanup. In the kitchen, I found the sink piled high with dirty dishes. I knew it would help to ground me if I focused on a simple task. Washing the dishes—that would work. I’m gonna do this. I’m gonna
