Betrayed, humiliated, and overwhelmed by reliving the neglect and trauma of my childhood, I let go. Not that I had any fight left in me, but I knew better than to fight with the police. I was done. Ironically, I was relieved that the police could take me away from this house of trauma and betrayal. My brother had lured me back into the same depths of dysfunction that he, my sister, and my mother had dwelled in when I was a child. My mother had stolen me from my sleep, then turned me over to the authorities. There was nothing left to do but surrender. I agreed to be removed from my own house by the police, with one simple request—that I be allowed to put on my shoes. My family might have taken my pride, my trust, and the last of my energy, but they weren’t going to get my dignity too.
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
