“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
