She may have been in a blackout and unaware of what she did or said. But I had to process the sadness, embarrassment, and pain of the experience. The next morning, I was nervous her booze-induced performance would make it into the press. But it didn’t. I had protected her. I don’t know who saw her, but mercifully, her congressional calamity did not make it into the tabloids.
She didn’t call to apologize. She didn’t say anything.
Being Mariah Carey is a job—my job—and I had to get back to it. I knew there would be eyes and lenses everywhere. I needed someone to light the way out of the darkness that place had become. By that time, I trusted only a handful of people. So before I was able to see my way out of the shadowy “Cabin in the Woods,” I called on my trusted friend and anchor makeup artist Kristofer Buckle for support. He lifted me up, reapplied my protective public face, and walked with me into the sunlight.
I was wounded, but I got myself back to my penthouse in Manhattan. There was so much recovery and repair to be done. I was still quite fragile, very concerned with the condition of my very new, very big deal at Virgin, and a very short time away from the release of Glitter. The coverage of my “crack-up” had everybody understandably shook—not least of all me. I had not regained my emotional or spiritual strength. I was still very much inside the nightmare, and Morgan was still very much in control. But I didn’t see him as a puppeteer just yet. I still held a desperate, distorted trust in him. He had snapped me out of my screaming fit at the hotel by saying “birthdays at Roy Boy’s.” He was not in sight when the cops came in Westchester. He had ridden with me to the “spa.” So I didn’t associate him with the current collection of catastrophes. He seemed at best an ally, at worst an innocent bystander. I needed someone. And I needed to believe that not everyone was against me.
The pedestal I’d erected for my brother when I was a little girl had long since been reduced to rubble, but I kept trying to place him back on top of it. Though I could not see it then, we were clearly in ruins. If I had had my wits about me, or if someone on my payroll had known better, I would have had a team of specialists and professionals lined up to evaluate and treat me at my home. I did have the wherewithal to want to tuck myself away at an actual spa for a few days, where at least I could get some rest, wholesome food, maybe some body treatments—all the things I’d wanted on my way to that first hellish “spa.” I also wanted the opportunity to clear my head and protect myself (and the label) from more salacious headlines.
Morgan recommended I go to Los Angeles, where he was currently living, making the case that there were actual spas there (true) and no New York newspapers (also true). A spa in LA seemed like a good idea at the time. I allowed Morgan to make the arrangements (not a good idea, at any time, but I was desperate).
When we got to LA my anxiety and disorientation was intensified by the tragedy of Aaliyah’s sudden and horrific death. Just a few days earlier she had told the press, “I know this business can be difficult, it can be stressful. Much love to Mariah Carey. I hope she gets better soon.” The entire music industry was rocked by her death, but the R & B and hip-hop community was devastated. She was indeed our little princess.
So much was happening, and I couldn’t fully understand the magnitude of the damage being done to me. Morgan hooked up with some random guy who he said would be helping us. I remember driving around on the highway for what seemed like an eternity. We finally stopped at a place that did not look like a spa at all but, rather, a detox facility. I was still in the hold of extreme exhaustion, so while I wasn’t thrilled, I didn’t resist. Morgan even went so far as to say, “Come on; it’ll be fun.” It was not fun. It was one of the most harrowing times of my life—and I had seen some times.
Once more, I didn’t have control of the situation. I could not speak up for myself, and when I could, I was ignored and overpowered.
The facility in LA turned out to be a hard-core detox and rehab center. The first thing that happened to me was they administered drugs—heavy, hard narcotics. They were giant horse pills the color of Pepto-Bismol. At first, I refused to take them, but I didn’t have the drive to fully fight. I was so weak. I thought maybe I would just be able to get a little sleep
