I was in a fog much of the time.
Frumpily ensconced in some piece of shit hideous institutional ensemble, I was drained, and my soul was heavy. My face was vulnerable and hadn’t had any protection in many days. That’s one function of makeup—even while giving a natural look, it can serve as war paint, an invisible force field. It often does for me. It shields me from people literally getting into my pores and under my skin. But I had no such protection in that place.
One morning, I was in my bleak room, feeling drowsy, when an attendant came and brought me into the common area. It was crowded with staff and inmates—I mean, patients—and all were staring up at the large television in silence. On the screen was what looked like the view from the kitchen window in my New York City penthouse in the sky. But the picture was framed in chalky, gray clouds of smoke. Orange and red fireballs were shooting out from the top of the glistening silver Twin Towers like meteors against a vibrant blue sky. Then the proud, monumental buildings crumbled from within. One at a time, they came crashing down in excruciatingly slow motion. The effects of the drugs I’d been kept on were no match for the shock I was experiencing. In that instant, I was stone-cold alert as I watched my majestic skyline disintegrate. My home city was burning and collapsing, and I was thousands of miles away, locked inside a dismal detox—drugged, devastated, and alone.
I was frozen, eyes locked on the horror unfolding before me, when someone from the staff tapped me on my shoulder. They told me it was being reported that terrorists had attacked the World Trade Center, and that they would now be releasing me. I was free to go. Miraculously, it seemed, I was no longer in need of containment or sedatives. I was no longer crazy and out of control.
So I was magically “good to go,” because terrorists had attacked America and a “cracked-up diva” wasn’t interesting anymore? (Hello?!!) But I didn’t ask questions. It felt like the world was coming to an end for all of us. And if it was the end, I wanted to get the fuck out of there. Between being there, getting out, and the chaos and terror of the attacks back home, I didn’t even realize it was the day the Glitter soundtrack was scheduled for release.
The coincidence of my sudden release from “rehab” and the release of the Glitter soundtrack and the 9/11 attacks was haunting. You know how, in a sci-fi horror film, the apocalypse happens and then there’s a lone survivor wandering around surveying the devastation? That was me on that warm and cloudy day in LA. On September 11, 2001, I walked out of detox pumped full of toxins. The city of LA was solid, but I was shaky. I felt alone, untethered, and out of my body. I got myself to a hotel and had the first uninterrupted rest I’d had in weeks. With the tiny bit of strength that rest provided, I was able to finally get to an actual spa, because I still had to do “the best I could” to prepare for the Glitter movie premiere, which was now only ten days away.
It was a blur, but I pulled myself together. I got some highlights, a cut, and a blowout. I wore a one-shoulder fitted tank top, as I do on the Glitter poster, but it had an American flag bedazzled on the front, in honor of the victims and heroes. I paired it with simple low-rise jeans, held my chin high, and hit the red carpet at the Village Theater in Westwood with a smile. I was blessed to have lots of kids and young people at the premiere, as they were the intended audience. Glitter was not made for serious cinemagoers and art-gallery hoppers; it was an imperfect, fun, PG flick.
The box-office sales for Glitter were dismal, in large part because the country was still reeling from the 9/11 attacks. The tragedy was still fresh, and no one was ready for the lightweight distraction that was Glitter. Out of respect for our collective mourning, one would think the media would have turned their obsession away from me as well, but it seemed to only intensify.
After the Glitter premiere, I stayed in LA to prepare for the America: A Tribute to Heroes telethon, honoring the thousands who died in the attacks. Organized by George Clooney, it would be my first performance since I emerged from that nightmare of family, cops, and institutions. The biggest stars in entertainment—Tom Hanks, Goldie Hawn, Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Wonder, Muhammad Ali, Pearl Jam, Paul Simon, Billy Joel, Robert De Niro, and others—came out, united as Americans. I sang “Hero,” as Americans—first responders and so many other brave, unnamed people—showed the world what true heroes really look like. Never had I imagined when I wrote this song that it would mean so much in such a horrific moment in history.
I was anxious to get back to New York. It was inspiring how the city immediately got to work putting itself back together in the wake of the attacks, and I was eager to put my life back together too. I wasn’t permitted to resume residence in my penthouse yet, as much of lower Manhattan was still closed off for safety and security reasons. In the meantime, I stayed in a hotel and blocked my family and others from getting to me. I was waking from the nightmare they’d created, and I had to get my own help; I wanted desperately to get back to being okay.
I chose a therapist in
