Drinking and Tweeting

by Glanville, Brandi

  When we finally spoke, she had an excuse for everything. She had been a bit distant because she was trying to work things out with her ex-husband. She assumed that would be difficult for me to deal with, seeing as I was still struggling with my own divorce. As for LeAnn, well, my friend’s ex-husband and Eddie remained friends after both of our divorces and were hanging out a lot (translation: hitting on cocktail waitresses). Her ex had asked her to spend time with LeAnn as a part of their reconciliation, so my friend agreed. She swore to me that she only did it to pacify her ex-husband, and “it didn’t mean anything.”

  “Hmm, I’ve already heard that line from Eddie,” I thought, not interested in the bullshit she was trying to sell me. Even if you were pointing a gun at my head, you could never force me to sit in the same room with my best friend’s homewrecker, and I sure as hell wasn’t going for fucking iced lattes and shopping sprees with her.

  How could my friend do that to me? I was absolutely beside myself that she was willing to throw away our decades-long friendship just for the opportunity to be the background girl in all of LeAnn’s paparazzi shots. Was having your photo taken that important? I knew that in the back of her head she had always thought that she should be famous, but, really? I guess friends really are a dime a dozen.

  As much as I hold my friend accountable for the demise of our relationship, in the back of my head I knew this was somehow LeAnn’s doing. She had everything else in my life, so why wouldn’t she want all my friends? It’s not like she ever had any of her own—child stars rarely do. By this point, most of the magazines and blogs were referring to her as a “Brandi clone,” so I guess it makes sense that she wanted to completely inhabit my world. I wonder when she’ll ask everyone to start calling her B and start trying to come to Sacramento for holidays. #StalkerMuch?

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t the only one of my “friends” to be lured over to the dark side. It was mostly the wives and girlfriends of Eddie’s buddies whom I had developed close relationships with. Eventually, I spotted most of them somewhere on the blogosphere—at one time or another—walking along the sand in Laguna Beach or snowsuit shopping in Aspen with my husband’s new wife.

  While I have an arsenal of terrible names I could call LeAnn, stupid isn’t one of them. This country-music singer was clever. To make Eddie’s transition as smooth as possible from wife number one to wife number two, she totally inhabited his world—or at least what he wanted his world to be. She must have figured that befriending these women would be the easiest way to keep Eddie comfortable. (Plus, she can’t stand it when anyone dislikes her. I guess she’ll have to get used to that.) She wooed them with an all-expense-paid vacation to Cabo San Lucas—complete with private planes, private beaches, and private chefs—and the unspoken promise that their own stars might rise if they stood next to her long enough. After all, there’s a photographer lurking around every corner, right? (Usually because she’s called them.)

  Losing these women was a blessing in disguise. Their absence allowed me to fully appreciate the handful of extremely loyal friends who have stuck by my side throughout this journey. These are the men and women who understand me better than I sometimes understand myself. They knew when I needed them nearby, they knew when I needed space, and they knew to lift me out of the hole I was digging for myself when I started losing control.

  However, even my best friends didn’t know how to deal with the overwhelming amount of media surrounding my divorce. I didn’t, either. It was unlike any breakup any of us had experienced. For months, the coverage was incessant. Then it would die down until something happened to reignite the fire: Eddie and LeAnn’s moving in together, my DUI charge, Eddie and LeAnn’s wedding, my new role on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. The constant reminders of the affair that ultimately led to Eddie’s and my divorce made moving on more challenging than it would be for the average divorcée, and my friends were unsure of how to handle it when they came across something on the Internet or in a magazine.

  It was the million-dollar question for today’s world of tabloid-celebrity breakups: What do you do when you see paparazzi photos of your friend’s ex with his or her new partner? It’s the same predicament people nowadays encounter through social media. Do you tell your friend when you see photos of her ex-husband walking along the beach with his new wife and the kids? Do you send them to her? She probably doesn’t want to see, but you’d rather she learn about it from you than be blindsided later. Or do you ignore it? It’s never fun being the bearer of bad news, so perhaps you just let someone else spill the beans?

  During the early, obsessive days of my divorce, I was desperate for any information I could get on Eddie and LeAnn. When a friend would send me a Twitter photo of bonus mom cuddling with my kids, I would stare at it for hours. I was hungry for any information I could get my hands on, but those were my virtual-cutting days. Today, I’d rather not know about it. (I believe that’s what my therapist calls “progress.”) I don’t need a friend to send me a photo of my ex-husband’s replacement wife in a bikini, even if only to point out her stretch marks. I know my friends are just trying to make me laugh or prove how loyal they are to me, but all it does is remind me that he chose her—stretch marks and all. Despite my offering him a second chance and all his promises of fidelity, he wouldn’t let go of LeAnn, and our family was destroyed because of it.

  I understand that my life has forever been changed by their decisions and, for better or for worse, they will be a chapter in my life—one that I will occasionally need to relive, whether it’s in writing this book, discussing it with friends or viewers of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills going through difficult times, or in the conversations I will one day need to have with my sons and whomever I choose to share my life with.

  However, I no longer have Google alerts set to notify me when Eddie and LeAnn stage another paparazzi shoot at my son’s soccer game, and I don’t need to be reminded that they will soon be celebrating their second wedding anniversary. (Really, they had to get married in fucking Malibu? #BlowMe) And I no longer need the daily updates from my friends. I know they think an “update” is what I prefer, but it’s not. Not anymore.

  So, unless it’s something that is essential for your friend to know, spare him or her the details. While those friends might be angry when they first find out you withheld information, eventually they will understand that you did it with their best interests at heart.

  Rest assured that if your friend wants to vent about some obnoxious article or Facebook post, or if he or she is teary-eyed and needs a shoulder, he or she will reach out.

  As the divorcée or subject of the breakup, depending on your friends is absolutely crucial, but know your limits! Friends can quickly grow tired of feeling sorry for you—unless you’re always picking up the check, in which case their sympathies (and wineglasses) are bottomless.

  People, hopefully, have their own lives to live and their own problems to worry about. It’s easy to become completely self-involved when you’re faced with hardships, but it’s important to remember to be there for your friends, too. You have to be able to read the signs. When they no longer pick up on the first ring (and perhaps not at all) or when their responses and advice become less sympathetic, it’s time to reevaluate how much you’re leaning on a particular person. It’s not because these people don’t love you, it’s because they have their own shit going on (or they’ve been abducted by LeAnn Rimes). While sometimes we all need to climb out of our own fog to realize that we’re far from perfect, what I can say with total confidence is that I’ve always been a good friend.

  It may seem obvious, but when you’re going through any difficult period, spending time with those who know and love you can be tremendously healing. It’s not always about curling up on the couch with a box of Kleenex and a pint of ice cream. Being around your friends provides a great opportunity to get back to being you. While we may feel this overwhelming urge to flee, we know running isn’t going to help. Wherever you go,
your problems will follow, because it’s impossible to check your brain or your heart at the border. They will follow you anywhere you go.

  I chose to surround myself with either people who made me laugh or those I could drown my sorrows with. Laughter can cure just about anything—except a wretched hangover. For that, I suggest EBOOST.

  After countless tears, laughs, and memories, you learn that your friends will always be there for you. Unless your ex’s new wife takes them to Cabo.

  brandi’s babble

  There are two kinds of friends to avoid at all costs: wannabes and former child stars.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Drugs and Other Drugs

  Shortly after giving birth to my youngest, sitting on the floor of the Woodland Hills Target’s diaper aisle and crying was fast becoming a part of my daily routine. Now, I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure this was indicative of a serious problem.

  After Jake was born, I would find any reason to get out of the house and spend hours wandering around somewhere aimlessly. With a newborn and a four-year-old at home, I felt I was losing my mind, and I was in desperate need of some support. While some people go to church for spiritual guidance, I sought the comfort of my favorite superstore. Like clockwork every afternoon, I would announce to the nanny that we were out of diapers or hand wash or toilet paper or whatever most quickly came to mind. (Not that she understood anything that I was saying, since she only spoke Spanish. I suppose I was trying to convince myself.) Without bothering to put on makeup, brush my teeth, or even get out of my pajamas, I would grab the car keys and hightail it to the driveway. As soon as my Range Rover hit the Target parking lot, I would start to cry, feeling some inexplicable sense of relief. Target became my little sanctuary where I would roam up and down the aisles with my Starbucks, looking at picture frames, flipping through magazines, and trying on costume jewelry. But as soon as I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the hundreds of mirrors in Target, I would burst into tears. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore: a thirty-four-year-old Valley housewife with two kids, puffy eyes, leftover baby weight, and a nest of blond hair. Some days, I didn’t even need the mirror to burst into tears. I would turn down the diaper aisle and guilt would wash over me, then the fear and the waterworks would come until I could calm down and get back to shopping. So it went for most afternoons for the better part of a month. The staff quickly got used to seeing the crazy crying lady loitering in the aisles and, after a few days, stopped asking if everything was okay (but I usually bought something so I didn’t feel completely weird coming back the next day). I was like an unofficial door greeter, except instead of welcoming customers to the store, I scared the shit out of them.

  It didn’t take a PhD (or even a GED) to figure out that I had developed a pretty wicked case of the baby blues, but it took me a while to recognize it in myself. If I were standing on the outside, I’m sure I would easily have recognized it, but during those few weeks I was in a cloud and fairly incapable of rational thought. I mean, hello, I was spending most of my afternoons in a Target—a lot of times I didn’t even bother pushing a cart.

  “What did you do today?” Eddie would ask on the days he actually came home from work at a reasonable hour.

  “I went to Target again and cried,” I would respond nonchalantly. At the time, this sounded to me like a totally normal response. It was, in fact, what I did that day. I could tell that Eddie was concerned about my mental health, so I told him it was normal. I think we can all agree it was not fucking normal. #CuckooForCocoaPuffs.

  While my depression was considerable, it never reached a psychotic state where I wanted to cause any physical harm to my children or myself. I thought this was just a normal hormonal roller coaster that would eventually pass after my body settled back down.

  After weeks of my feeling totally desperate, crying for no reason, and with a purse filled with Target credit-card receipts, Eddie finally suggested I see someone about getting a prescription to help with the transition. I knew he was concerned, and I am grateful to him for that, but I needed to come that realization on my own.

  Then, I snapped.

  I could hear my baby screaming down the hall while I was trying to get Mason dressed for the day. Frustration was mounting in my voice as I tried to manage my giggly four-year-old, who was grasping for a nearby toy. He was having a little bit of a tough time adjusting to having a new baby in the house and just trying to understand the change. We all were; newborns are an adjustment (even though the first two months is when they spend most of the day sleeping and you can tote them around just about anywhere!).

  When I turned to grab Mason’s shirt off the dresser, he tried wandering away, as toddlers tend to do. That’s when I lost it. I grabbed the waist of his pants, yanked him around to face me, and screamed, “Come. Fucking. On!”

  Seeing the total fear in his eyes was all the motivation I needed to make a change. My poor little four-year-old was terrified of his mommy, the one person who should always make him feel safe. His eyes filled up with tears and my heart sank. I grabbed his little body and pulled him into my chest. “Mommy’s sorry,” I told him. “Mommy made a mistake. I’m sorry. I won’t yell at you like that again. I promise.” I felt absolutely horrible, and it’s a moment I will never forget. It was scarring for me, and I realized that I never wanted to react that way again toward my children, as long as I lived.

  That was the final straw. Something was really wrong with me, and I needed to go talk to someone.

  That’s when I finally told Eddie, “I’m not happy. I screamed at Mason for no reason. I think I need help now.” He encouraged me to set up an appointment with my gynecologist that week. At the time, the world had just witnessed in the media the Brooke Shields–Tom Cruise war of words on postpartum depression, and the disorder had a negative connotation. The public seemed fiercely divided on the topic, but it seemed silly to me that anyone would ever believe a man over a woman in that situation. How many times had Tom Cruise gone into labor? How many times had he had to wake up in the middle of the night to breast-feed? How often did he have crazy female hormones pumping through his body? To this day, if any man wants to sit on his high horse and judge women who choose to vocalize their struggles, I say, “Go fuck yourself.”

  A man can never understand what it’s like to go through childbirth. It is both the most rewarding and most terrifying experience you can imagine. For the rest of my life, I will cherish the moments I brought each of my sons into the world, but I also know I never want to go through that experience again. So, when it comes down to Brooke versus Tom, I’m going to side with the woman every single time.

  Brooke’s candor about her postpartum depression also served as a huge wake-up call to mothers that they were not alone. Before then, people weren’t vocal about the baby blues, so women suffered behind closed doors. Today, women are open about struggling after having a baby. Guess what? When you bring a newborn home from the hospital, it’s not all cupcakes and rainbows. The first couple months are hard—actually, they sort of blow. And I had help! I envy those moms and dads who can do it on their own; I know I wouldn’t have been able to make it without a support staff. I was never ashamed of it, because I knew it was a hormonal imbalance, and it didn’t make me a bad mother. I would be a bad mom if I didn’t get myself better. I think that if something is wrong and a pill can fix it, take the fucking pill. Life is way too short to spend your days miserable and taking your family for granted. (I’m still hoping for a pill that can turn me into a lesbian. The women in my life are amazing and fantastic partners, but when it comes to anything south of the border, I’m a strictly dickly kind of chick.)

  “Listen, I’m going to Target and walking around aimlessly for hours, just to get out of the house,” I told the doctor when I went to see her later that same week. “I’m crying for absolutely no reason all the time. And worst of all, I’m yelling at my toddler for no apparent reason. I need help.”

  Immediately, my doctor recogn
ized the signs and suggested I begin taking ten milligrams of Lexapro once a day, preferably in the morning. Within two weeks, I started noticing a tremendous change in my personality. I felt calm, balanced, and happy—three things I hadn’t felt since before I went into labor. And probably not all at the same time since before I had Mason! It changed my life. I definitely noticed a lower sex drive, but that was okay for the time being. It was so high to begin with that I was fine with a temporary reprieve. Postpartum depression doesn’t last forever. Once the baby starts smiling, laughing, and developing a personality of his or her own, it gets easier. My doctor and I decided on a program that would wean me off the medication within six months by lowering the doses systematically. By Jake’s first birthday, I was off my happy pill and back to what I thought was my “normal” life.

  That would soon change.

  Roughly a year later, news broke of Eddie’s affair with LeAnn—and it was just everywhere. I finally saw the video with my own eyes once I got back from Parrot Cay. I knew then that I was in for an emotional roller-coaster ride. Within about twenty-four hours, I determined that for me to have even the slightest chance of coming through this in one piece, I was going to need some help ASAP. I picked up the phone and called my doctor.

  “Are you trembling?” she asked.

  “I’m not okay,” I said.

  Sensing the sadness in my voice, she immediately sent a Lexapro prescription to my local CVS pharmacy.

  Besides the love I have for my boys, I credit Lexapro for getting me through my divorce. People have criticized me for being open about my use of antidepressant and antianxiety drugs, wondering why I would admit to something like that. My response? Fuck you. There is nothing wrong with treating a neurochemical imbalance. In fact, I think it’s negligent to ignore problems and hope that with enough sleep and a healthy diet they’ll just go away. Bullshit. I’m hoping that my sharing my story will help another struggling mom out there—plus I never intend to give up Del Taco.