Of course, even auditioning required a fee. When I told Eddie, he wanted to know more. “Sounds like a budget buster,” he said, but agreed we could make it work if we didn’t take any vacations or splurge on trips to the movies or expensive restaurants. Thankfully, our household never did have those I-want-a-hundred-dollar-pair-of-shoes arguments because there wasn’t enough money for frivolous shopping trips. Everything that came in was going back out, toward the girls’ careers.
“Oh, I’d really like to work with them,” Linda gushed after she heard my girls audition. “But this is serious work,” she added. “They’ll need to come for several hours each week.” Of course, I thought, I can’t imagine what I’d do with a little free time! Somehow in the midst of everything else we were doing, we started traveling to Addison, Texas, every Saturday morning.
Taking voice lessons is one thing, but Linda’s system was something else entirely. She was all about learning every aspect of becoming a great musician, which meant mastering good vocal techniques as well as learning how to play various instruments and understanding the subtleties of songwriting. Tall, blond, and impeccably dressed, Linda was (and still is) one of those can-do ladies who always looked like she stepped off the set of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. She was also adamant about using social media to bolster one’s career, even before it was mainstream to do so. (Facebook and Twitter weren’t popular yet.)
“You need to create a website, promo kits, and laminated bios with pictures and CDs attached,” she instructed, which is why her studio not only had a stage, recording areas, and rooms for lessons, but also classrooms to learn about posting videos to YouTube and creating web pages. If it sounded like too much work, she suggested you find another studio. Thanks to her, I spent hours learning how to use PowerPoint and mastering the laminating machine. I even watched tutorials on how to burn CDs. Before long, I was busy developing marketing strategies whenever Madison was napping.
It was Linda who helped Demi, as a budding teenager, make her first demo CD, and years into the future she’d also be the one who would fly across the country at a moment’s notice if Demi needed her help. Once, Linda rushed in the night before Demi was scheduled to appear on Good Morning America because Demi could barely talk, let alone sing. After patiently teaching Demi how to coax her vocal cords to work through the problem, Linda proudly watched offstage as her former student sang her heart out.
I wasn’t alone in my efforts to help my girls. Impressed by their ambitions and dedication, Eddie surprised them one night by handing each of them an Ovation guitar. Demi, then eleven, gushed a big “thank you” and promptly disappeared into her bedroom. For the next forty-eight hours, she practiced and practiced until she could play a new song. Dallas, though, didn’t have the same passion. In an effort to keep both girls interested, I hired Boo Massey, a friend of Eddie’s who lived nearby, to teach them. With his messy hair and worn T-shirts, Boo looked like a typical rocker, and Demi adored him. After her very first lesson, she even ran upstairs and wrote a song. It wouldn’t be her last. Thanks to Boo, Dallas learned to play guitar but Demi blossomed into a musician. Years later, my sister Kathy would remark that Demi’s first guitar “was like an extension of her arm.” She never went anywhere without it—except to dance class.
During that same time, I also hired Karen Jeter, a piano teacher who came to our house. Again, it was Demi who soaked up everything she could learn. And oddly enough, Demi, like me, preferred to memorize and play by ear rather than read sheet music. Her talents, though, were far superior to mine. She only needed to listen to a song once or twice before she could play it back note for note. Karen, too, encouraged Demi to write her own songs, many of which had gut-wrenching lyrics. In fact, the very first song the two of them ever worked on was “Pennies in a Jar,” a song about Demi’s real father that she played at her first recital. No one could listen to it without welling up with tears. Although the lyrics made me realize that my first husband had left some deep wounds in my daughter’s heart, I never asked if she needed to talk about what had happened. Exploring the territory of the past wasn’t something I felt comfortable doing for myself, let alone with my daughter. Better to focus on the future, I thought. And the future started revealing itself rather quickly, as Demi started skipping sleep to write music. One month after cowriting the song with Karen, she had more than fifty new songs to add to her collection.
This was also the era of Britney Spears, when singers who could dance were all the rage, so I figured a little more training was in order. Kat Garcia, an adorable, petite spitfire of an instructor who lived about an hour away, volunteered to work with both girls, though she’d prove to be a hard taskmaster.
“Thirty minutes on the treadmill,” she demanded at the start of every session. “After that, you’ll dance for several hours.” It was grueling, but all that exercise improved their performances onstage.
For all her help, Kat never asked for a dime. “I believe in your girls, and I want to see them make it big,” she told me. All I could do was thank her and hope that we’d both get to see that wish fulfilled. To aid those efforts, Kat often entered the girls in numerous contests and festivals, even pulling together a group of backup dancers to perform with them.
“When you practice,” Kat advised, “dress the part and treat it like a real performance.” And BINGO! That’s when we knew that our girls were very different. Dallas would parade into our living room-turned-stage in full pageant-style hair and makeup, dressed to the hilt—mostly in pink outfits plastered with sequins. After she finished belting out tunes such as Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” or Celine Dion’s “Power of the Dream,” Demi would come marching into the room looking completely goth in her black jeans, black T-shirts, and black eyeliner. The only bit of color she allowed herself was a bit of red lipstick. She even begged me to let her paint her nails black, but I refused. No amount of cajoling ever persuaded Demi to wear a few sparkly sequins. And she never sang the same songs as Dallas unless the two were trying to outdo each other, preferring instead to belt out songs such as Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” and FeFe Dobson’s “Take Me Away.”
Headstrong and determined, Demi also had a temper. At eight, she tried to master Billy Gilman’s “One Voice,” a song with really high notes. Though she wanted to sing it as perfectly as he did, it didn’t come easily.
“One voice, one simple word … Hearts know what to say,” she sang from her bedroom, sounding strong and steady until her voice cracked. “Arrrrggghhh!” she screamed. Two beats later, I heard her pounding on the wall. Unwilling to give up, she broke each run into smaller and smaller parts until she could master the notes. When she put it all together, I bowed my head and crossed my fingers, hoping she’d make it to the end. A few years later, when Christina Aguilera dominated the music scene, Demi did the same thing with her songs but with even more intensity. One night she tried and failed so often to perfect a particular song that she broke her bedpost in frustration.
“No cursing,” I yelled up the stairs when I sensed her losing control. “You have to wait ’til your eighteen!”
* * *
So few people realize what goes into achieving a dream. The classes, the practice sessions, the performances at small festivals and local restaurants, the training, the organizing, the hiring of band members, and the hours we logged in the truck were just a foretaste of the commitments and challenges to come. Not to mention all the money we spent on what our friends and family called “a pipe dream.” But no one could have stopped us! We were sure that we were on the right path, though it wasn’t without sacrifices.
No one ever thinks about all the birthday parties my girls missed. The vacations they never took. The sleepovers they were denied. Or the times they worked when they didn’t feel well. And no one ever saw me packing the car each morning or heard the pep talks I gave my girls when disappointment overwhelmed them. Getting to the top was a struggle, but I never forced them to continue. “Yo
u can quit,” I said more than once, “but only after you fulfill the commitments you’ve already made.”
Not one of us ever jumped ship. We always found the strength and inspiration to continue. Even when the car business went south and Eddie’s salary began to slip, we didn’t give up. Instead, we became resourceful. Demi, at ten, recorded a karaoke CD and sold it to the neighbors so she’d have money to go to the Cinderella pageant that summer, while Eddie and I remortgaged the house—not once, but twice. And I wasn’t too proud to make a trip to the pawnshop, if needed.
Did it hurt to part with special keepsakes such as my beautiful pair of diamond earrings and the Rolex watch Eddie had given me for Christmas one year? Of course, but I wanted our girls to keep dreaming. Would it have been nice if someone had patted me on the back for my efforts? Sure, but I wasn’t looking for praise. I knew deep in my heart that when you put enough work into something, good things follow, and that was all we needed. In the end, it wasn’t the things we gave up that mattered. Rather, it was everything we ignored that exacted a heavy price.
Excerpt from “Pennies in a Jar” By Demi Lovato
Sunshine breakin’ through the rain
I know I’m gonna be okay
But sometimes, it feels like this pain
Is never gonna go away.
Gotta tell my heart not to fall apart
When the teardrops start to fall
Somehow I’ll get through find a sky of blue
I’ll be fine when you don’t call
I’m talkin’ to the sky—hope he’ll tell me why
You didn’t say goodbye at all
You didn’t say goodbye
Chorus:
I’ve got pennies in a jar to prove I once had you
I was too small, I don’t recall that gift from you.
I was counting my pennies on the floor
As you carried your bags out the door
Guess that’s what you had in mind
When you left your little girl behind
You couldn’t give your heart
Just pennies in a jar
And every time I look at them I wonder … where you are …
Pennies … to prove … I once had you.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“My kids aren’t perfect; nobody’s kids are. Everything I had tried to sweep under the rug exploded that day when she called me from the bathroom.”
As the spring of 2004 approached, our family took a deep breath and tried to assess where we were on the grand highway to stardom. The general conclusion was that we had made progress but nothing big—except for Barney—had really materialized. More and more, it seemed that getting on the Disney Channel might be the best route for our goals, but auditions in our area for that channel were few and far between. We figured we’d keep plugging along until the right part … the right script … the right something came along. For a while, the only thing that came knocking was trouble.
For starters, my depression returned. I couldn’t make it through a single day without dissolving into tears. Desperate for help, I ran back to my doctor. Again, I told no one. He listened, nodding his head as I tried to describe what my life was like. “You know,” he said, “you have a toddler to care for and two busy teens. That’s a lot to manage. Maybe talking to a psychiatrist would help.” When he handed me a list of names to consider, I randomly picked one and set up an appointment.
“I start cleaning the kitchen only to end up in a corner of the room scrubbing a single, tiny tile with a toothbrush, while everything else remains untouched,” I explained. “Then I start crying and walk away in frustration.”
He looked at me curiously. “I don’t think you’re depressed,” he said. “I think you have ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder).” He promptly wrote me a prescription for twenty milligrams of Adderall and told me it would help.
I’d later learn that dosage was a bit high for my height and weight, but I left his office feeling optimistic. The doctor never mentioned possible side effects such as irregular heartbeats, euphoria, or anxiety, and he certainly never warned me that the drug could be addictive.
The next morning, I took the medication and proceeded to buzz about the kitchen getting all the cleaning done in record time. I was ecstatic. This is great! I finished in less than thirty minutes, and I’m not hungry, either! For good measure, I proceeded to dust the entire house. Then I got everybody ready for the day, marveling that I didn’t feel totally drained. In fact, I had energy to spare.
“Let’s go,” I commanded, heading to the car. “Dallas needs to be put on tape.”
The digital age was still about a decade away, so when the girls auditioned for roles that were being filmed in Los Angeles or somewhere other than Texas, they needed to be “put on tape,” a process that involved going to a studio to be filmed and put on a VHS tape. The first part was “slating,” which meant standing in front of the camera and stating their name, age, and the agency representing them. After that, whoever was auditioning read her lines for a scene or two while another person read the other parts offscreen and someone else filmed. Cathryn was also on set to give instructions and feedback. It was a long process because the scene was filmed over and over until it seemed perfect. Only the best version stayed on the tape.
It was also a costly process as the fees for everyone’s services ran between seventy-five and a hundred dollars. Then I’d have to spend another forty or fifty dollars at the post office to overnight the tape so that it would arrive at the producer’s office by ten the next morning—and there was no guarantee that anyone would even watch it once it arrived.
Although Dallas was the one being put on tape that morning, I made Demi ride along while Madison stayed behind with Lisa. For some twenty minutes, I happily hummed a tune as we sailed along. Then everything changed. Without warning, my heart started beating wildly, like it was going to pop right out of my chest. I clutched the steering wheel and tried to take a deep breath. I couldn’t. My God, I thought, I’m having a heart attack! I didn’t want to alarm the kids, but I couldn’t keep driving, either. “Sorry, girls,” I said as calmly as I could. “Need to pull over and get out of the car for a minute.” When I jumped out, I started pacing on the shoulder of the road. Over and over, I marched from the front of the car to the back while the steady whoosh of traffic passed by me, just inches away.
What’s happening? Am I going to die? Is this because I didn’t eat anything? My mind seemed just as erratic as my heartbeats. Scared and anxious, I realized I was reacting to the medicine I had so confidently taken that morning. Some fifteen minutes later, after calming myself down, I climbed back into the car and continued driving to our destination.
As soon as we returned home, I threw out the bottle of pills. “Never again,” I vowed. “I will suffer with whatever problems I have before I ever take that again.”
That spring, when Demi was approaching twelve and Dallas was sixteen, I just knew I didn’t want to risk taking Adderall again. Not ever. Not even at a lower dose. For three more years, I wouldn’t even go back to the doctor to consider other options. I just decided that my mental health wasn’t going to interfere with the happiness or success of my family. Be strong! I told myself, as though it was as simple as mind over matter.
* * *
As May loomed in front of us, I couldn’t wait for the school year to end. Demi’s return to public school hadn’t gone well, and her sixth-grade classmates seemed hell-bent on making her life—and mine—miserable. Apparently, not everyone was enamored with Demi’s talents or success. The name-calling had actually started back in fifth grade, right before the start of Barney, and most of it was directed at Demi’s weight. Now that she had thinned out, the jeers and sneers took a more sinister turn—and so did Demi’s self-image.
“They call me ‘fat bitch’ and ‘slut,’” she told me on many afternoons, the hurt lodged behind her eyes.
I handled the matter the way my parents would have dealt with i
t. “Take the high road,” I told her. “Forgive and forget—we’re not tattletales!”
During this same time, Dallas came running into the dining room one afternoon looking alarmed. “Mom,” she said, “You need to come see this! Demi is visiting some really weird websites.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, they’re all about anorexia and bulimia,” she said, “and her passwords are logged into all the sites.”
“Oh, Dallas,” I sighed. “She probably got on them by mistake.” I walked away, completely ignoring her concerns.
It wasn’t the right thing to do, and I’m horrified when I look back and see how lightly I treated the matter. But sometimes we so desperately want to believe the best about our children that we ignore the obvious. And, I was still in denial about my own eating issues. In my mind, I believed that Demi’s weight loss was due to a growth spurt—because that’s what I wanted to believe. I even gloated that she might get more jobs because she was thinner. Not once did I draw a line between the pounds she had shed and the bullying at school.
Even when Demi was handed a letter from a group of girls listing all the reasons they didn’t like her—a list that included criticisms such as “You’re a fake celebrity,” “You suck,” “Nobody likes you,” and “You’re an ugly bitch”—I still didn’t get involved. Worse, I didn’t even tell a single teacher what was going on.
“It’s terrible and heartbreaking,” I told Demi, “but you’re supposed to learn something from this. Real life is full of people who act this way, and you have to learn to deal with them.
“Besides,” I added, “They’re just jealous about all the work you’re doing. Remember, you’re the one laughing all the way to the bank.”
But Demi wasn’t laughing. Instead, she was starving herself. She was also preparing to strike back. The next time someone said something nasty to her, she returned the gesture with a few choice words of her own. When she got another letter, she wrote one back, lashing out at all the girls who despised her. But I knew nothing about her retaliations until the school called one afternoon, demanding a conference. When I walked into the meeting, every one of Demi’s teachers was there, and no one looked happy. Everyone started yelling at once.
Falling with Wings Page 14