The constant pull between the present and the past put me at odds with myself, causing minor provocations to frazzle my composure. Old fears—like those about getting fired—tugged harder and harder at my self-worth, even as my girls became more and more successful. Doubts lingered at every turn. Maybe we don’t deserve success? Maybe it won’t last? Maybe I need to try harder? As my inner turmoil grew, I longed for escape. I wanted to gaze at familiar faces and listen to voices I recognized. Even Eddie, my rock, wasn’t around because he spent most of his days touring with Demi. Every day I felt more scared, more vulnerable, and terribly tired. My heart ached for Texas. I longed for everything that had once been familiar—our favorite restaurants, my former neighbors, and the church we had attended. Most of all, I wanted to jump back onto the roller-coaster excitement of going to auditions and dreaming about the future. It seemed that once the dreaming had stopped, the real work had begun—and there wasn’t any end in sight.
I distracted myself by spending hours on my BlackBerry, texting my long-distance friends. And every morning when I showered, I closed my eyes and pretended I was back in the huge master bathroom in our home in Texas, where life had seemed more balanced and my kids had been close by my side.
God, please don’t grant us success until we’re ready for it, I had prayed for years. Surely we were ready, so why was I always nervous and jittery? Why couldn’t I relax? More and more, the mellow, gentle buzz of Xanax made all those concerns slip away. By August, I was popping a pill every morning like it was a vitamin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“In the back of my mind, I thought we were going to ride off into the sunset and be millionaires like The Beverly Hillbillies.”
Nearly three weeks after moving into the Oakwood, we still hadn’t found a place to live. The search was still in Lisa’s hands, as Madison and I came home exhausted most days. Whenever I did have a bit of free time, I tried to take Madison to the pool or the park so she could meet other kids. We also enjoyed doing ceramics at a local shop and arranging play dates with Frankie Jonas. To be honest, spending time with Madison was far more rewarding than house hunting, which always made me feel discouraged. Apparently the price range I had suggested wasn’t going to get us anything close to a nice home, and dirty carpets, broken appliances, and dated wallpaper weren’t exactly on my wish list! It made me long to be back in Colleyville even more.
“Let me show you the house you’ll want to live in,” our realtor suggested, “and we’ll talk about the price later.”
I agreed. When we pulled up to the very house in Toluca Lake that I had dubbed “my dream home” the previous year, I couldn’t stop exclaiming, “This is the house! This is the house!” My realtor, unaware that I had spied the house the year before, told me that the owners had been unable to sell the property and were now willing to rent it. I rushed inside to find hardwood floors, a balcony overlooking the living room, vaulted ceilings, and a remodeled kitchen with new appliances. It even had a bedroom suite on the third floor that was perfect for Lisa.
“This is how I want to live in LA!” I shouted. When she told me the price, I died a slow, painful death but insisted on calling Eddie, who was on the road with Demi, and urged him to see it for himself. When he did, he agreed that the house met all our needs and that we’d make it work, even though the monthly payment was several thousand dollars higher than we had budgeted. A week later, we moved in, even making a deal to buy all of the staging furniture because we liked it so much. It would be our home for the next two years, a time period I still describe as “the best of times and the worst of times.”
As soon as we signed the lease, I sent Lisa back to Texas to start packing. Because I had spent the entire previous year organizing our house, I even made a list detailing where everything was located. “And bring Dallas back with you!” I added.
* * *
Living in my dream house temporarily buoyed my spirits. Not only were we living in a fantastic neighborhood, we also had lots of accomplishments to celebrate. Shortly after we moved in, Demi released her first album, Don’t Forget, and she started filming Sonny with a Chance. As Demi’s name recognition grew, small groups of fans and paparazzi started lingering on our street. It was as though we had passed some invisible threshold and our lives would never again be the same. Fame and fortune were creeping into our lives, just I had once imagined. But my old joke about riding off into the sunset and being like The Beverly Hillbillies never came to pass. Most days were anything but whimsical or comical.
There were cracks in our perfect lives almost from the start. One night when Madison and I were in the house alone, she went into a full-blown asthma attack at two in the morning. I jumped into the car, intent on rushing her to the hospital, only to realize that I had no idea where the closest emergency room was located! What have we done to our lives? I groaned. But I also knew there was no turning back. Better to pretend everything is fine than make a U-turn back to the past.
That fall, when Demi went to Miley’s sixteenth birthday party—a big bash at Disneyland—the paparazzi snapped a photo of Demi that exposed several scars on her wrists. By the next morning, tabloid headlines were accusing Demi of cutting herself. At the time, I didn’t really understand what cutting was, even thinking that it was some kind of trend she’d outgrow. But Eddie and I decided that hiring a life coach to help our daughter make better choices might be a good idea. Once again, I reduced the problem to something more manageable and hoped that if I asked Demi to stop cutting, she would.
A few weeks later when Madison and I were at the grocery store, we spied a magazine with Demi’s picture on the cover. We both squealed in delight, but my joy faded the moment I started reading. Portraying me as an ambitious stage mom, the article suggested I was responsible for pushing Demi into her rigorous schedule and destabilizing her emotions. As tears welled up in my eyes, I also read how I had forced Madison to play the role of an overweight kid on Desperate Housewives because I wanted the money. It completely shocked me. I tried not to show my hurt feelings in front of Madison, but it set my mind on fire. What if the article was right? Was I a bad person? Would people like me more if I were thinner? Calmer? More protective of my kids?
Each and every turn of events pushed my thoughts into overdrive. Not a day went by that I didn’t worry about other people’s opinions. By bedtime, I was usually too restless to sleep. And if I couldn’t sleep, I’d be exhausted the next day. There was only one solution. I need this! I told myself, reaching for another Xanax. It was the one sure thing that brought me peace in the midst of the storm that had become our lives.
There was one bright spot in all of the chaos and mixed emotions about moving to LA, and that was Meatloaf Wednesdays. I’m not sure whose idea it was, but our Wednesday gatherings quickly became a cherished time of fun and camaraderie. Lisa, who was now running the household and in charge of everything from picking up the mail to cleaning the house, always bought the ingredients to make one of our favorite southern feasts—meatloaf, corn, and mashed potatoes—and Madison loved to help her in the kitchen. Demi’s friends—sometimes it was Miley and sometimes it was Selena—joined us on a few occasions and so did various costars from the set of Sonny with a Chance, as well as friends of Dallas’s and some of Eddie’s coworkers such as Gary, Demi’s tour manager.
Mostly, we gathered in the smaller, informal eating area, where we sat at a wooden table, perched on matching wooden benches. If it was a large gathering, we shifted to the formal dining room, where there was more seating. Either way, the laughter and stories abounded, often lasting until 10:00 p.m., when I had to shoo everyone away so that anyone who had to work the next day could get enough sleep.
* * *
Demi’s behavior continued to swing in opposite directions. Some days she was sweet and enthusiastic, and some days she seemed to brood in darkness. One thing was clear: Ever since turning sixteen that August, she veered toward willful and defiant behavior with increasing regularity. Alt
hough teenage angst is normal, I didn’t want it to tarnish her career. We had lots of talks about what was acceptable behavior, discussing what she could say on Twitter and where she could go at night, but Demi rarely heeded my advice. To make matters worse, shortly after her birthday, she bought her own car and now was running off most evenings without any explanation. Every night I’d set an alarm for 2:00 a.m. and walk to her bedroom. If she wasn’t there, I called her and demanded she return home. And I kept calling until she walked through the front door.
“You’re treading on dangerous ground,” I warned. “And Disney might get angry and fire you if you can’t get to work on time.”
Her looks of contempt baffled me. Where had I gone wrong? And now that she was so self-sufficient, my rules about curfew seemed unenforceable. What do you say to your child when she is the one paying most of the bills? I couldn’t tell her that I’d take her car away when she was the one who owned it. I couldn’t take her phone away when she was the one paying to use it. And although I tried to make her follow our rules while she lived under our roof, she was the one paying the rent. When she passed her California High School Proficiency Exam (CHSPE) that same year, her independence really skyrocketed, because then she no longer needed a guardian on set with her.
It was a tough time for both of us and full of contradictions. Although I struggled to curtail Demi’s late-night escapades, I cherished every moment when she wanted me by her side. If she invited me to lunch, I went. If she asked me to join her in her dressing room on set to watch a few episodes of Snapped, I was there with a smile on my face. And when Demi went on tour, I always relished our connection via video chat so I could be included in the preshow ritual where everyone circled together and prayed. But I also worried that the happy, exuberant little girl I once knew was slowly disappearing. Eddie was worried, too. “She’s so tired and cranky,” he sometimes told me when they were on the road. “I don’t know how to keep her happy.” Neither of us did.
I suppose when things become unstable and confusing, it’s natural to cling to familiar habits. And I did, putting even more emphasis on looking good and staying thin. Typically, I left the house wearing a ton of makeup and a bright-pink tracksuit. My hair was teased big and high. If that wasn’t enough to broadcast that I wasn’t a California girl, I also wore a lot of rhinestone jewelry. But I still felt miserable. It took me months to figure out that if I wanted to fit in, I needed to tone things down a bit, as everyone around me was wearing workout gear in shades of gray and black. When I finally put away my teasing comb, I decided it wouldn’t come out again until Halloween.
And, Lord! Driving in LA never got easier. I should have known that I needed help when I developed irrational fears about being trapped on the 405 or when I broke out in a cold sweat trying to maneuver through the switchbacks of Coldwater Canyon. Instead, I simply refused to drive on those roads. Regardless, my quirky, illogical fears kept multiplying.
As the pace and upheaval of our lives continued, my inner dialogue about needing Xanax slowly shifted. Twice, sometimes three times a day, I soothingly told myself: I deserve this! Like it was a reward. I never saw my habit as an addiction. Never saw it as a vicious cycle. I simply wanted relief, and if one tiny pill could give me that, then I was all for it. Of course, my supply wasn’t going to last until I returned to Texas, so I found a local doctor to write another prescription. He made it so easy, never asking if I was getting the drug from another source, never asking how often I took it. And the fewer questions, the better, because I didn’t want anyone to know.
Resting easy, though, wasn’t in my future. Two months shy of her twenty-first birthday, Dallas was arrested for underage drinking.
It became one more secret that I tucked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“We weren’t superheroes. We had to figure it out like everybody else.”
There we were, sitting in first class on an overnight flight bound for Madrid in April, watching Gary Marsh and Judy Taylor roam about in their airplane pajamas. Demi and I were dressed for bed as well, but we all kept chatting away in our excitement about the following day’s agenda, when Demi would help launch Disney Channel’s 2009 TV season in Spain. Considering that two years before I couldn’t have even arranged a phone call with the pair of executives, the whole scenario seemed absurd. I reached for my journal and scribbled: How the hell did I get here?
It was just another pinch-me moment when life seemed surreal. Demi’s work schedule never seemed to slow down. Sonny with a Chance had premiered in February to favorable reviews, so taping was underway for the season. In June, the Disney Channel film Princess Protection Program would air, and in July, Demi would release her second studio album, Here We Go Again, which would debut atop the Billboard 200 and became her first number-one album in the country. Then filming Camp Rock 2 would start in September, after Demi finished touring. All of it was in stark contrast to Dallas, who spent her days riding a bicycle or being driven by me to auditions because her license had been revoked after the underage drinking charge.
In the whirlwind of our daily lives, I never stopped to question how Dallas felt about her sisters’ success. Was she struggling with depression? Was her arrest a sign that something more serious was wrong? Was she dealing with issues of dependency that Patrick or I had passed on to her? Not one of those questions crossed my mind. To me, Dallas had merely hit a bump on the road to adulthood. The one question I did ask myself was: Doesn’t every teenager flirt with drugs and alcohol? If my own teenage years were any indication, the answer was a resounding “Yes!” Of course, I wasn’t at the point in my own life to ask about when or how experimentation becomes an addiction, especially considering I was still in denial about my eating disorder and my dependency on Xanax.
What I did understand was that we all have different languages of love, and mine was helping my girls succeed. From the moment they were born, I wanted to support their dreams and interests. Not only did I want to be their cheerleader, but I willingly was their organizer and helper, too. My default setting was always goal-centered, which meant that if we stuck to our plan of chasing success, then everything would fall into place.
I never doubted that Dallas would land something big, just as her sisters had done. She was, after all, the one who had started the whole dream-chasing process by auditioning for Little Rascal’s Darla, all those years ago. And, she was the one who had booked almost every commercial she’d ever auditioned for. She’s not going to be left out, I told myself. So, I found her a manager that could help her get to the next level and refocused my attention on Madison. Trying to balance the needs of a twenty-one-year-old and a seven-year-old wasn’t easy, but I tried my best. Madison, who needed normal kid activities as well as supervision on set, naturally got the bulk of my time and energy. I figured Dallas was fine with that, considering she was an adult and striving for independence.
But independence wasn’t the solution. Neither was better management.
Dallas was dealing with some weighty issues of her own that I’d later learn were related to the trauma she’d witnessed as a child. Regrettably, I was too busy getting Madison to work or flying across the country to join Demi for the weekend to notice. It was an oversight that would haunt me in the days ahead. Family was, and will always be, extremely important to me, but I also was quick to embrace denial when our lives weren’t running as smoothly as planned. If anyone ever asked about Dallas, I said she was doing great. It was the story I wanted—and needed—to believe. Besides, when the two of us chatted on the way to auditions, she seemed happy enough. Why rock the boat and expose something that might make enticing fodder for the media?
Keeping our lives private, though, was nearly impossible. Even when Demi wasn’t around, fans showed up at our house. Sometimes they’d ring the doorbell and snap a photo of whoever answered, and on Saturday nights, large groups of girls would stand outside and sing Demi’s songs. It was thrilling for a while, but over time, I began to feel like
we were living in a fishbowl. I struggled to get enough air.
One evening around dinnertime, our family came home in a downpour, and we rushed inside to get Madison ready for a play date. Everyone scurried by me as I lagged behind. Alone in the rain, I slipped on a wet tile and smashed my face into a concrete step. The sound of my nose snapping to one side was dreadful. Nearly choking from all the blood running down my throat, I pounded on the back door until someone answered. I’m sure I looked like I had just stepped out of a bad horror film.
“Oh my God,” Lisa cried as I raced inside and told her to dial 911. In shock, I kept running in circles, leaving a trail of blood behind me. When the ambulance crew finally arrived, they put me on a stretcher and covered me with a tarp to keep me dry from the rain. As we dashed out of the house, my mind went whirring—not about my broken nose but about the rumors and pictures that might appear the next morning. I could already see the glaring headlines: Someone Dies in Lovato’s Home!
In reality, pictures of me looking like a corpse were the least of my worries. With all the events and parties we were now invited to, I was once again binge drinking. On more than one occasion, Eddie or whoever was with me had their hands full as they tried to shield me from anyone who might try to get a picture of Demi’s mom drunk. Indulging in alcohol wasn’t a regular habit because I didn’t like to drink, but when I did, I went from zero to sixty fast, often ending up passed out or sick. I weighed only ninety pounds, so it didn’t take much to do me in. Although I tried not to take Xanax when I knew I’d be drinking, I never ate much, which didn’t help matters. Far worse, I was setting a horrible example for my girls, who often had to take care of me in my debilitated state. By morning, I rarely remembered any details about what I had done.
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