* * *
One of the worst mistakes I made after moving to Hollywood was reading all the gossip about my girls on social media. I even set my phone to receive alerts whenever someone mentioned their names. Some of it was harmless fodder, like rumors about romance or favorite hangouts that Demi frequented, but negativity always won out. The constant scrutiny and criticism about every word we said—or didn’t say—didn’t help my inner turmoil.
One day as I was reading OceanUp, a teen gossip site, I saw a simple post about Demi visiting Starbucks that day. When I scrolled through the comments, I was shocked. Angry. Hurt.
“Have you heard about the sex tape?” one person commented.
“No, but I think she’s a terrible singer,” another replied.
“Definitely doing cocaine,” said someone else.
Were the rumors true? Did people really hate my daughter? What else was being said? Every day I not only read every bit of gossip I could find, but I read the comments, too. It made me wonder how things had spun so out of control. Was it even possible to turn things around? Instead of confronting Demi, I charged after the girl I thought was a negative influence on my daughter. A girl I’ll simply call Jane Doe.
Jane seemed innocent at first, very sweet and polite. But over time she seemed to infiltrate our home like a pestilent cockroach, appearing almost daily and sparking more and more arguments between Demi and me. Every evening the two girls would head out together, which made my stomach churn. Demi rarely returned before the wee hours of the morning. Although I never saw her drunk or high on drugs, I suspected she participated in both activities. As a mom, you just know sometimes. My biggest fear, though, wasn’t that my eighteen-year-old daughter was facing issues of addiction, because I never saw the depth of her habits. Once again, I assumed that her experimentation was normal teenage behavior, much like I had done with Dallas.
But I was terribly worried that Demi would ruin her business agreements with Disney, which ultimately affected me because I was considered the gatekeeper to my daughter’s behavior. Even after more talks, Demi wasn’t interested in curtailing her nightly escapades. At that point, I had a choice. I could lock my daughter in the house and only let her leave for work, or I could set her loose to make her own mistakes. I chose the latter and hoped she wouldn’t stray too far from what I had taught her. Making mistakes is part of life and sometimes it’s the best teacher, but I also knew that if Demi stumbled and fell, I’d pick her up and help her get on her feet again. I also knew that I wasn’t going to tolerate Jane’s presence in my house any longer, especially since I was sure she was encouraging Demi to use drugs. (I’d later learn that she was the one who taught Demi how to get Adderall from a doctor, the very drug I had taken years earlier after Madison was born to deal with ADHD, although Demi would misuse it to lose weight.)
“You’re not welcome in my house any longer,” I finally told Jane, pointing to the door. “Please leave.”
She walked out and so did Demi, who screamed at me that I was ruining her life. Although the two would remain friends until the very day that Demi entered treatment, Jane never set foot in our house again. I never regretted my decision, but in the end, it turned out to be a small victory in our efforts to stem Demi’s downward spiral.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“That’s a mother’s job—to be strong for everyone else.”
As 2010 rolled in, the pressures of the industry kept mounting, though none of us suspected that everything we’d worked so hard for was about to unravel. Sheer willpower kept me pushing forward, always believing that at any moment we’d find our rhythm and once again become the perfect family I imagined us to be. The newest person who stood in the way of my imaginary life was Wilmer Valderrama, a well-known actor from the sitcom That ’70s Show who had dated Lindsay Lohan in the past. His sudden interest in Demi worried me, so I arranged a dinner date to ask him a few questions.
“What exactly are your intentions?” I wanted to know, especially considering he was twelve years older than Demi.
“I think she has a bright and promising future,” he replied. “Hollywood could use more successful Latinos, and I could be a good adviser to her.”
He seemed sincere, but truthfully, I was having trouble trusting anyone in Demi’s company. A few months later when Demi told me that she and Joe Jonas had started dating, I should have been happy. But with the Camp Rock 2 premiere slated for late spring, I knew their budding romance could either be a big win for movie press or a disaster if they broke up. I hoped for the better outcome.
* * *
One of the great ironies during this time was that even though I was self-medicating with Xanax, I was also trying to rely more on prayer. I had found a Bible study group in Toluca Lake, thanks to Madison, who now was enrolled at the San Fernando Valley Professional School, a private school that catered to kids in the industry. The parents of one of her classmates led the group, and I loved going there because it reconnected me with the all the staples of my childhood—singing Gospel music, praying, and reading the Bible. It was the first taste of home I’d experienced in quite some time. But as wonderful and kind as everyone was, I never told anyone about any of our problems. It seemed too risky. Who would want to be friends with me if we had so many issues? And wouldn’t someone leak our secrets?
By May, the press had plenty to write about without my help.
“Mom,” Demi sobbed into the phone, “we broke up.” She sounded so distraught that I could barely understand her. In less than forty-eight hours, she was scheduled to appear on Good Morning America to sing and promote Camp Rock 2. She’d be right next to Joe for all of it. I knew that was going to be tough on her.
“I’m hopping on a plane, and I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I promised.
I handed Madison off to Lisa and boarded the next flight to New York City. That night as we watched Grey’s Anatomy, I held her like she was eight years old. I had never seen her so brokenhearted. Although she made it through the performance the next morning, I decided to go with her on the scheduled promotional tour to South America, fearing she wasn’t yet over the heartbreak.
* * *
After I returned from South America, I put all my attention back on Madison. I had only been gone about a week but it seemed like forever. I missed spending time with my little girl. One night as Madison and I dozed together in bed, I was jerked awake by a loud BAM. As the bedroom door flew open, Dallas stormed in.
“HEELLLP!” she shouted. “I’m possessed!”
Horrified and not fully awake, I jumped out of bed and ran toward her, as Madison groggily sat up and watched.
“Help meeee!” Dallas screeched repeatedly as she threw herself to the floor, flailing her arms and legs.
Watching her, I almost believed she was possessed. She looked more like a wild animal than my daughter. I grabbed her and started shaking her shoulders, hoping to dislodge the stranger in front of me. But I couldn’t control her, so I slapped her across the face.
“IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?” she bellowed as a twisted grin seeped across her face. Then she started laughing, throwing off a deep, guttural howl that sounded so evil, it made me cringe.
I was horrified. What had happened to my sweet child? What drug had she taken? Madison screamed from the bedroom, and Lisa rushed to her side as I chased after Dallas, who was teetering toward the bathroom. Once I grabbed hold of Dallas, I shoved her into the tub and turned on the faucet. With only the cold water running, I blasted her with the sprayer. Then I dialed 911.
Before anyone could answer, Dallas jumped out of the tub and barreled down the stairs, dripping wet. I was sure she would slip and badly injure herself on the slick hardwood floor. When I heard the dispatcher’s voice, I begged for help.
“My daughter,” I cried. “There’s something wrong with her … she’s going to hurt herself!”
The woman calmly told me to state my name and address and promised help was on the way, while I watched Dallas bo
lt out the back door with Lisa chasing after her. When they reached the patio, I was stunned to see Dallas pick up a large, heavy clay planter that would have been difficult for three grown men to move. She hurled it to the ground, where it shattered into tiny pieces.
“Oh, God! Please hurry,” I pleaded.
When Dallas spied Madison’s scooter nearby, she picked that up, too, and marched toward the back door, which was made of glass. “Noooo!” I cried, just as Lisa tore the scooter from her hands and threw it to the ground.
“Hold her down,” I shouted to Lisa. “The EMTs are at the front door.”
I swiftly guided everyone toward Dallas, while rattling off questions that no one could answer. What had she taken? What would make her act this way? What’s going to happen to her? When the ambulance crew approached Dallas, she suddenly seemed calmer. I gathered she was finally worn out from being pinned down by Lisa, who now sported a split lip. “She probably took drugs and alcohol,” one officer said. “She can sleep it off in the hospital, and you can check on her in the morning.”
When the ambulance left, I raced upstairs to check on Madison. One wave of terror after another had exhausted me. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was 3:00 a.m.! Oh, no! I groaned. In a few hours, Madison needed to be up for a TV interview about her role on Desperate Housewives. It seemed terribly unimportant in light of the night’s events.
The next morning, I took my Xanax with my coffee and asked Lisa to take Madison to her interview. It was time to focus on Dallas.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“I realized after we had moved to LA that Dallas had become a little fish in a big pond.”
As I drove to the hospital to pick Dallas up, I knew I had let her down. I never wanted to face the fact that she might feel insecure and a bit envious that her sisters’ successes overshadowed her own. Nor did I want to admit that I knew how it felt to almost make it big, only to watch others soar past you. God, fix our family and make us perfect. That had been my prayer for years, as though the heavens could magically erase all of our shortcomings. Now it was time to face the consequences and work toward a solution.
“I don’t know what happened or how I got here,” Dallas said when I appeared by her bed, “but I’m okay.”
“Nothing at all?” I asked.
“No,” she sighed. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
My hopes for hugs and apologies vanished. When the social worker arrived, I asked to speak with her privately.
“Can you tell me what she had in her system?” I said, sitting in her office and feeling like I was about to be sent to detention for being a bad parent.
“Oh, we can’t tell you that,” she said. “She’s not a minor.”
“But I’m paying for her insurance,” I argued, though the woman still shook her head.
“Look,” she offered, “maybe you need to get her some help. Somewhere that offers dual diagnosis, which means they’ll not only work on getting her sober but they’ll also try to get to the root of her problems.” She then handed me a list of facilities to consider.
* * *
Dallas and I barely spoke on the way home. My mind kept running in circles. How did this happen? How do I tell Eddie? What should I say to Dallas? I hated feeling so uncomfortable, and my whole body hurt from feeling guilty.
“I’m sorry,” Dallas finally said. “I know I must have done something terrible last night, because both of my legs are bruised and I can barely walk.”
“Look,” I began, “when I’m able to talk about last night I will, but it’s still too raw and scary. What I do want to talk about is finding you some help.”
“You mean like sending me away to rehab or something?” she gasped.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” I said. “It’s time to face this head-on. You need to understand that if you don’t get help, you can’t be around Madison.”
Silence stretched between us. “This is a gift,” I added, desperately hoping she’d grasp the lifeline I was tossing her, “and you need to figure out how to take this gift and make the most of it.”
Dallas looked at me, alarmed. “Madison means everything to me,” she began, “and I know that I need help. Actually, I’ve been too scared to ask.” She paused, then added, “I’ve tried to stop using several times, but I never make it past a few months.”
I was shocked and speechless, but Dallas wasn’t waiting for me to say anything. “Now that I know I have your support”—she smiled—“I think I can do this.” Her words were like Christmas, Mother’s Day, and my birthday all rolled into one.
When we got home, Dallas ran to her room as I turned on the computer to Google every facility on my list. Each one of them was expensive. How would we afford it? And would Eddie support my decision? I glanced at the clock, realizing it was twenty-four hours later, and I still hadn’t called him. He had his own share of problems trying to keep Demi out of trouble on the road, but I knew he needed to know what had happened.
My hands shook through our entire conversation. I told him about Dallas’s horrible ordeal, her suspected drug use, and her need for treatment. My final words were a plea. “I need your support,” I told him. “Treatment isn’t covered on our insurance plan, and I don’t know how we’ll pay for it.” He assured me that he’d find a way.
“We’ll get through this together,” he added. “It’s going to be all right.”
I desperately wanted to believe him.
When Demi called later that night, she added her encouragement. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll help with the costs. I just want Dallas to get the help she needs.” The love and compassion in her voice made me weepy with gratitude.
* * *
Forty-eight hours later, Dallas and I were on our way to the Pasadena Recovery Center. And, she was actually excited about going. After exploring the facility’s website and learning it was where Celebrity Rehab was filmed, she was even more excited. “I’ll go there,” she had exclaimed, “and I’ll think of it as the college experience I never got to have.” She even dubbed it her “all-about-me vacation.”
Thank you, God! Dallas was ready to turn the experience into a journey of self-discovery. Her enthusiasm was a positive sign. So, too, was the pile of pennies we spied behind our car when we came out of Target after buying all the things that Dallas wanted to take with her. Ever since Lorna’s son, Trenton, had died, we often found pennies in our path—never just one or two but lots of them—and we saw it as confirmation that Trenton, who had collected coins, was watching over us. “Thanks, buddy,” I whispered into the wind.
* * *
The plan was for Dallas to stay four weeks. I called her every evening and went to visit every Wednesday and Sunday. Sometimes I brought Madison or Lisa along; sometimes I went alone. It was my way of lending support, as well as assuaging all the guilt I carried for ignoring the signs that Dallas was struggling. How many times had she been unable to get out of bed and go to an audition? How many times had I asked her to clean her messy room without seeing results? How many days had she refused to get off the couch because she was depressed?
Almost from the start, Dallas was upbeat and positive. “Mom, this is hard work,” she told me on one visit, “but I’m getting the chance to be a better person. Who gets a chance like that?” We had a few laughs, too, especially when I caught her staring at some of the more attractive guys in the program. “Things aren’t so bad, are they?” I teased. But there were teary conversations as well, like when she got into trouble for fraternizing with those cute guys. “You need to follow the rules,” I reminded her during one of our phone calls. “You’re not there to make the program fit your needs; you’re there to follow the program and stick with it.” She took my advice and her cheerful, bubbly self returned in no time.
Some residents seemed to resent being there, but not my daughter. She even raved about some of her therapy sessions, though I never pressed for details. I told myself that I didn’t want to pry, but
the truth was I wasn’t interested in learning what I was doing wrong. Greeting Dallas with a smile each week, buying the things she needed, and relaying news from the outside world were more in my comfort zone. That was how I could help. Exposing the myth that our family wasn’t perfect would only damage us all, especially Demi, so I figured protecting everyone was part of my job, too. I also hoped that Dallas’s stay would remain a private matter. Fearing an onslaught of bad press for Demi if the news got out, I never told my family or my prayer group. And I never mentioned it to anyone on the set of Desperate Housewives. Only my closest friends knew the details.
Week after week, Dallas and I grew closer. Outgoing as always, my daughter did her best to get to know as many of the residents as possible, and she took great pride in introducing them to me. When I found out that some of them never got visitors, I made sure to stop by and chat with them whenever I went to see Dallas, even offering to get things from the store that they might need. Sometimes I had to make several trips to the car to unload everyone’s goodies. I never saw it as a bother because it made me feel useful and appreciated. And I loved that no one had a room as bright or cheerfully decorated as my daughter’s. Swathed in wild shades of pink, her room cast a glow into the hall whenever the sun’s rays came through her window. It made me feel optimistic and hopeful.
One weekend when there was an end-of-summer gathering that parents were invited to attend, I brought along a birthday cake for one of the residents I had gotten to know, even having his name etched in icing. He appreciated my gesture, but one of the counselors didn’t. As we sat in a therapy circle outside, that counselor reprimanded me in front of everyone. “You can’t do this,” she scolded. “A cake is only for a year of sobriety, and these residents have only been here a few months.” Everyone turned to stare at me as tears rolled down my cheeks. Feeling embarrassed and humiliated, I stood up and walked a short distance away. A few minutes later, the group moved on to an exercise where residents had the opportunity to share something on their minds. When Dallas stood up, I noticed she was shaking.
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