Falling with Wings

by Dianna De La Garza

  “I have something to say,” she began. “Life here can be challenging and … well, attacking my mother like that was bullshit!” Oh, no! I panicked. She’s going to get kicked out for that! But Dallas continued, sounding more resolute. “My mother is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet, and she came here to do something nice—but she got shot down for it in front of everybody. That wasn’t right.” When she turned to me and smiled, so did everyone else. And one by one, all those people I had been visiting started clapping. Even though I still feared we’d be packing up and leaving by evening, I couldn’t have loved my daughter any more than I did in that moment.

  * * *

  Four weeks later, Dallas asked to stay at rehab a little longer, insisting she had more to learn. I didn’t want to deny her the opportunity to get well, but we had already spent thousands of dollars for her treatment, none of which was covered by insurance and at least half of which was funded by Demi.

  “Two more weeks,” I told her. “We can’t afford any more.”

  About the same time, I learned that the lease on our house couldn’t be renewed. When Eddie and Demi popped back into town for a few days, I told them we needed to start house hunting again. Then I suggested to Demi that maybe it was time for her to actually purchase a home with the money from her Coogan Account, which California requires for all child actors, so that a portion of their earnings will be protected until they become adults. It was a preemptive move on my part. In a few weeks, Demi would turn eighteen and have access to those funds, but I feared she’d waste all that money on drugs and alcohol, especially since Eddie had recently called me from the road several times, worried that she wasn’t doing well.

  Somehow in the blur of Madison’s filming schedule, Demi’s rehearsals and photo shoots, and Dallas’s impending return home, we found a beautiful multilevel home in Sherman Oaks that was built into a magnificent hillside. It had everything our family needed, including enough bedrooms to accommodate everyone, as Dallas and Lisa would continue to live with us. The property also had a separate guesthouse near the pool that would be perfect for Demi now that she was getting older. As we considered making an offer, our family stood on the home’s elevated patio and watched the sun set over the valley. The spectacular view cinched the deal. But before we could move in, Demi and Eddie headed back to South America on tour.

  Shortly before I was scheduled to pick up Dallas and bring her home, I answered my phone and heard Karen, Demi’s former piano teacher, in a panic.

  “Is she okay?” Karen asked.

  “Who?” I replied, completely rattled by her urgency.

  “Demi,” she said. “I had a dream.… It was awful. She was lying in a ditch and covered with scorpions.… I’ve never been so afraid.

  “It was a prophetic dream,” she continued.

  No, I told myself. This can’t be true. Demi was going to make it through this difficult stage without getting hurt … and without anyone knowing the sordid details!

  “Gosh, that sounds awful, but Demi is just fine,” I lied. “In fact, she’s doing really, really well.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “My world was in jeopardy, and I needed to remain strong and stoic to keep my family together.”

  My excitement about returning to Colleyville in late October for my thirtieth high school reunion was so feverish that Eddie contemplated leaving South America so that he could join me for the big event. But when Lorna told me she was going alone, I decided that we should go together. “Stay with Demi,” I told Eddie. It seemed a minor detail at the time, and Eddie even joked that I’d probably have more fun without him. Neither of us had any idea how important his presence on tour at that time would be.

  The day before the reunion, Lorna showed up at my front door in Colleyville grinning like the Cheshire cat. As we laughed and told stories, I felt the weight of the past two years roll off of my shoulders. I was finally home with someone who knew and understood me!

  “Look at this,” I said to Lorna, presenting an array of Demi’s memorabilia, including a silver dress from the Camp Rock premiere, a few autographed pictures, and two pairs of Vans that also bore her signature. All were donations for the reunion’s auction.

  “Oh, nice!” Lorna gushed, just as my phone pinged.

  From that moment forward, my life would never be the same. Those five words—I’m sorry ahead of time—would forever change the carefully constructed image of our family that I had worked so hard to maintain. Our less-than-perfect track record would soon be an open book. The only thing I was grateful for was that Demi’s incident had occurred on a US airplane; otherwise, she could have been thrown into a South American jail.

  * * *

  It always amazes me how when we awaken the world seems fresh and new. I remember opening my eyes that next morning feeling happy and carefree, as though Demi’s text had been a dream. Then the whole scene came rushing back … the shocking phone call … the fear … the relief … and the crushing realization that my daughter needed help. I longed to go back to sleep, but I knew that people needed me. As I made my way to the kitchen, Lorna greeted me.

  “I can stay with you,” she offered. “I want to help.”

  But I told her to go and get ready for the reunion. I had phone calls and decisions to make. Even though I loved her for offering to stay, I knew the work ahead was a family matter. Soon after Lorna left, I was on a conference call with Eddie, Phil, Demi, and her attorney. As a group, we hoped to formulate a plan of action. When I heard Demi’s voice, my heart sank. She sounded so despondent, and her lackadaisical attitude about the future of her career seemed off-key. As a mom, I wanted to erase the pain she was in, but I knew I couldn’t. There would be consequences to her actions that she, alone, had to endure.

  “Maybe everyone would be better off if I wasn’t here anymore,” she suddenly sighed, alarming us enough to put her on a suicide watch until we could get her home.

  Our conversation ended with everyone agreeing that the only way through the ordeal was to get Demi the help she needed, even though no one really knew the full extent of what she was battling. My overriding desire was to find a treatment facility that would watch out for, care for, and evaluate her to the fullest extent possible. And I wasn’t going to wait for someone else to make it happen. Within the hour, I reached out to James Gresham, the owner of Timberline Knolls (TK), a women’s treatment center for a variety of mental-health issues that was located near Chicago. I only knew about James because of Phil, who had met him after buying a home in his neighborhood in Texas. Sometime after the two had talked, Phil casually handed me some brochures about TK, saying I should take a look. But I hadn’t bothered to read a single page until that morning.

  “I think we need your help,” I told James, my voice shaking. He sounded so kind, patiently answering every one of my questions. By the time I hung up, I knew it was where Demi needed to go.

  When I called and told Phil, he sounded relieved. I could tell he cared about Demi, not just as an artist of his but also as a friend who needed help. Within hours, Demi was let go from the tour, but we saw it as a blessing. She needed time away from work to get better. Unfortunately, the journey home would be a long one for Demi and Eddie, and not just because the trip would involve an entire day of flying from Peru to Miami and then on to Texas.

  * * *

  As soon as I crawled out of bed the following morning, I seemed to know that Demi needed my prayers. I cried and begged God for help while I drank my coffee and even as I showered. But that feeling of peace never materialized, so I did what my God-fearing, Gospel-raised, southern mother would have done—I got down on my knees. Then I went face-first on the floor, pleading for Demi’s life. In my mind, I saw all of those terrible signs that I had ignored—the bloody rags, the late-night parties, the forty-eight-hour binges without sleep—and I begged for forgiveness. Then I started quoting every Bible verse I could remember. “Lord,” I finally prayed, “I could have lost her, and I
don’t want to make that mistake again. Help me to find the words that will persuade Demi to get help.”

  I was still on the floor when the phone rang. It was Eddie.

  “She’s not coming to Colleyville!” he cried. “She’s trying to buy a ticket to LA.… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  There wasn’t a trace of control in Eddie’s voice. After three days of no sleep, he was exhausted and beside himself with worry. I feared he was ready to throw in the towel.

  “Listen to me, Eddie,” I insisted. “Bring her to me. Beg her, plead with her, make a deal, whatever it takes! I will do the rest, but you’ve got to get her to me. Promise me you won’t give up!”

  Despite all of her teenage rebelliousness, despite all of the arguments we’d had, and despite all of her issues, I knew that Demi loved me. Together, we had been through so much over the years, and I was certain that if I could just look her in the eyes, I could persuade her to go to treatment. Failure wasn’t an option.

  “I’ll try one more time,” Eddie said as I hit the floor in prayer again.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Eddie and Demi were at the front door. My heart thumped within my chest. Could I fulfill the task before me? Would I say the right thing? Instead, nothing happened. Demi walked in the house, mumbled, “Hi,” and walked up the stairs to her room.

  After I hugged Eddie, I headed toward Demi. Each step was a chance to rehearse what I would say. It’s time to get you help. You could lose everything if you don’t change. Getting angry doesn’t solve anything. All were possible options, but by the top of the stairs, I was ready for drastic measures. I decided I’d tell her that because she had threatened to harm herself, I was calling the police and having her placed in a mental ward under a 5150 hold. It was an option I had learned about earlier that morning when I called the police and asked about my parental rights.

  But when I opened Demi’s bedroom door, I didn’t say any of those things. She seemed too broken. There she was on her bed, curled up in a fetal position. Scattered around her were the remnants of her childhood—the posters, the pictures, the trinkets—that had inspired her during all those endless nights of songwriting. The journey from Colleyville to Hollywood had been hard on her, too. In that moment, I didn’t see an eighteen-year-old young woman clinging to her career; I saw a child who was exhausted and afraid. She was still my little girl, and I desperately wanted to turn around and let her rest. But I couldn’t.

  “Honey,” I said cautiously, “we need to talk.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Yes,” she agreed.

  “I found this really nice place for you to get some help,” I started. “It’s in Chicago.”

  Silence. I waited, but Demi said nothing.

  “I think you know what we have to do,” I continued, “but we’ll do it together, I promise. And I’ll help you every step of the way—but you have to agree to go.”

  Only more silence. I held my breath, trying to think of what more I could say.

  “I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” she finally said, resigning her fate to my plan.

  It felt like a miracle. “Let’s pack a few things,” I suggested, “and we’ll get you an iPod so you can download all your favorite music to take with you.” I figured life without her phone or laptop would be hard enough. Without music, she wouldn’t survive.

  * * *

  A few hours later, we were making the forty-five-minute trek to Addison, Texas, where James was waiting with a private plane. His firm handshake and warm demeanor assured me we were doing the right thing. When I looked at Demi, though, I could tell something was wrong. I quickly called my sister Kathy.

  “I can’t tell you all the details,” I said, “but start praying for Demi and don’t stop until I tell you.” Not only did we need to make it to Chicago safely, but we also needed to get Demi signed into treatment before she changed her mind.

  Throughout our flight, I silently kept praying, knowing my sister was doing the same. More than once, I reminded God of His promise in Matthew 18:20, which says: “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” When we landed, I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the trip had gone much smoother than I anticipated.

  Weeks later, though, James would tell me a strange story about our pilot for that trip and how he suddenly had become very ill midflight. Sweating profusely and trying not to vomit, he worried that he might have to attempt an emergency landing. When I told Demi about the pilot’s troubles, she turned pale and confessed that she was saying prayers of her own that trip—to make the plane crash! So despondent about her situation, she wanted to die rather than face treatment. But God had other plans for her life.

  As we drove along the winding, tree-lined road leading to Timberline Knolls, I relaxed a bit, sensing that Demi looked calmer than she had on the plane. I didn’t panic until we neared the front door. Will she go in or try to run away? But the voice of God stilled my fears. As clearly as I saw the sun shining in the sky, I heard these words: “Demi has great work to do for me, but first, she has things to learn here.” I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I felt certain that Demi was going to follow through on her decision to stay.

  * * *

  As the intake counselor asked Demi questions and jotted down her answers, I tried to remain calm as I heard more than a few shocking revelations.

  “Do you use alcohol on a regular basis?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Demi replied, which wasn’t a total surprise, though I hadn’t realized it was a regular habit.

  When she asked about drugs, my jaw dropped.

  “Cocaine, pot, and Adderall,” Demi said, after glancing in my direction.

  My blood ran cold. What? Why? Wasn’t Adderall for ADHD? I told myself to calm down. After all, she was being honest and about to get help. But the broken record in my head kept playing. Cocaine, pot, Adderall … cocaine, pot, Adderall … It made me feel sick.

  As the intake came to a close, the woman asked for Demi’s phone. It was that moment of truth, when I would really know if my daughter was serious about getting help. When she handed it over, I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer. Demi looked at me and began crying, too. Neither of us wanted to say good-bye. As I slowly stood up, Demi reached over and handed me a napkin from the table. I thought it was for wiping my eyes, but she whispered, “Read it.”

  There on the unfolded napkin was Demi’s message:

  I’m gonna miss you every minute of the day and night. I love you. You’re the best mother I could ever ask for. Demi.

  I took that little, white piece of love home with me and promptly framed it and hung it on the wall. It’s still there today. And it always will be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “As mother and father, we were more concerned about her life than her career, but there was a storm cloud hanging over us knowing she could come out of this with nothing.”

  What’s he doing here?

  A week after dropping Demi off at TK, we flew back to Chicago to visit her. When Eddie, Madison, and I walked into the conference room, there was Wilmer Valderrama, sitting next to my daughter. I knew they had been seeing each other, but I hadn’t expected to see him at TK. This is family time! Mother-daughter time! I railed silently. After an intrusive week of the paparazzi driving by our house, trailing our car as I took Madison to school, and surprising us with their cameras and questions at the airport, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with one more infringement upon our family. Being gracious took every ounce of energy I could muster.

  We all gathered together at one end of the large table that filled the room and tried to have a normal conversation. Although visitors typically gathered in the lunchroom, we were given a conference room in an effort to protect Demi’s privacy. It was the only exception to the rules that would be granted. Like all the other new residents, Demi had been escorted to the room by a BHS—a behavioral health specialist—and she’d be escorted back
to her room when we finished.

  “Oooh, we’ve missed you so much! Everyone is asking about you, and lots of fans are tweeting their encouragement.… Everyone sends their love.… And the house just isn’t the same without you,” I rattled on and on in my nervousness. After I hugged Demi again, I told her how good she looked.

  It was a lie. Her complexion was sallow. Her cheeks, hollow and sunken. Her eyes, lifeless. Although happy to see us, she didn’t say much. More than once, I caught her staring into space like we weren’t even there. Will she ever be herself? I wondered. The most hopeful thing I saw was when Demi and Madison sat side by side with their heads tipped together in silent solidarity. When we left, I cried all the way back to the hotel. Sunday’s visit was a little better, but I still was shaky and uncertain about the future. On the flight back to LA, I kept wondering when the happier, bubblier version of my daughter would return.

  * * *

  Every weekend we flew to Chicago. Sometimes Madison, Dallas, and Lisa came along; sometimes just Eddie and I went. By our third trip, Demi seemed more herself, even putting on a bit of makeup and dressing in nicer clothes. Wilmer, much to my chagrin, was always by her side. Although I still wanted time alone with Demi, I began to realize that he must care for her or he wouldn’t make the effort to be there every week. Eventually, I’d come to love him like he was part of the family and even apologize for my cold reaction back then. When the two broke up years later, his absence from our lives hit me hard, but during those early days of treatment, the mother hen in me wanted Demi to focus on getting better, not on a relationship.

  Although Demi had resigned herself to stay for thirty days, she became distraught when TK said she needed to stay longer. It broke my heart to watch her plead with such anguish to return home, knowing full well she wasn’t ready, as she was knee-deep in withdrawing from substances and just beginning to conquer an eating disorder. There was also the issue of learning how to manage her bipolar disorder. The setback in her departure made Demi angry and resentful. Once again, she slid into depression. I wondered if she’d ever recover.