Falling with Wings

by Dianna De La Garza

  Now, as I sat there in treatment, tears filling my eyes, I was overwhelmed. When I lifted the new watch from the box, the girls helped me to put it on.

  “Happy Mother’s Day,” they shouted. “It looks so pretty.” Dallas beamed and Demi sweetly added, “We’re so proud of you!”

  I thought my heart would explode. My family had kept their promise to me for all the sacrifices I had made for them during the past, and their gesture meant so much because they gave it to me during one of the toughest times of my life.

  * * *

  As I neared my seventh week in therapy, I was moved out of Oak Lodge and into transitional living at Magnolia House. For two weeks, I’d be totally free to come and go as I pleased. It was a big step, considering I easily could have headed straight to a liquor store or tried to find a source for Xanax. But I didn’t. I felt too good to even consider it. My weight was stable. My anxiety was controllable. And my depression had lifted. Although I still took a mild antidepressant, my thoughts no longer cycled around despair or self-harm. In fact, the longer I was off Xanax, the lighter and happier I felt. And I had more energy, which probably was due in part to the fact that I was finally eating normal, healthy meals. I still went to AA meetings at night and still went to all of my classes and therapy sessions during the day, but I also added activities such as going grocery shopping and learning to cook. I also took the important step of asking a woman to be my AA sponsor, and we met regularly at a local coffee shop.

  My goals had shifted. Now instead of chasing perfection, I wanted to make better choices about my health and happiness. A few days into my ninth week, there was still one more hurdle to clear: I needed to say good-bye. I had earned my certificate and was finally going home!

  Considering that I had come to TK not wanting to share my life with anyone, I was now facing the hard task of having to leave my new friends. I had come to think of everyone, from the residents to the staff, as family. We had cried on each other’s shoulders, picked one another up when times got tough, and shared more than a few laughs together. The last thing I wanted was to be a blubbering fool as I handed out my final hugs.

  The Wednesday of my departure, I packed my bags in the morning and took them to the front of the building so they’d be there when Eddie came to get me that evening. The remaining twelve hours were for final reflections and expressing my gratitude. My first opportunity to do so was after lunch, when I would make the traditional farewell speech to staff and residents. I promised myself that I would make it a happy and upbeat occasion. Just to make things interesting, Dr. Kim challenged me to make the speech without fixing my hair or wearing makeup. For weeks, everyone had been teasing me about my penchant for always dressing up and wearing big hairdos, especially since there was no one I needed to impress, but I still wasn’t ready to let go of those habits. Though, I did manage to add an element of surprise that made everyone cheer.

  Most of what I said was one long thank-you. I praised and thanked the people on my team, my roommates, the teachers, everyone in Oak Lodge, everyone who wasn’t in Oak Lodge, Jesus.… The list went on and on. I truly was grateful for each and every person who had supported me in any way. As my emotions threatened to overflow, I caught myself and threw out a couple of final words that hit home. A few weeks before, one of the girls with eating issues was so exuberant after finally finishing her meal, she had blurted out: “I just made that breakfast my bitch!” Every single one of us knew exactly where she was coming from. I figured she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed and tweaked her expression.

  “I just made treatment my bitch,” I declared with a smile. It brought the house down. People laughed and cheered, hooted and hollered. And just as I had hoped, there wasn’t a sad face in the bunch.

  A few hours later, before evening meditation, I made one more announcement.

  “Tonight I want to go out with a dance party,” I said, “and everyone must participate!” The staff had agreed to give me five minutes at the start of the evening meeting after everyone gathered in Oak Lodge.

  First, I put on CeeLo Green’s “Forget You” and cranked up the volume. With my hips swaying and arms waving, I encouraged everyone to join me. To my surprise, a BHS turned off the lights, and someone started handing out flashlights. In no time, we had a full-blown disco party going on. While the music blared, bursts of light streaked across the darkness, and the energy in the room became contagious. No one dared to stay seated.

  As more and more people got pulled into the middle of the dance floor, elbows and hands flashed before my face. We laughed and jiggled, gyrating like teenagers. Out of the corner of my eye, I even caught a glimpse of a few wild participants—residents and counselors alike—jumping off the couches! By the time I switched to Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way,” all hell was breaking loose. And we sank our teeth into it, turning those final minutes of frantic movement into our own personal declarations of “I came in here thinking life was daunting” to “I got this!”

  This is life! I thought. It was a powerful moment when I realized deep in my soul that I was not only taking all the memories of these people that I had met with me, but I was also taking home their joys, their sorrows, and their tears. This was what a life worth living felt like! And I knew that if I could stay connected to these rich feelings of emotion and hold on to the significance of this culminating moment, then I’d stay inspired in the future to live without behaviors, without drugs, and without the burdens of inferiority or guilt that had shackled me for so long. My heart was full and my spirit was free.

  When the music stopped, I waltzed toward the door, hugging the people I passed along the way and brushing happy tears from my face. Then I paused. Took a bow. And ceremoniously shouted, “You’re welcome!”

  When I walked out, I never looked back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Life really began after treatment—there was a lot of soul-searching to do.”

  I realized rather quickly that life outside of treatment was far different than inside. Now I was on my own without the rigid structure of classes and therapy sessions to attend, and it frightened me more than I wanted to admit. Those first few weeks back at home I barely left our property, choosing instead to spend hours outside, surrounded by our palm trees and lush, tropical plants. It was the perfect space for meditating and writing in my journal.

  As I pondered how I had grown and changed in the past nine weeks, I jotted down the key takeaways from my stay in therapy:

  1.  I could no longer pretend that things were perfect. It was better to share my emotions, talk about my problems, and ask questions.

  2.  I could no longer be afraid of food. Nutritious meals were necessary for a healthy life.

  3.  I could no longer alleviate anxiousness or distress with drugs or alcohol. I needed to practice the DBT skills I had learned instead of ruminating on the “what-ifs” and “maybes” of life.

  4.  I could no longer make my whole life about my kids. It was time to find some activities and pursuits that made me feel passionate and fulfilled.

  Everyone has barriers they need to break through, and those were mine. If I could stay focused on my list, I’d remain on a healthier path. But, it was a daily struggle at first. I felt weak and shaky, as though I had just recovered from a long bout with the flu and now needed to get out of bed and be around people again. I didn’t trust myself.

  Soon after I returned home, Madison’s private school held its graduation celebration. Since it was a small school, all students, regardless of grade, were encouraged to invite their parents, relatives, and close friends. Even though I knew it wouldn’t be like walking into Times Square on New Year’s Eve, I was terrified. But I couldn’t back out, as Madison was graduating from fourth grade, and it was a big deal to her. Not wanting to disappoint her, I wondered how I’d manage not only the ceremony, but also the festivities afterward, which included a big auction and a meal with tons of food and lots of wine. Thankfully, Eddie reserved a table
for us with our best California friends, Rod and Amy, who were nondrinkers, but I was still so nervous that I barely let go of Eddie’s arm the entire evening. We both sighed in relief when it was over.

  I also was uncomfortable with how much weight I had gained during my stay at TK. The twenty-five extra pounds I now carried seemed too much, but I didn’t want to swing back in the other direction. Initially, though, there wasn’t much danger of that, because suddenly I couldn’t stop eating. It was as if someone had given me carte blanche to eat as much as I pleased. I alternated between figuring out which new restaurant to try next and following my favorite food trucks around LA, even downloading an app to alert me when they were close by.

  One evening, Eddie and I joined a group of friends at a food-truck convention, where tables and chairs were set up in a parking lot. We all ordered these “grilled cheese burgers” that consisted of alternating layers of grilled cheese sandwich, a burger, another grilled cheese sandwich, and fries. I gobbled mine up and dug into someone else’s, just as I caught Eddie staring at me in disbelief.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  The concern on his face alerted me to the fact that what I was doing wasn’t the healthiest thing for anyone, even though I was really, really enjoying myself. So, I put myself on a meal plan. It was—and still is—the best way to make sure that I stay on an even keel, as resisting the urge to diet will always be my biggest challenge. I also started working out with a group of my friends at a class led by our trainer, Ronin Boushnak. Once a championship MMA titleholder, he ignited our passion for kickboxing and mixed martial arts. And as friends, we all continue to hold each other accountable for showing up to class, even on days when we don’t feel like it. These days, I’m proud to say that I’m more concerned about developing my muscles than stepping on a scale. There’s nothing like a good workout with Ronin to make me feel like I can conquer the world.

  One of the best decisions our family made during that time was to bring home two new Shih Tzu puppies. Although we had planned on doing it all along, the timing was perfect. I sat for hours stroking Bentley and Oliver, who often cuddled in my lap. The lovefest was good for all of us.

  But not all of our decisions were wise ones. Like always, Eddie and I decided to go to Vegas to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Our little getaway started out fine, but one night while Eddie was busy gambling, I wandered away and thought I’d treat myself to a celebratory glass of wine. Several hours later, Eddie found me dazed and confused, roaming the Strip with a collection of photos on my phone that chronicled my bizarre encounter with someone dressed as Barney, the purple dinosaur. Although most details about the night were sketchy, I did remember throwing my arms around the purple beast and declaring: “My daughter Demi was on your show, and I LOVE YOU!”

  It was hardly a proud moment. But it was a realization that once they took my drugs away, my addictive personality made me vulnerable to whatever I could get my hands on. From that night forward, I started attending AA meetings, cleared our home of alcohol, and called my friend Amy whenever I needed to be talked out of doing something foolish like buying a drink. I had worked too hard to go back into those behaviors. Unfortunately, there was no remedy to “un-see” those ridiculous selfies I had taken with Barney.

  * * *

  As the fall of 2011 slid into winter, I was thankful that our family was on the mend. Dallas, still auditioning, found voiceover work on Snowflake, the White Gorilla, while Demi released her third studio album, Unbroken, which peaked at number four on the Billboard 200. Madison continued her role on Desperate Housewives, and I settled into my role as mother without the crutch of Xanax. All in all, it seemed like everyone was committed to living healthier, happier lives. Although relapsing after treatment isn’t uncommon, I didn’t see any signs that anyone was in trouble.

  Demi was still living at home with her sober companion, and at Thanksgiving we all headed to Texas, where MTV filmed our whole clan gathered at my aunt’s house. It was part of the footage they would use for Stay Strong, the station’s documentary about Demi’s recovery, which unbeknownst to me was teetering on the edge of collapse. Eddie and I even flew to New York City that New Year’s Eve to watch Demi promote the documentary’s upcoming release. Not once did I notice that Demi was in trouble. But I also wasn’t looking. My own recovery was so important and tenuous at that point that I couldn’t focus on anyone else.

  A few days into 2014, Eddie pulled me aside one evening and shattered my belief that all was well. “Phil wants us to have an intervention with Demi to make it clear that she needs to take her sobriety seriously,” he said, looking sad and weary. I was stunned. Really? Again? Even with a sober companion? The news was devastating, but I also knew that confronting Demi was absolutely necessary.

  Within forty-eight hours, everyone who had a stake in Demi’s future was seated at the table in her manager’s office. Front and center was my daughter. Gathered around her were Phil McIntyre; Eddie and I; Mike Bayer, who ran CAST, a recovery center in West Hollywood, and who was supervising Demi; her sober companion; and her attorney. Her business manager joined us by phone. We all knew Demi’s life was at stake, not just her career. One by one, we each explained what she needed to do and what would happen if she didn’t. It was an outpouring of love and concern, followed by hard realities. We later dubbed the gathering “Demi’s come-to-Jesus meeting.”

  One thing was very clear. Everyone present was rooting for Demi’s sobriety, but no one would support her career if she continued using substances. Her record label, the press, her loyal fans, and her management team had already given her a second chance. Asking any of them to endure much more was flirting with disaster. As parents, Eddie and I knew that our love for Demi would never waver, but we desperately wanted our daughter to turn things around before she lost everything she had worked so hard to attain. It was time to play hardball.

  “If you’re going to be using drugs and drinking,” I said, “then I can’t have you around Madison. She looks up to you.”

  We locked eyes for a moment, and I knew I had touched on something dear to her heart—her little sister. Suddenly, she exhaled and said, “Okay, what do I have to do?”

  She looked weary, as if she was tired of fighting. “Complete surrender,” Mike determined. “You give up your car keys, your credit cards—everything—and you turn them over to your sober companion.” He hesitated, knowing the next part wouldn’t be easy. “And your cell phone,” he added.

  I winced at that one as I watched her contemplate her decision. The ball was now in her court. I silently prayed, Lord, let her surrender to getting well.

  Demi looked down at her phone and slowly picked it up. But instead of handing it to Mike, she suddenly smashed it on the table, causing all of us to jump. Then she dropped it into the glass of water sitting in front of her.

  “That’s so I don’t change my mind and try to get my phone back,” she said before finally declaring, “I’m ready to get sober now.”

  “Thank you, God,” I whispered.

  I’ll never forget Demi’s words or the cheers that went around the table that night. We celebrated and congratulated her like she had just won a Grammy. But we also knew she had a lot of tough work to do, and we vowed to support her. And that, I believe, was the night she turned her life around for good.

  * * *

  Demi immediately moved into a sober house in Santa Monica where she was under constant supervision and encouraged to attend therapy sessions and AA meetings. Without access to her car, phone, or credit cards, she no longer was tempted to beat the system. Instead, she started rebuilding her resolve to address the mental and emotional issues that had undermined her recovery. Every week or so, I’d go visit her. We spent our time hanging out with some of the other girls there, watching movies, and gossiping about the latest Hollywood scandals. It wasn’t healthy for either of us to dwell on the past or talk about personal issues. We saved that for family therapy sessions. Occasionally, Demi a
nd I ventured to a few AA meetings together, but mostly, she worked on herself and I worked on my issues. We both understood how fragile recovery could be.

  After only a few months at the sober house, Demi decided that it was time to refocus on her career. She started writing music again and she landed a spot on the X Factor as a judge, but she continued to live at the facility in Santa Monica. This time she wasn’t taking any shortcuts. In fact, Demi’s stay lasted more than a year. When she finally declared that she was ready to live in her own apartment the following March, I trusted that she was ready. By then, we were all branching out in new directions, but each of us took special pride in Demi’s blossoming career as well as her vocal commitment to mental health awareness. If the issue needed a public spokesperson, there was no one more prepared to talk about it than my daughter. Hiding from the truth was no longer our family’s strategy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “There she was—standing in front of more than fourteen thousand fans—and it began to dawn on me just how badly our youth need someone to show them that being sober is cool.”

  On September 27, 2014, I was backstage at the Staples Center in LA with Lisa, Dallas, Madison, and Madison’s friend Jayde. We were rummaging through Demi’s dressing room, trying to find some snacks to eat while we waited for her to finish rehearsing with Travis Barker on stage. He was scheduled to play drums on the opening song, “Really Don’t Care,” which seemed like a good fit as I remembered how Demi and Dallas used to watch his reality show Meet the Barkers way back when they were younger. We were always amazed at his drum-playing.

  “Hi, Momma,” Demi cried when she saw us. “Joe Jonas is here…” she started to say, then trailed off. I figured the playlist that night included a surprise.

  “Travis Barker and a duet with Joe?” I whispered.