by Mariah Carey
It was a blur, but I pulled myself together. I got some highlights, a cut, and a blowout. I wore a one-shoulder fitted tank top, as I do on the Glitter poster, but it had an American flag bedazzled on the front, in honor of the victims and heroes. I paired it with simple low-rise jeans, held my chin high, and hit the red carpet at the Village Theater in Westwood with a smile. I was blessed to have lots of kids and young people at the premiere, as they were the intended audience. Glitter was not made for serious cinemagoers and art-gallery hoppers; it was an imperfect, fun, PG flick.
The box-office sales for Glitter were dismal, in large part because the country was still reeling from the 9/11 attacks. The tragedy was still fresh, and no one was ready for the lightweight distraction that was Glitter. Out of respect for our collective mourning, one would think the media would have turned their obsession away from me as well, but it seemed to only intensify.
After the Glitter premiere, I stayed in LA to prepare for the America: A Tribute to Heroes telethon, honoring the thousands who died in the attacks. Organized by George Clooney, it would be my first performance since I emerged from that nightmare of family, cops, and institutions. The biggest stars in entertainment—Tom Hanks, Goldie Hawn, Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Wonder, Muhammad Ali, Pearl Jam, Paul Simon, Billy Joel, Robert De Niro, and others—came out, united as Americans. I sang “Hero,” as Americans—first responders and so many other brave, unnamed people—showed the world what true heroes really look like. Never had I imagined when I wrote this song that it would mean so much in such a horrific moment in history.
I was anxious to get back to New York. It was inspiring how the city immediately got to work putting itself back together in the wake of the attacks, and I was eager to put my life back together too. I wasn’t permitted to resume residence in my penthouse yet, as much of lower Manhattan was still closed off for safety and security reasons. In the meantime, I stayed in a hotel and blocked my family and others from getting to me. I was waking from the nightmare they’d created, and I had to get my own help; I wanted desperately to get back to being okay.
I chose a therapist in upstate New York. He had a profound intellect, but also a deep sensitivity. His insights were not only acute but comforting—he gave me a modern white Buddha vibe. Under his qualified care, I was able to begin to unpack the demoralizing and dehumanizing ordeal I had just been through. Losing my power and being put in scary, inappropriate institutions by my mother and brother while the press ravaged my reputation was almost the end for me.
My therapist named the physical illness I’d been experiencing for so many years—all the nausea from being humiliated by kids and teachers, all the breaking out in hives all over, all the severe upper back and shoulder pain from stress from Tommy, all the dizziness and revulsion from the terror of my brother, all the psychological distress I endured which wreaked havoc on my body had a name—somatization. Having a highly respected professional name, it validated that what I was physically experiencing was real. It was suddenly all so real.
My career was everything to me, and because of my mother, my brother, and Tommy, it was nearly taken away. Honestly, it felt like they almost killed me. They came close, but they didn’t kill me, or my spirit. They didn’t permanently damage my mind or my soul. But, Lawd, they do try.
There is nothing more powerful than surviving a trip to hell and coming home covered in the light of restoration. It wasn’t an easy journey back to myself and to God, but I was back on my feet and walking forward. No one, I decided, was going to stop me or take all my power again. Ever.
In therapy, my emotions were safe to come out of the frigid hold of survival mode, and I was fucking furious. I was supporting everybody around me, and they had the audacity to throw me into institutions, give me drugs, and try to take control of my life. When I told my therapist what had happened, he assured me I was absolutely not crazy. At most, he said, I’d had a “diva fit.” It was a wonder I wasn’t permanently emotionally damaged, given what I lived through; however I will probably always struggle with PTSD. He also affirmed that I was completely justified in being enraged. He very candidly suggested I examine the role money had played in the experience with my family. I was so wrapped up in the childhood history, the betrayal, the love I had once had for everyone involved that I was blind to motive. It was no coincidence that my mother and brother were working on the side of the record company instead of protecting me and advocating for my well-being, and that they just happened to claim I was unstable and try to institutionalize me immediately after I had signed the biggest cash record deal for a solo artist in history. I could accept that I was a cash cow for record companies; after all, I was “the Franchise.” It’s the name of the game—it may be dirty, but I had no illusions that the music business was, first and foremost, a cutthroat business. But though I hadn’t cut a business deal with my mother or my siblings, they were happy to take me to the slaughter just like the record companies and the media.
I knew for a long time that to my family, I’d been an “ATM machine with a wig on” (a moniker I gave myself). I gave them so much money, especially my mother, and still it wasn’t enough. They tried to destroy me in order to take complete control. The therapist made an obvious suggestion: if they could prove I was unstable, they certainly could have believed they would become the executors of my affairs. He asked me to look at them objectively—how they viewed the world, how they never really had consistent, legitimate work but still felt like the world owed them something. We all had varying degrees of tough shit to go through in my family, but in this way, we fundamentally differed. I didn’t think the world owed me anything. I simply believed I would conquer the world I was born into, in my own way. As I worked myself to extreme exhaustion, they watched and waited for me to fall, like scavengers, so that they might gain control over the fortune I had negotiated, built, and fought for.
* * *
Years later, the pattern still continued, as patterns do. My family didn’t change. One of the definitions of insanity, it’s often said, is doing the same things over and over and expecting different results. My version of insanity was allowing the same thing to be done to me, over and over, by the same people.
“Please change your cast of characters.” That was the simple and profound request my therapist eventually made. While I couldn’t change the characters of my mother, brother, and sister, I did have the power to change how I characterized them in my life. So for my sanity and peace of mind, my therapist encouraged me to literally rename and reframe my family. My mother became “Pat” to me, Morgan, “my ex-brother,” and Alison, “my ex-sister.” I had to stop expecting them to one day miraculously become the mommy, big brother, and big sister I fantasized about. I had to stop making myself available to be hurt by them. It has been helpful. I have no doubt it is emotionally and physically safer for me not to have any contact with my ex-brother and ex-sister. The situation with Pat, on the other hand, is more complicated. I have reserved some room in my heart and life to hold her—but with boundaries. Creating boundaries with the woman who gave birth to me is not easy; it is a work in progress.
* * *
After I was broken, I received a blessing. The trouble and trauma I endured was not only emotional, it was spiritual as well. As such, I sought healing for my soul. I knew I had to revive and recommit to my relationship with God. I am eternally grateful to have met my pastor, Bishop Clarence Keaton, when I did. I met him through Tots. We used to attend church together at True Worship Church Worldwide Ministries, right across from the Louis Pink Houses projects in East New York. Tots and I were even re-baptized there together. At True Worship, I became a student of the Bible, doing a three-year intensive. We went through it from Old to New Testament. I took notes, and I took the healing words in.
Bishop Keaton used to be a pool shark; he lived a very different life before becoming a pastor. He’d already earned respect in the neighborhood, when at that time it would not be uncommon to duck bullets in br
oad daylight, so he had protection, and people didn’t mess with him. I would have security provided by the church, and the congregation would respect my privacy—the bishop saw to it. I found community in the church and family in my bishop, who treated me like a daughter. He often came to talk to me, even when he was going through health issues toward the end of his life.
It was such an honor to solidify Bishop Keaton’s legacy as a great spiritual teacher in my life and in the world by featuring him on two of my songs, “I Wish You Well” and “Fly Like a Bird.” He and the True Worship choir joined me on Good Morning America to perform “Fly Like a Bird,” before he took flight on July 3, 2009.
* * *
Having a family in God brought me back to my life in the Light. Pat couldn’t understand. She left me a snide phone message on my Blackberry: “What is this with you and your new friends and your new prayers?” None of my biological family understood what it meant to care so much about God. But I had to. Returning to God was the only way I made it out of all my trips to hell. I believe my ex-brother and ex-sister have been to a hell of their own; they may still be trapped there. They chose drugs and lies and schemes to survive, but that only seemed to dig them in deeper and to make them resent me more. And I still pray for them.
Maybe when you’re cursing me
You don’t feel so incomplete
But we’ve all made mistakes
Felt the guilt and self-hate
I know that you’ve been there for plenty
Maybe still got love for me
But let him without sin cast the first stone brethren
But who remains standing then
Not you, not I, see Philippians 4:9
So, I wish you well
—“I Wish You Well”
So gradually I overcame the dark time that my family had dragged me through. And after all that shit, “Loverboy” ended up being the best-selling single of 2001 in the United States. I’m real.
PART IV
EMANCIPATION
MY COUSIN VINNY
After the whole Glitter fiasco, Virgin was spooked and wanted to change my deal to make it much less significant. They felt they couldn’t justify spending all that money on such an “unstable” person. The woman who had signed me was fired, and they brought in two new people from England to replace her. I remember the first day I sat down with them—basically, they were pretty fucking awful. They were trying to change the deal, and I just knew I had to get out of there.
Getting to Virgin had seemed like a triumph because I was so desperate to get off Sony. Virgin wasn’t as big, but it was a boutique label, and I knew how well they had taken care of Lenny Kravitz and Janet Jackson. They offered me such a good deal in part because they weren’t as slick and influential as other labels; they didn’t know all the tricks that Sony and the other big labels knew. They were eclectic and saw me as a big, shiny star. Initially I chose Virgin over a larger and more cutthroat label for the deal they were offering, but when they wanted to “adjust” it, with all new players, I had no reason to stay. They offered a revised agreement wherein they would pay me much less and have more control. I refused.
Instead, the CEO of Universal Music Group, the genius Doug Morris, and visionary hip-hop music executive Lyor Cohen (we both had come a long way since I met him on the street with Will Smith, singing Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock’s “It Takes Two”), came to my penthouse. The three of us sat in the living room with Marilyn’s white baby grand, and over champagne Doug proclaimed, “You know what, Mariah? We’re going to do this. I think we’re really gonna do this.” I felt safe and seen. They would have to pay a pretty penny to get me out of the deal I had with Virgin, but they were willing. I was like, Fuck everybody else; I’m still good, I’m still here. I mean, I had two of the top music executives in the world on my couch, with no middlemen. We were going to be all right. After all of the trauma I’d experienced, the faith and trust Doug showed in me, and his exciting vision for the future, renewed me. And I was going to do it! I had no intention of dying with the nineties, as Tommy had prophesized. I always knew I could be even bigger than he saw. I had so much more music inside of me. Ready to begin again, I signed my new deal.
The first album I made on Universal was Charmbracelet. Recording Charmbracelet was a chance at restoration and recuperation after the disaster that was Glitter. Waiting at the end of my Rainbow bridge to freedom was a kind of paradise, an oasis. Quite literally—I recorded a lot of the album in the Bahamas and on the Isle of Capri (a semi-secret, retro-glamorous getaway like the old Hollywood of Italy). In the Bahamas, we did several live music sessions with Kenneth Crouch (of the legendary Crouch gospel family), Randy Jackson, and a bunch of other talented artists, including 7 Aurelius, who had been making big hits with Ashanti at the time. I was back in my sweet spot laying down light and airy vocals over heavy hip-hop tracks. All of us were there in the gorgeous Bahamas, just writing music.
I loved those sessions. I’m glad I was able to arrange that, because I needed a palate-cleansing moment. Jermaine and I did “The One” together. I wanted “The One” to be the lead single, but Doug chose “Through the Rain.” It was a serious ballad, and Doug thought it would work because it was kind of a sob story, the sort of triumphant Oprah Winfrey moment I needed in the wake of the Glitter debacle. It was a good song, but it didn’t perform as well as it could have. The label was really invested in the “adult contemporary” genre, which I could do in my sleep. But personally, I had always preferred the so-called “urban contemporary,” whatever that means.
I went back to Capri, to the gorgeous studio on the top of a hill. It was so great: there are no cars, there is no pollution, the air and the energy are very clean. I didn’t have kids at the time, but kids could run around freely there because it was so safe. You can only get there by ferry, and so it made for the perfect hideout for me to hunker down and record. People came out to visit me. Lyor brought Cam’ron out there for a day to record “Boy (I Need You).” Cam snuck in some of that purple (cannabis), and he administered very effective shotguns (I don’t inhale directly—the vocal cords, dahling). We got fully festive and watched Mel Brooks’s History of the World: Part I (one of my all-time favorite movies) and laughed our asses off.
One of the songs I love on Charmbracelet is “Subtle Invitation.” That song is a great example of how I often take the small moments that happen in life and channel their larger significance so that my music can connect to people all around the world who are going through different experiences and coming from different situations and positions. Though the song was about a brief and fleeting fling, it wasn’t a resentful song. It was for anyone who could relate to experiences of losing a love but keeping the door open to it.
See it’s hard to tell somebody
That you’re still somewhat attached
to the dream of being in love once again
When it’s clear they’ve moved on
So I sat down and wrote these few words
On the off chance you’d hear
And if you happen to be somewhere listening
You should know I’m still here …
If you really need me, baby just reach out and touch me
—“Subtle Invitation”
Another important song for me was “My Saving Grace”:
I’ve loved a lot, hurt a lot
Been burned a lot in my life and times
Spent precious years wrapped up in fears
With no end in sight
Until my saving grace shined on me
Until my saving grace set me free
Giving me peace
Giving me strength
When I’d almost lost it all
Catching my every fall
I still exist because you keep me safe
I found my saving grace within you
—“My Saving Grace”
Charmbracelet was a real fan favorite. The Lambs have always wanted “Justice for Charmbracelet,” and
it was actually a really good album. It featured Jay-Z and Freeway on “You Got Me,” Cam’ron on “Boy,” and Westside Connection on “Irresistible.” Joe and Kelly Price joined me on the “Through the Rain” remix. The album was a real transition from what I’d left behind into a new chapter. Universal supported me and stuck by my side; it didn’t feel like the hostile battle zone that was Sony during Tommy’s reign. Commercially, Charmbracelet wasn’t massively successful, but Doug didn’t give up on me—and thank goodness, because liberation was just over the horizon.
* * *
It was around 2003, after Charmbracelet had been released.
I recall that time as a rare moment when I felt freeish and rather unattached. I was kind of seeing a guy, but just seeing, nothing else. I just wanted to have fun. That night it was Cam’ron, Jim Jones, Juelz Santana, and Tots—and me. We’d been hanging out all night—clubbing, cocktails, you know, that whole thing—and we ended up back at my place, up in the Moroccan room. Many things start in the Moroccan room. When I first traveled to Morocco, the country spoke to me. I was inspired by the flavor of everything, the colors, the fabrics, the textures, the smells, the lushness, the exoticness, the glamour it was giving. It was all so mysterious and sensual. The restaurants, the homes, the hotels, they were all fantastically designed, all ultra-comfortable yet dramatic. You must keep it dramatique—Dramatique!—for me to love it, dahling.