Drinking and Tweeting (17 page)

It took all my strength not to respond, “Right, because you both are soooo fucking famous that every newspaper in the world would be clawing for the story of what Eddie and LeAnn revealed during coparenting therapy.” Are you fucking kidding me? It was laughable. I decided that at the end of the day, this was about being better people to one another so we could be better parents, so I agreed to sign the NDA.

It took a few weeks to get it lined up, but when I arrived at the doctor’s office only a few minutes before our session, the lovebirds hadn’t yet decided to grace the office with their presence. I had made it a point not to dress up for the appointment; I didn’t want either of them to think I had any interest in trying to impress anyone. I came straight from my Pilates class in head-to-toe workout gear and a pair of flip-flops. Shortly after Eddie opened the door, his perfectly coiffed fiancée wobbled in on sky-high heels and with a full set of eyelashes. I was
starting to get the idea that this was her typical morning uniform. I suppose it
was
almost lunchtime. Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I should have brought a glass of chardonnay.

Watching my ex-husband standing in front of me, comforting another woman and holding her hand, was probably one of the most surreal moments of my life. It was a strange sensation, because while it was extremely odd, I didn’t feel jealous. I was finally numb to their entire existence. I simply didn’t care. Since I signed away my right to speak, I can’t reveal what was discussed when we finally stepped into the therapist’s office, but I can share that it was an incredibly gratifying and vindicating experience . . . for me.

I
’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: child stars are a particular breed of hideous. Being surrounded by yes-men and yes-women all of your teenage and adult life will give people an altered sense of reality. They have this extreme sense of entitlement that they can have anything they want . . . including other people’s husbands. When LeAnn set her sights on Eddie, she was relentless about
getting him, and the damage her decision would cause never seemed to register.

Well, guess what? She won. I’ll give her that. But she also won a marriage full of doubt, insecurities, and a perpetual voice in the back of her head saying, “Is he telling the truth?” If I could peer into a crystal ball, I imagine I would see an ever-growing list of canceled tours, concerts, and appearances in her future, for fear of leaving her husband home alone.

For that, I pity her.

As the saying goes, time heals all wounds. I can genuinely and sincerely say that I wish LeAnn nothing but the best, because hopefully once she gets happy with her life, she’ll back the fuck out of mine. For the sake of our children, I hope her marriage to Eddie lasts a lifetime, because the ugliness that comes along with breakups and divorce isn’t something I want my boys exposed to ever again. They care about her, and I don’t want them experiencing any more loss in their lives. I wish that LeAnn would focus her energy back on her career, instead of dieting, suing people, tweeting, and wearing bikinis. After all, she is a talented woman with an amazing voice. Maybe she needs help remembering that sometimes,
too. I cross my fingers that Eddie soon finds work as a regular on a television series. Even though I no longer get alimony from my ex-husband (only child support), I know that a working Eddie is a happy Eddie, and a happy Eddie equals a happy home for the boys. I hope that someday soon LeAnn will be blessed with children of her own. I think that her having her own baby might give her a much-needed reality check on what it means to be a mother and, perhaps, a little perspective on what I went through. I’m not meaning that to sound completely bitchy . . . just a little.

Maybe one day, far in the future, LeAnn and I will be able to put our differences behind us and develop some sort of friendship. I have this hysterical fantasy that one day she and I will decide to record a duet about heartbreak. I’m an expert on the subject, and if I pull out that crystal ball again, I have a feeling she may be an expert one day, too. I can’t sing for shit, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be an iTunes sensation! However, I know that after publishing this book, I will most likely get slapped with yet another cease-and-desist letter from a certain country-music singer’s legal team. I believe it will be lucky number three.

For the time being, she is a part of my life. She is my children’s stepmother and someone I’m going to be forced to be around at soccer games, school recitals, and birthday parties. Do I want her to love and care for my children when they’re with her? Of course I do. Do I have to like her? Fuck no, but I do have to deal with her.

brandi’s babble

Never underestimate the impact of a properly timed “sloppy seconds.”

CHAPTER TEN

I Will Survive

T
he Beverly Hills Police Department’s holding cells were shockingly comfortable. I had only ever seen the inside of a jail on episodes of
Law & Order
, so I was pleasantly surprised by the amenities—which included a selection of the weekly magazines I so frequently appeared in those days. I’m not suggesting anyone try to get locked up; I’m just saying that it wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. But it was still pretty horrible. I’m incredibly claustrophobic, and the small cells were giving me a panic attack (and obviously my Xanax was nowhere nearby). I was freaking the fuck out.

I was arrested on October 29, 2010, and charged with driving under the influence of alcohol. The officer turned
on his sirens behind me after I had already arrived in the driveway of my then-boyfriend’s home in Beverly Hills, just after midnight. After I refused to take a Breathalyzer test (advice from my brother, a Stockton CHP officer), the arresting officer spent about three minutes shining a bright flashlight in my eyes, before asking me to walk a straight line and then touch my finger to my nose. I mean, that’s probably something I couldn’t handle sober. I didn’t feel drunk by any means, but clearly I was tipsy enough to alert this officer. I had consumed a few glasses of wine over three or four hours, sure I was a little buzzed, but at the time, I felt more than capable of driving.

Clearly, he was unsatisfied with my performance (and was sort of a dick in general), so I was booked at 12:45 a.m. We took the short drive over to the Beverly Hills Police Department, where I was half-hoping I would run into Eddie Murphy. As I was sobbing in the station, an overfriendly booking clerk took pity on me and attempted to lighten the mood when taking my photo by saying, “This is your official
TMZ
mug shot.” She clearly had no idea that this really
would
be my official
TMZ
mug shot. She meant no harm, which I was grateful for, but her joke hit a little too close to home,
and I started crying even harder—completely ruining any remains of my mascara. I knew it wouldn’t take long for the media to catch wind of my arrest, and it would soon be on every celeb website from here to Timbuktu. Immediately, I thought about my boys: “Oh, no. What have I done?” I started to panic. How was I going to explain this to my children? How about my parents, who’d bent over backward to help me get a fresh start? And I could only imagine the lecture I was going to get from my ex-husband. I spent the next eight hours listening to someone throwing up a few cells down and having sporadic attacks of severe claustrophobia. I killed time by perusing the list of names carved into the wall, searching for anyone recognizable. Alas, I couldn’t find Paris, Nicole, or even Lindsay. I was feeling really alone.

Despite the fine alleged on the police report, I never paid a dime for bail. With no prior criminal record, the booking clerk released me at 8:30 the next morning. The only real punishments would be the utter humiliation and a court-mandated Breathalyzer. It was to be installed in my Range Rover, and I was required to blow into it before my engine would start. That’s it. I literally walked right out of the police station.

I found my billionaire boyfriend circling the building in total confusion—this was clearly his first dalliance with the BHPD. We drove back to his house, and I was relieved to find my car still parked in the driveway. Since I was technically on private property when I was pulled over, the police couldn’t impound it. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Brandi Glanville’s Drunk Driving 101. First of all, don’t drink and drive. It’s just not worth it—trust me. Second, if you’re an idiot (as I was) and get pulled over, make sure you pull onto a driveway of someone you know. It will save you a fortune in impounding charges.

I’m not quite sure this was even legal for me to be driving just hours after my DUI, but I immediately jumped into my car and behind the wheel—still in my lamé leggings and faux-fur vest—and headed to Jake’s preschool Halloween parade. Despite the fact that I was driving, it was a complete walk of shame. This was officially my rock bottom.

It was time for me to grow the fuck up. Even if it was just a couple of glasses of wine, I recognized that I had been indulging for way too long. It was time to figure this shit out and clean myself up. Seriously, what was
so important that I thought it was a smart idea to get behind the wheel of a car? I truly believe that God was looking out for me that night. I think he was offering me the dramatic wake-up call I so desperately needed.

I needed to understand that I had somehow stumbled upon a sliver of tabloid fame, and now my actions and fuck-ups would be made available for the world to read about. They would be filed away, so that one day my boys could dig them up. I needed to be an adult . . . for my kids and for myself. I royally fucked up. I was beyond lucky that getting pulled over in a driveway was the extent of my punishment for drinking and driving. I was so fortunate that no one got hurt. What if I had hit another car? What if someone was hurt or, God forbid, killed because I made a terrible, stupid decision? Talk about not being there for my kids. How could I be there for my kids, if I was spending years upon years in jail because of a reckless decision I made one night? I needed to figure my shit out . . . immediately. I had spent a year and a half in a total fucking tailspin, and guess what? I needed it. My life had shattered around me, and I needed to fall off the deep end for a while.

Sometimes you need to lose yourself to truly find
yourself again. But at the end of the day, you have to know when to wake the fuck up and get on with your life. When I had the “drive of shame” to my son’s school, I knew that it was my time. I had to snap the fuck out of it. I had allowed myself to go crazy, but now it was time to fall back in line. It was time for me to invest in life’s three core therapies: Hypno, Beauty, and Retail.

Shortly after my DUI, I started seeing a hypnotherapist to help cure my face-picking addiction. It sounds crazy, right? I needed therapy so I would stop tearing open the blemishes on my face. A close friend of mine suggested I meet with famed hypnotherapist Kerry Gaynor—apparently Dr. Gaynor had cured my friend of his cigarette addiction after just three sessions. After I was finally able to snag an appointment, Dr. Gaynor immediately diagnosed my face picking as a form of self-mutilation and that it would take far more than three sessions.

He said the picking was a symptom of the greater stresses in my life—but seriously, it doesn’t take a degree in psychology to figure that out. We spent about five sessions diving into my skin issues, and I learned of a few contributing factors to my addiction. (1) Early in my
modeling career, I was told that I was a body girl, not a face girl. I don’t care who you are, that’s going to fuck with most people. (2) At thirty-eight years old, I was just returning to the dating scene, in a city that prides itself on youth. And finally, (3) I have crazy-ass control issues. When my kids aren’t around and I have too much time on my hands, I pick out of boredom. It allows me to forget about the other stressors in my life for a time, because I become obsessed with digging needles into my face. After the fifth session, Dr. Gaynor suggested I have a burial for my tweezers and needles. I’m sure there’s some emotional significance, but I felt like an asshole burying my beauty tools in the backyard. Today, I’m allowed to have tweezers again, but not any needles. Keeping needles—or any other sort of weapon—away from most scorned women is probably a smart decision for everybody involved.

Once we got a good handle on the picking, Dr. Gaynor began asking me about other issues in my life. I think dealing with my face-picking addiction opened up the floodgates to the world of shit I had been swimming in. We started talking about my DUI arrest and my increased drinking since the divorce; we talked
a little bit about my newfound trust issues with men and the occasional bouts of depression. We even spent some time talking about how I can better coexist in a world with LeAnn. I’m no longer allowed to google either LeAnn or my ex-husband.

My obsession with them was not out of jealousy or spite. I decided to divorce Eddie after discovering he was having a second affair (I’m a serious fool for not leaving him after the first one). He would never have left me otherwise. I chose this life. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was mine. When it came to Eddie and LeAnn, I was more concerned with my children. My ex-husband and I rarely communicate. I am blocked from ever calling his cell phone, and not until recently was I finally given a home phone number for him and LeAnn (it only took them two years), so it could be really difficult getting ahold of my kids. I would occasionally start to panic after not hearing from them for a day or two, so I would turn to Google to try to find where they were—just so I could rest assured that they were still breathing. As part of our custody agreement, I needed to be able to contact the boys while they were with their father, but for a while I was only given the number for their magicJack—a
phone service that connected through their Internet. This allowed them to follow the court ruling inexpensively and easily without giving me a landline or a cell-phone number. This service only worked when the computer was on, which was never.