One morning Morgan woke up and came into the living room. He saw me seated on the couch, bending over something. As soon as I heard him, I shoved it under the couch. He saw me, though, and asked, "What are you doing?"

Instead of waiting for me to answer, he reached down and pulled out a mound of c.o.ke that I had piled up on a magazine. He took it out on the balcony and with a look of utter disgust dumped it over the side. I was busted, so completely busted. I hadn't moved. It was like I was waiting for him to do something.

"I'm sorry," I said, dissolving into tears. "I'm sorry."

He was upset and didn't know what to do. Neither did I. As his initial burst of anger and my shock dissipated, we shared a look of helplessness and desperation. He loved me, and I loved him, and it was just such a pathetic, disappointing, awful moment. The way Morgan looked at me, I don't know if anyone in my whole life had ever seen me as nakedly honest, vulnerable, and in pain as he was seeing me right then.

I needed him to hold me as I regrouped and we regained our equilibrium not just that day but going forward. He never gave me an ultimatum; I simply knew that I had to get sober. And that's what I did--sort of.

As any recovering addict knows, you can't be "sort of" sober. It's all or nothing. But I devised my own plan. I didn't want to check into rehab; I couldn't stand the thought of seeing my dirty laundry unfurled in the press. In retrospect, it shouldn't have been a big deal. If I was going to admit I had a problem, it shouldn't have mattered if I admitted it to one person or a million. What did matter, though, was admitting the whole and honest truth to myself, and I couldn't do that.

I thought I was taking the right steps when I confessed to Morgan and then sought out Charlotte, who was recently out of rehab and attending meetings. She was extremely understanding and helpful. With her help and encouragement, I stopped doing c.o.ke right away. She took me to twelve-step meetings and I began attending Cocaine Anonymous meetings on my own, too. But I concocted or rationalized my own version of the program, one where I could drink, pop pills, and do hallucinogens--anything except cocaine. That was my one rule: no c.o.ke.

I was proud of my progress. Once I told someone who had a number of years of sobriety under his belt that I was in "the program," a euphemism for being sober and attending twelve-step meetings. He asked if I attended meetings. I said, "Sometimes." Skeptical, he asked who my sponsor was. I said that I was sponsoring myself. Seeing that I was serious, he shook his head slightly, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment that I didn't get it, and said, "Okay, good luck."

Though I was deluded about my self-styled sobriety, I did straighten up considerably by giving up cocaine. In March and April, I went back to work with the Go-Go's. The five of us rehea.r.s.ed with the intention of making a new alb.u.m. We tried to come up with our own songs and we worked through songs outside writers had submitted. The record company wanted more creative control over the band's next steps. We didn't like it, but we didn't have any better ideas.

Frustrated at every turn and no good at communicating with one another, the band devolved into factions, with Charlotte and me pitted against Kathy and Gina, and Paula left uncomfortably alone on the periphery as we fought during rehearsals. The demos we recorded sounded terrible. I went home to Morgan at night and said what I didn't dare say in front of the other girls: The band had lost its creative center. It no longer felt like the Go-Go's.

I talked about it endlessly with Morgan, who advised me to think it through carefully and listen to my instincts. He also told me not to procrastinate and let a bad situation grow worse, because I would miss other opportunities.

And that was the thing. I wasn't able to retreat to a golden castle and do nothing for the rest of my life. I had less than $20,000 to my name when I moved in with Morgan slightly less than six months earlier. I had blown G.o.d only knew how much money on drugs, travel, clothes, and even a racehorse I purchased on a whim for some ghastly sum. I needed to work.

I finally met secretly with Charlotte, who agreed with me that after two months of work the only decent, Go-Go's-sounding song we had was "Mad About You," which Paula had brought in. Otherwise the band wasn't working anymore. It was early May 1985. We had an alb.u.m to record and a tour to set up. But both struck us as unlikely. The lack of material aside, the dynamics were way off and no one was getting along. Charlotte and I decided it was time to call it a day.

We talked it through until we a.s.sured ourselves that the band had stopped moving forward artistically and that we as individuals were stifled. We could do other things. I had already been approached about doing a solo alb.u.m. Though that hadn't been an option when the band was my top and only priority, it sounded viable now, and Charlotte was amenable to working with me.

The two of us called a meeting with the other girls on the second Friday of the month and broke the news that we wanted to end the band. Kathy and Gina were not just shocked, they were blindsided and fought back with anger and bitterness at the way we handled the situation. Kathy insisted we were overreacting and had overcome worse, but I kept to the basic premise: the band wasn't working, the songs were terrible, and the chemistry wasn't there.

They also blamed the breakup on Morgan, as if he was the Yoko Ono of the band, maintaining I had changed since meeting him. I had changed, but only because I wasn't off my trolley on c.o.ke anymore and began to have some opinions. But they were mine, not Morgan's. It wasn't fair to blame him--or true.

For the next eight months, I worked on Belinda, my first solo alb.u.m. I dove in without thinking about any of the pressure-packed issues I would face later on when I actually stepped out publicly and faced critics, Go-Go's fans, and the new reality that I was on my own. I moved quickly, sticking to the relatively safe and familiar pop territory for which I was known. Should I have tried to develop an edgier sound or gone back to my punk roots? In retrospect, I wish I had pushed it to a harder place. But I wasn't in that heads.p.a.ce. Nor did I have that kind of creative freedom as a new artist.

I was working with veteran producer Michael Lloyd, and we chose Paula's infectious pop song "Mad About You" as a starting point. I loved the song, as did Miles and the rest of his IRS team. I also relied heavily on Charlotte, who had five songwriting credits on the alb.u.m. Plus Michael and I chose songs from such proven hitmakers as Fleetwood Mac's Lindsey Buckingham, Split Enz's Tim Finn, Tom Kelly, Billy Steinberg, and the Bangles' Susanna Hoffs.

The alb.u.m was rounded out by musical contributions from Duran Duran's Andy Taylor and session legends David Lindley and Nicky Hopkins, among others. The danger of employing so many disparate talents, of course, was ending up with an alb.u.m that didn't have a personality of its own. But after hearing an early compilation, I thought the alb.u.m was good. I was proud of it.

Critics would say it wasn't much of a step forward (it's "the ant.i.thesis of the Go-Go's intelligent girl-group gestalt," said Rolling Stone), but it began a transformation for me whether it was evident or not. When it was time to take pictures for the alb.u.m's cover, I realized that I photographed well and was considered pretty even though I didn't feel that way about myself.

No, when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw me at ten years old, wearing the polka-dot dress my mom had gotten on special at Sears, the one the kids at school knew was my only outfit. Or I saw myself a year or two later in a sleeveless hand-me-down that was lime green with flowers and let me believe when I put it on and did my hair in pigtails that I was pretty like Marcia Brady. Yet then I ran outside just as a car carrying some kids from school drove past and one of them yelled, "Hey, fatso!"

Despite being almost twenty-eight years old, inside my head I was still that girl, scared, awkward, and full of shame and insecurity. I definitely didn't see the beauty other people kept saying I had turned into.

On the other hand, after cleaning up my act, I saw a profound physical change. I lost the bloat I had from doing c.o.ke and drinking every night, especially from my face. I also lived a healthier lifestyle, eating better and working out. I started my day in the morning, a positive change in itself, as opposed to ending my day at that time, and I hit the gym with a trainer, lifting weights and running. All in all, I shed about twenty pounds and received lots of compliments about the way I looked.

There was nothing like being in a boutique and hearing women whisper, "Isn't that Belinda Carlisle? I didn't know she was so pretty." (Hey, I didn't know it either.) I also heard people say I looked like a young Ann-Margret, whose starring roles in Viva Las Vegas and Bye Bye Birdie had made her one of my favorite actresses.

But I had mixed feelings about such compliments. All through the Go-Go's I never lacked for boyfriends, but the press constantly referred to me as pretty and plump or cute and chubby, which bugged me. Then, as I started to do some early interviews before my alb.u.m was close to being released, I began to hear the flipside, that I was slim, svelte, and s.e.xy, like a new, hot Belinda Carlisle.

I knew it was all well intentioned. But why did my size even have to be an issue? I was confused enough. Couldn't I just be liked for being myself?

Good question.

No easy answers.

When it came time to shoot the alb.u.m cover, I knew I had the opportunity to do something special. I let the music inspire the image. I came up with the idea of modeling it after Ann-Margret's great look from Viva Las Vegas, in black tights and a sweater. Since people were making that comparison, why not? Matthew Ralston, the photographer, liked the idea, and so we went with it.

The resulting photo was stark and cla.s.sy yet still pop. It sure didn't look like old pictures of me in which I always seemed as if I had just hit the deli tray, that's for sure. I thought it conveyed a slightly more grown-up vibe. I liked it.

The "Mad About You" video, directed by Leslie Lieberman, was a fun, romantic postcard that fit with the song. We shot it in Santa Monica's Ocean Park, overlooking the beach and on the sand itself. I wore a black c.o.c.ktail dress, swept my hair back, and put on a pair of sungla.s.ses. It was simple and cla.s.sy and felt to me like it fit the song.

My favorite part was that Morgan played my dreamy love interest. He didn't want me kissing anybody else.

Fine with me. I didn't want to kiss anybody else.

I was in a good place, the best in years. I was most accurately described by my new catchphrase: 100 percent. I used it all the time. I was giving my career 100 percent. My att.i.tude was 100 percent positive. I couldn't say I was 100 percent sober, since I allowed myself an occasional gla.s.s of wine. But I was 100 percent in love.

Morgan was, too. One night, as we ate dinner, he said we should get married. Both of us had always felt like we got engaged the first night we had dinner together. We never doubted we were going to get married; it was merely a question of when. As Morgan pointed out, with my alb.u.m set for release at the start of summer, and a tour, our lives were going to get very busy. He thought we should make our relationship legal before we were swept up in events we couldn't control. I agreed.

After dinner, we got out the calendar and set a date. The rest was easy. I had always known that I didn't want to walk down the aisle in a white dress in front of tons of people. I knew better than to fantasize about a family get-together. Morgan, who'd grown up with parties every night, didn't want a big, fancy wedding either.

We set a date and without telling anyone, I went out the next week and bought a white suit and a pair of Prada pumps. (Back then I had to ask, "What's Prada?" Now I know.) We picked Lake Tahoe as a fun place to elope. The day before we left, Morgan broke the news to his mother and I filled my parents in on the plan. If any of them were disappointed we weren't going to have a large wedding, they didn't tell us. We heard only encouragement and congratulations.

For all of Morgan's planning, though, I forgot my makeup and had to wear cover stick on my face and blue eyeliner instead of mascara. Even though I looked like a Kabuki dancer in our wedding photos, he still held my hand, as I did his, when, on the evening of April 12, 1986, the minister from the local Elvis Wedding Chapel joined us in our hotel suite and p.r.o.nounced us husband and wife.

We exchanged simple gold bands and a long, romantic kiss. Then we changed into our sweats and went down to the casino. I won $4,000 playing baccarat.

I had never considered myself unlucky. But now that I was married to this most wonderful man, I felt even luckier.

sixteen.

I FEEL THE MAGIC.

THREE AND a half weeks later, I was onstage in a small San Diego club, and I wouldn't have blamed anyone watching my performance if they closed their eyes for a moment and thought they had stumbled into a surprise Go-Go's show. It happened to me. After all, my voice still had the trademark let's-get-this-party-going timber of the group's three previous gold alb.u.ms, and as I pranced around barefoot in a simple print dress, I radiated the same sun-kissed, surfer-girl looks under the spotlight. But some key elements were different or missing, starting with three out of the other four Go-Go's.

When I looked to my right, I still saw Charlotte on guitar and keyboards. Otherwise I was out there by myself. I was also singing brand-new material from my eponymous alb.u.m, Belinda. I didn't have any proven hits to fall back on and get the crowd going. The only song people might have heard before was the first single, "Mad About You," which had been released days earlier.

No wonder before the show I was a bundle of raw nerves, knowing that I could no longer divide the responsibility up four other ways. The whole thing was on my shoulders. Once that spotlight hit me, there was no denying this next phase of my career. I was starting over.

Morgan supplied the confidence I lacked. He sent roses to that warm-up gig and channeled positive energy to me a few nights later when I headlined three sold-out dates at the Roxy. I had played there with the Go-Go's. It represented a lot of good times. But seeing my name centered by itself on the marquee felt more frightening. It was one thing to affect a different image in a photo session and quite another to step out onstage and embody it.

I was also open about the challenges I faced offstage. I told Los Angeles Times critic Robert Hilburn, as well as other reporters, that I had been on the road to physical ruin and needed serious help getting my act together. Though I stopped short of admitting my cocaine addiction, I did say that I attended twelve-step meetings. It was a good story, and I wasn't lying when I said that I probably would have been "broke, alone and desperate" if I didn't change my ways.

However, deep down I knew that I wasn't being entirely truthful with them or, more important, with myself. Prior to the Roxy shows, I had a gla.s.s of wine in my dressing room. What was one gla.s.s of wine? Most of the time I didn't even finish a whole gla.s.s. I drank only enough to take the edge off the jitters I always had before going onstage.

It was like there were two versions of me. There was the insecure Belinda who couldn't believe people would pay money to see her. Then there was the Belinda who drank a gla.s.s of wine and turned into a singer. At that point, anything was possible. The Roxy's audience was full of industry types and characters from the old scene, including Exene and some of her cohorts, who, I was told, came just to cackle. She was in the minority. The hometown crowd roared their approval.

I hung on Morgan afterward, grateful he was there and more grateful that he had stuck with me through some very tough times. I almost believed him when he said that I had given a performance that surpa.s.sed everyone's expectations but his. More than twenty years later, as I was redoing my website, I came across a video on YouTube of me from one of those shows, singing "Since You've Gone," a great song that featured Charlotte playing keyboards. Unsure if I wanted to watch it, I took a deep breath and clicked Play. I was surprised. I thought it was really good.

In June, I went on tour with Robert Palmer, who was having monster success with the chart-topping single "Addicted to Love." I was his opening act, and he was not very nice to me. He was aloof, condescending, and dismissive. He spoke to me only once during the entire month we traveled together and that was to ask if I had any drugs. I didn't. It was the first time I could ever say no. He shrugged, walked away, and never had anything to do with me again.

I struggled with jealousy when Madonna released her great song "Papa Don't Preach." From her True Blue alb.u.m, it was an instant hit that took radio by storm and soared to number one. But my problem was with Madonna herself, not the music. I looked at her body and thought, Oh my G.o.d, she looks phenomenal and it's because she's skinnier than me. I have to get that skinny.

Poor Morgan. When we talked on the phone at night, he would ask me about the show and then have to listen to me go on about the food I ate that day, how much I weighed, and whether I thought I looked fat. Despite Morgan's rea.s.surances, I never felt thin enough, pretty enough, or good enough.

My fans disagreed, too, but there was one admirer whom I could have done without. A few dates into the tour, my birth father contacted me again. It was the first time since I had seen him two years earlier. Going through my management company, he congratulated me on the new alb.u.m and asked if he and his family could come to the show when we stopped in New Orleans. I put them on the list, but as the date drew near I complained to Charlotte that I didn't feel good about seeing him.

"What don't you feel good about?" she asked.

"Everything," I said. "It's a feeling I have."

"Why?" she asked, pressing me.

"I just don't want to see him," I said.

That was exactly it. I didn't want to deal with the emotions that would surface when I let him back into my life. I was much happier when I avoided him and other unpleasant realities in my life. As I knew, my father was one chapter. I had been telling journalists that I was helped by Alcoholics Anonymous, implying I was sober, when I knew the real story was different. Instead of confronting the truth, as well as why I still drank, I ran from it. Deep down I knew it, too. But ... well, there was always a but.

Before the New Orleans show, I was tense and upset and not anything like myself on the previous dates. I thought about him throughout my performance and couldn't wait to get off the stage. But then that only hurried and exacerbated the confrontation that I wanted to avoid.

Large trailers served as dressing rooms, and I was peeking out the window of mine as he came backstage. He and his daughters got as far as the wooden barricade that had been set up to keep people from entering the artists' area unless their names were on the list. I watched as a large security guard stopped them and checked my father's name against the names attached to his clipboard. I took a deep breath; I knew what was going to happen. Indeed, a moment later, I saw the security guard shake his head and my dad turn around and walk away, dejected. His family followed.

I had tears streaming down my face. I felt cruel and sad. But I couldn't handle seeing him.

I know everyone--record executives, critics, my former bandmates, fans, and myself--all wondered if I would be able to pull off a solo alb.u.m and tour. Given where I had started from a year earlier, the odds were stacked against me. But my single "Mad About You" reached number three on the charts and the alb.u.m itself sold more than five hundred thousand copies in the United States, making it gold. It surpa.s.sed everyone's expectations, including my own.

Success also made comparisons to the Go-Go's, and resulting criticism, easier to take. I was happy with the alb.u.m. It was like the romantic pop that I had listened to when I was growing up and lying in front of the stereo speakers. Like all my solo alb.u.ms since, it reflected where I was at the time.

My life felt inexplicably charmed. Morgan and I sold our respective condos--his was where we'd been living, and mine was left over from my Dodger days--and rented a cute house in Benedict Canyon. He went to work at the William Morris Agency, and I felt like I was getting to start my life over again. I couldn't begin to explain the turnaround.

Then it got even better. We had barely settled into our rental when my business manager informed me that I had some significant royalties coming in from Belinda and should think about investing in a house. I had never thought about spending such money, but I dutifully looked around without seeing anything I liked except for one weird house up the street. It was covered in vines and looked like an English cottage that had fallen into a bit of disrepair.

I didn't let the fact that it wasn't for sale stop me from obsessing about it. I regularly stopped my car and stared at it. One day I left a note on the gate with my name and number, explaining to the owner that I loved the house and wondered if they might be interested in selling it.

The owner, an entertainment attorney, got in touch with me and invited me to see the house. He wasn't sure he wanted to sell it, but he was happy to show me around. The place was in terrible condition. He had let it get run-down. But I saw only magic. It had once belonged to Carole Lombard, who used it as a hideaway for her trysts with Clark Gable. The kitchen floor included a concrete square with her footprints and signature dated 1936. I wanted it more than ever, but as I left, the owner said he wasn't interested in selling.

However, a short time later, the house went on the market. It was more than I could possibly afford. Plus we had gone ahead and put a down payment on another house nearby. My heart sank. Then out of nowhere another chunk of money came in that allowed Morgan and me to afford our dream house. We lost the other down payment, but c'est la vie.

Morgan and I hired noted architect Brian Murphy to make our dreams real. I told Brian that I wanted the style to be "Alice in Wonderland on acid"--and that's exactly how it turned out. The kitchen had a lavender slate floor. A mural in the dining room was an homage to Maxfield Parrish. Outside, the French gardens overflowed with flowers and vines that bloomed year-round.

But I was sidetracked somewhat from that very personal project when I returned to work sooner than expected. Miles, who wished that Belinda, despite its impressive sales, had been edgier and more in the style of IRS acts, forgot to pick up the option on my contract with IRS and I found myself a free agent. My management and I decided to shop around for a new deal. Miles was furious. But we thought, Why not test the market?

It turned out to be a shrewd move. After a bidding war between several major labels, I signed with MCA in the U.S., kept my foreign rights till after the next record was finished, and eventually made seven figures on both sides of the Atlantic.

In a way it was like a reunion. MCA president Irving Azoff had managed the Go-Go's after Ginger, and he was very supportive and enthusiastic about adding me to his roster of artists. Irving was also an astute businessman. After spending a significant sum of money to get me, he wanted to recoup it. He put me to work, scheduling the release of my next alb.u.m for the following fall, barely a year away.

Michael Lloyd expected to work with me again, but Irving had another producer in mind. I was given the difficult, if not heartbreaking, task of telling Michael, who was understandably upset. I felt awful, but it was one of those things. The silver lining was my new executive producer Rick Nowels, who had scored major triumphs working with Stevie Nicks, another MCA artist. In fact, Stevie had suggested he try to work with me. In a way, we may have been destined to partner. It sure felt like it when we met. We had instant chemistry.

Rick was tall and blond, a Californian from head to toe, very pa.s.sionate and a little eccentric. He wrote songs with Ellen Shipley, an amazing artist in her own right. They created songs specifically for my voice. For me, it was a brand-new and exciting way of working. I had never been anyone's muse.

When Rick and I talked about the alb.u.m and how we envisioned it--what we wanted it to feel like and how we wanted the listener to feel--I had the sense he was reaching into my soul, removing tiny pieces, and magically turning them into songs. I was at his house when I first heard "Circle in the Sand," and I thought, Oh my G.o.d, this is so good. He and Ellen topped themselves with "Heaven Is a Place on Earth." I heard the song the day after it was written. Rick sat at the piano, and Ellen sang. It was like they were showing me a newborn baby.

I've had few reactions like the one I had after hearing them. I knew the song, even better than a hit, was a cla.s.sic. Then the great songwriter Dianne Warren came into the studio one day and played me "I Get Weak." Few people know the quality of Dianne's voice; it's gravelly and soulful and always moves me. "I Get Weak" was a perfect example. As she sang the final chorus, I literally felt weak myself. Again, I wondered how I got so lucky.

At the same time, I had never worked as hard. Rick made me sing parts forty or fifty times. I could never figure out what specifically he was listening for. Thank G.o.d he eventually heard it, though, or I might still be there.

Everything fell into place. Through Morgan's best friend, John Burnham, I was fortunate enough to get Academy Award-winning actress Diane Keaton to direct the videos for "Heaven Is a Place on Earth" and "I Get Weak." I was almost intimidated to meet her, but she was utterly charming and thoroughly inspirational in her approach to work. I only had to look at her body of work or the way she dressed (beautifully and with style) to know she had great taste, so I said, "Just do what you want."

She came back a week later with concepts and a storyboard. I said great, and we got started. On September 18, "Heaven" was released as the first single. Within two months, the song hit number one in the U.S. It also topped the charts in the UK, Germany, and a handful of other countries. It's rare that lightning strikes twice. I knew the odds against it happening to me a second time. I had to pinch myself when my alb.u.m, released in October to mixed reviews, turned into a worldwide hit: a top 20 platinum seller in the U.S. and multiplatinum around the world.

As I kicked off the "Good Heavens" tour, I asked Morgan if it was real or if I was dreaming. It seemed like a mistake. I figured it had to be. He didn't know how to deal with that kind of mind-set other than to tell me to realize that these things were not accidents; I had worked hard for years.

His comment caused me to flash back to a time when I was on tour in the early days of the Go-Go's, just as the band was first taking off. It all seemed too fantastic; I had a moment right before we went onstage when I wondered where I was going to be ten years later. Now I knew. A couple days into the tour, I had another similar sort of moment. I was standing behind the curtain, atop a small platform, getting set to descend the three stairs as the spotlight hit me, and yet instead of breathing, focusing, and doing all the things I normally did in the seconds before the show started, I was thinking about how weird it was that I was doing this.

Me? Belinda Kurczeski from the Valley? What was I doing here?

I felt an odd and slightly unnerving disconnect between what I was doing and ... and me ... whoever that was.

seventeen.

RUNAWAY HORSES.

WHO WAS I?.

It was a good question, and one I was trying to figure out. For the Heaven alb.u.m and tour I grew my hair long and dyed it red. I was wondering if being punk's Ann-Margret suited me when I was walking down the street one day in Beverly Hills and ran into the Sparks brothers, Russel and Ron Mael, whom I hadn't seen in a while, and Russell blurted out, "Oh my G.o.d! You're a redhead! It looks great!"

He had great taste, so I figured it must be true. My friend Jeannine, who had been my roommate after I split with Mike Marshall, also rea.s.sured me it was a good color, and she had excellent taste, too. She came on the road with me, along with Jack and Charlotte, all of whom knew to one degree or another that I needed their friendship and support. They didn't know how badly I needed it, though.

On my previous tour I had seen Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach" video and got it in my head that I had to be as thin as her. For this tour, I wanted to be even thinner. The irony was I knew I photographed well no matter what I weighed, and beyond that, in discussions with friends, I always took the position that you didn't need to diet or reshape yourself to look a certain way in order to be beautiful.

I could even hear myself telling girlfriends, "You can diet all you want, but beauty comes from the inside. You have to like yourself before you can ever feel beautiful." But I wasn't listening to my own advice. I had become my mother, a gorgeous woman who had, when I was growing up, always been on a diet even though she didn't need to lose weight. I never understood that until I had done the same thing and later came to realize the diet wasn't at all about weight; it was about feeling inadequate and wanting to be in control.

Once the tour started, I fell into a bad state of mind. Publicly, I told people that either it was impossible to eat healthy on the road or I told them that I was on a health kick and exercising regularly. In reality, I was obsessed with eating and exercising, to the point where I weighed myself ten to fifteen times a day. And my day was ruined if I gained a pound. If I got dressed in the morning and the waistband to my trousers felt a little tight, I got hysterical.

All the self-doubt and insecurity I never dealt with during my so-called recovery bubbled up to the surface, making it so nothing I did made me feel good enough. I should have been ecstatic as "I Get Weak" rocketed up the charts in early 1988 to number two and was then followed into the top 10 by the next single, "Circle in the Sand." My tour sold out, too. However, I wasn't able to celebrate or enjoy the achievements. Instead I stood in front of the mirror when I was on the road or in front of Morgan after I returned home and asked, "Do I look fat? Am I fatter today than yesterday? Okay, forget that. Do I look fatter than I did this morning?"

It was all about holding on, and holding myself together, when inside, without such insane resolve, I could have easily fallen to pieces. Morgan wanted no part of such craziness and was somehow able to detach himself from it. He turned his attention to producing and spent most of 1988 working on s.e.x, Lies, and Videotape, a low-budget independent movie that his young discovery, Steven Soderbergh, had written and was set to direct about the effect a voyeuristic guy has on his former college roommate and the roommate's wife.