Unbreak My Heart: A Memoir (19 page)

The episode aired on Monday, March 2, 1998—and it immediately changed my career. People were already talking about my bankruptcy, of course, but the new headlines became
ARTIST SPENDS MILLIONS ON GUCCI FLATWARE.
I made my mistakes—and as I told Oprah, I take full responsibility for those blunders. But I was still hurt by how I was painted in the media.

Dozens of entertainers have declared bankruptcy. TLC filed. So did Kim Basinger, Larry King, Cyndi Lauper, Burt Reynolds, Willie Nelson, and Cathy Lee Crosby, just to name a few. And a lot of people seem to forget the long list of businessmen and leaders who’ve gone broke—including Walt Disney, Donald Trump, and presidents Ulysses S. Grant, Abraham Lincoln, and Thomas Jefferson. I’m not saying that this absolves me or anyone else of personal accountability. But here’s what I am saying: An extravagant lifestyle is not
always
what leads to bankruptcy—and it is not what led to mine. Clive Davis even wrote in his 2013 memoir that I went bankrupt because of my tour costs.

Yes, I bought nice items for myself—I once said in a TV interview that I’d spent some of my earnings on things like high thread count sheets and Fabergé glasses as I was decorating my home. This is the part of that story that didn’t get aired: I purchased a lot of my home accessories at discount stores such as TJ Maxx. And you have to remember that even when I was making purchases at places like Tiffany & Co. (usually to get a gift for someone in the industry), I actually had hundreds of thousands of dollars in the bank. I’m not going to apologize for treating myself with nice purchases when I actually had the money for them: I was living well within my means. Then much later—and rather suddenly—I realized my financial picture had changed dramatically because of the way Arista structured my contract and charged me for tour costs. At that point, I started using my own money to stay afloat professionally—and I wasn’t spending any extra money on myself.

Here is the straightforward truth about what happened: I signed a bad contract. I then trusted other people to do what I should’ve done for myself—pay attention to every cent. In short, I gave away my power—and I’ve often been furious with myself for doing that. I allowed others’ opinions to matter more than my own, and I’ve paid a big price for doing so. In the years since, I’ve gone through the same process of forgiving myself that any human being would have to go through. And along the way, I’ve learned that debt isn’t a symptom of some kind of moral bankruptcy—it’s simply a sign that I should’ve managed my tour costs better. And while going broke doesn’t make me broken, I’ve still had to confront a hard reality: I took my eye off the ball. Period. And bankruptcy was the tool I used to start over.

Years after that show, I thought about writing a letter to Oprah. I actually sat and typed one out. I heard that Iyanla Vanzant, the life coach, had written a note to Oprah, and they actually repaired their relationship. That gave me the idea that maybe I could also clear the air with Oprah. But then again, their situation was different: Oprah and Iyanla were friends, and I was just a guest Oprah once interviewed. I can understand that she was only doing her job and asking the questions that everyone else was thinking. That’s why I sat my hurt aside and did my best to make peace with it. I never sent my letter.

As the world focused on my bankruptcy, I tried to move on from my mistake—but it’s hard to do that when you’re feeling ostracized. The phone stopped ringing. People in my industry didn’t want to be associated with me—especially since my case was connected to a battle with the RIAA. It was as if I was contagious or something. I tried to be brave and put on a good face: I showed up for an awards show, wearing a smile. But that smile belied a deep sorrow—a heartache that still hurts me to think about.

Even in the midst of all of that darkness, one person has always been an angel to me—Prince. Right after I filed for bankruptcy, he called. “Toni Braxton, how are you?” he asked. We hadn’t ever met or even talked before that day—so his call came out of the blue. Yet a few seconds into the conversation, I knew we had a connection.

“I’m okay,” I said. We both laughed a little because we knew that wasn’t really the case.

“A while back, I told L.A. and Kenny this was going to happen,” he said. “If you need anything from me, call me.” His call that day still means so much to me—and he has continued to check in on me since.

Around this time, I’d already been dealing with another challenge. Rumors had long been circulating around LaFace that L.A. and Kenny had actually split. Their relationship had already shifted a few years earlier: In 1993, Kenny told the press that L.A. would oversee the ins and outs of the label’s business side, and he would be focused on songwriting. Once when I accepted an award for “Breathe Again,” I thanked both L.A. and Kenny for writing and producing such a beautiful song. Afterward, Tracey, Kenny’s wife, called me up and said, “L.A. didn’t write that song—Kenny did.” “But even though Kenny wrote the song, L.A. produced it,” I said. “That’s why I thanked them both,” I said. Some said the two had creative differences, while others said their disagreements were about money. Regardless, one thing was clear to me by 1998: They had gone in two different directions. In fact, they never seemed to be in the studio at the same time. So all in all, things were tense—it’s always tough to watch two people you love fighting.

Though I’d sued LaFace, my dispute was never really with L.A. and Kenny; it was with Arista—which is why I was able to maintain at least a working relationship with both of them. L.A. and I never talked about the fact that he hadn’t returned my calls in the weeks leading up to the bankruptcy—we just moved on. And by then, I’d realized that Arista had given L.A. and Kenny a deal that was nearly as crappy as mine.

AROUND THE TIME
of the bankruptcy, my relationship with Curtis shifted. In general, he’d been very supportive and stood by me through the early weeks of the ordeal—but then things started to get weird in other ways. For instance, I was finding it tougher and tougher to understand some of his new restrictions on our physical touch. Yes, we’d agreed to save the ultimate act for marriage—but then he started saying things like, “We shouldn’t touch each other below the neck.” We’d be making out, and all of a sudden, he’d just stop. “That could lead to other things,” he’d say. True—but at a time when my whole world was falling apart, I really needed his consolation, not more rules. And how could he really expect us to stay above the neck when we would sometimes sleep in the bed together when we visited each other? I was thinking,
Okay—if you don’t want to make out below the neck, then you’d better go sleep in a separate bedroom.

Curtis also started making statements like, “You’re going through this bankruptcy because God wants you to get back with Him. He wants you to let go of all these materialistic things.” I’m like, “What materialistic things?” It sounded crazy to me that God would somehow cause this bankruptcy—so I just chalked it up to Curtis not knowing what else to say or how to comfort me. We didn’t really argue—yet when he made the kinds of statements he was making, it definitely drove a wedge between us. More and more, I noticed he seemed distant and moody. Even still, I knew I wanted to be with Curtis forever. Love does that to a girl.

A couple months after I filed for bankruptcy, I flew to Pittsburgh to spend time with Curtis—he said he needed to talk to me. I had a bad feeling in my stomach even before I boarded the plane. What he told me during that trip sends shivers up my spine: “Jesus told me we had to break up.” I stared at him blankly. “What?” I finally managed to say. “God told me that we shouldn’t be together anymore.” No matter how I pressed him, he kept repeating what Jesus told him. It felt like he was breaking up with me using a one-liner on a Post-it note—and the fact that it was face-to-face made it all the more heart-wrenching. “I can best serve you as your friend,” he finally added. Huh? “We’re friends now,” I protested. “We’re not lovers—we haven’t even been intimate!” But it was clear he’d already made his choice—and it’s one that, to this day, I still don’t really understand. I flew back to Los Angeles feeling numb and confused. I was completely heartbroken—there’s just no other way to put it. Once home, I curled up in my bedroom and cried like a little kid—something I’d gotten used to during the bankruptcy.

Even with as much pain as I was in, I did my best to focus on my next chapter. I knew I had to somehow put the one-two punch of financial and relationship devastations behind me. I also knew I needed to get some money coming in—other than the $10,000 that Curtis had given me, I had no other income. I only used the money I did have on basics like food. By this time, because I’d already been declared bankrupt, I could at least earn new money—so work beckoned even more feverishly than it usually does for me.

Since I’d always wanted to try acting (and because it was a great way to earn income), I took a role on Broadway as Belle in
Beauty and the Beast
in September 1998. I rented a place on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The show was exactly the change I needed: I was out of my element as a singer, so I had the opportunity to experiment with another form of artistry. I loved the gorgeous costume dresses (costume designer Ann Hould-Ward created an off-the-shoulder gown just for me!) as well as the energy of a live audience. And I considered it a great honor to be the first black actress to ever play Belle in the show. The most difficult part was the commute: On my off days, I flew from New York back to Los Angeles for the bankruptcy depositions. It was quite an exhausting schedule, yet I was grateful to be consumed by something other than the huge challenges I was facing.

Even still, I won’t deny that I was seriously depressed as I did the show. I’m sure a lot of people were thinking,
She must be happy to be doing the show
—and I was. I could disappear into the performance, but as soon as the curtains closed and I dragged myself home, all I had the energy to do was climb into bed. Most of the time, I had this strange feeling that my body was vibrating—as if there was a constant heartbeat beneath every part of my skin. And I don’t know why, but I ate a lot of cantaloupe. I would take the fruit, cut it in half, take out the seeds, and just sit there and eat it. For some reason, that’s one of the only things that brought me a little relief every day. I never actually tried to take my life, but when I look back on that time, I think I might’ve been somewhat suicidal—for instance, I stopped being so careful when I crossed the street. I walked around New York like a zombie.

Mommy knew how down I was feeling—I didn’t even have to tell her, because she could sense it. She’s one of those people who knows how to offer others great comfort during times of crisis—any one of Mommy’s friends can tell you that she’s the one to call when you’re feeling depressed. She is a spiritual life coach. “This too shall pass,” she would remind me. “This is just a phase. It’s seasonal. We do not claim this.” I was particularly grateful for Mom’s encouragement, I had few people to rely on. And forget a social life: I was much too embarrassed even to be seen. I was sure the whole world was thinking,
She’s dumb. She’s stupid. She’s broke
. I wore a brave face during the Broadway show—but I mostly hid otherwise.

There were a few bright spots during that dark period: I received so much support from fans who’d heard about my financial struggles. Can you believe people actually sent me checks for $200 and $300? Jamie Foster Brown, the founder and editor of
Sister2Sister
magazine, even sent me a check. I never actually cashed the checks—but I appreciated each gesture of kindness.

For my six-month run in
Beauty and the Beast
, composer Alan Menken and lyricist Tim Rice wrote a new song for me to sing in the show. “A Change in Me” perfectly captures a pivotal moment for my character, Belle. “There’s been a change in me, a kind of moving on,” I sang in each performance. “Though what I used to be I still depend on. For now I realize that good can come from bad. That may not make me wise, but oh it makes me glad.” A lyrical transformation for a princess—and a dramatic turning point for me.

H
ere’s what most people don’t know: I won my bankruptcy case because of Kenny. Toward the end of the proceedings, the judge said to him, “You’re an artist. If you were offered the amount of money that Toni was offered, would you have taken it?” Kenny paused. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said. L.A., who was in the courtroom that day, gave Kenny the look of death. I couldn’t believe he said that—I will always love him for telling the truth in spite of his situation. By then, Kenny and I wanted exactly the same thing—to finally settle the case. His testimony is what helped to make that happen.

In January 1999, I finally reached an agreement with Arista and LaFace—and got a check for $20 million. I bought back my Grammys, designer dresses, and other valuables. In short, I won—but because the case left me so bloody, it didn’t feel like as much of a victory as it should have. I’d hired lots of attorneys to represent me in what turned out to be a David versus Goliath battle. The RIAA and the record companies were lobbying against my case and trying to change the bankruptcy rules for all artists, so my lawyers had to get a lobbyist to lobby on my behalf; the RIAA’s proposed legislation was eventually declared unconstitutional.

Yet even after that triumph, I couldn’t tell the world the whole story because of a gag order. Upon settling, I had to sign an agreement ensuring that I would remain silent about the dollar figure of my payment for ten years. Let’s just say that I couldn’t be on the annual
Forbes
list because nobody could know how much I had received. So while I may have been privately exonerated, a certain public perception remained: Many still believed that I was broke.

The $20 million did allow me to start over. Because of the magnitude of my legal case, I had to pay millions in commissions and fees to my agents, managers, and attorneys. And of course, I handed over about $8 million for taxes. In the end, I was left with about $7 million, which I used to rebuild. I moved from L.A. to Atlanta and bought a home there. I set up a retirement account and bought some life insurance. At last, I was back on my feet—at least financially.