That night, I did not “have a breakdown1.” I was broken down—by the very people whowere supposed to keep me whole. I knew of a place the locals called a “spa” that was veryclose, and I asked the police if they would take me there. They obliged. I wasn’t familiarwith the services or reputation of the place, but I figured at the very least I could finally getsome sleep, some nutritious2 food, and perhaps some medical attention. After all I’d beenthrough, I was very concerned about my physical condition. I knew enough to know Ineeded healing from the compounded trauma3 I had just experienced. My body was there,but my mind, my emotions, and my spirit were all powered down, in what I now realizewas protection mode.
I remember getting out of the squad4 car and pacing in the parking lot, knowing I didn’tbelong in that place, but I didn’t belong at my family house either. I didn’t know where Ibelonged. After a long and groggy5 battle, Morgan convinced me to go inside. I could feelnothing. I signed myself in, believing I could sign myself out. I had no idea what I hadactually signed myself up for. After speaking with some of the staff, Morgan left me there.
The size, color, and smell of the place, the names, the faces of the people—I don’t havemuch memory of the details. I was led to a small room at the end of a hall. I perceived it aswindowless, though it most likely was not. There was a door to close me in. There was abed. I curled up tight on top of it.
Terror came quickly.
I could hear the dull thud of a heavy mop hitting and sloshing on the floor in thedistance, and the muffled6, mingled7 voices of young girls chatting and giggling8. Every oncein a while, I clearly heard them say “Mariah Carey.” The mop and the voices were gettingcloser and louder, settling right outside my door. Their laughter was ringing in my head. Icoiled tighter into myself, shut my eyes, and tried to disappear. No relief came. I wasdeeply scared and completely alone. Prayer wouldn’t come. Fear was my only companion.
The whimpering of frightened people behind doors like mine never ceased as the tortuousnight crawled toward morning.
The next day came. I was far from rested or clear-headed, but I was no longer totallynumb. I knew I was in need of healing, peace, therapy, food, rest, and restoration. I neededcare, and the rash decision to come to the closest place possible had clearly not been theright one. I was bombarded with frantic10 thoughts: Where is my purse? Where is all mystuff? What the fuck am I doing in this terrible, random11 place, sharing a bathroom I’m tooscared to pee in? How do I get out of here?
It was clearly not a spa; there was nothing therapeutic12 or restorative about it at all. Itwas closer to a prison. Full of confused young people, unruly and unsettling, it was runlike an upscale juvenile13 detention14 center. The food was disgusting. My mind was racing15.
Had my mother really called the cops on me? Humiliated16 me? Escorted me out of thehouse I bought? Was I really here now, in some institution posing as a “spa”?
The most frightening thing was that I had no control over my situation. I didn’t havemy car, my things, or any money. I didn’t have my two-way pager to communicate withmy people. There was only one single, shared pay phone. When no one was looking, Itried to call a few people, but to no avail. There was no privacy. I was walking around as adeflated Mariah Carey, stripped of her professional mask and powers, fully17 exposed toGod knows what.
While my memories of my interactions with staff and other patients are mostly vague,I distinctly recall being brought into a bare little office that felt like a police interrogationroom, where an older, balding white administrator18 conducted a haphazard19 intakeinterview. I was clearly still upset, and it was difficult to quickly paint a picture of themisunderstanding that had happened at that house the night before, combined with theintensity and severity of all the work obligations I had ahead of me. I went on abouthaving to shoot a video, about the film premiere preparations for Glitter, and about all thepeople dependent on me. I was riddled21 with anxiety and frustrated22 that this man wasn’tunderstanding the stakes. Not only was he not caring, he was hostile.
“Looks like you need a dose of humility,” was his condescending23 response to all I hadtold him. Oh, he thoroughly24 enjoyed spitting out that line. It was such an obvious andpitiful power grab. I could almost see him puffing25 up, believing he’d taken the diva down.
Not only the tabloids26 revel28 in watching stars crash to the ground. I was defenseless—knifed in the back by my ex-husband and stabbed in the heart by my brother and mother.
And they all left me to bleed out inside some hellhole.
I went to try to sign myself out, but to my horror, I discovered that I couldn’t. I don’tknow what my brother told the staff, but people were treating me like I was out of controland out of my mind (and most seemed to be enjoying it). It took several days of red tapeand paperwork to get out.
I knew Morgan and my mother had been communicating, and I strongly believe theyorchestrated the whole thing. I returned to the scene of no crime, my mother’s house(correction: my house). “Coincidentally,” there were paparazzi waiting in the woods togreet me. The cover of the next day’s New York Post was a photo of me, shot with a longlens through the trees, in pajamas29, with little dark sunglasses and a messy bun, sippingjuice through a straw. The photo was emblazoned with a giant caption30, “World Exclusive!
Mariah: The First Photos.”
My mother was thrilled. She exclaimed, “Look, it’s just like Marilyn!” (It was not.)The Daily News cover even gave her a mention: “Mariah’s Crack Up! Mother’s desperate9-1-1 call as diva unraveled.” When I went back to the house to retrieve31 my things withmy road manager, my mother, in a drab housedress, was sitting on the floor of the porch inthe rain, playing jacks32, in what appeared to be a trance. It kinda freaked my road managerout. What pathetic irony33.
Her glee at the tabloid27 coverage34 was no surprise to me. Even though I was the childwho didn’t break the rules (or laws, or bottles), my mother didn’t seem to have thecapacity to fully celebrate me as I matured into an accomplished35 artist. Sometimes Iwondered if she couldn’t even tolerate my achievements. I often felt like there was anundertow of jealousy36 pulling on her smile, though I still included her in many of the majorevents in my life.
One of the greatest honors of my career was receiving the Congressional Award. I’ddreamed of receiving Grammys and Oscars for music or acting37, but to be honored by mycountry for my service to others was a distinction beyond even my dreams—and I dreambig. I was the recipient38 of the 1999 Horizon Award, which is given for charitable workfocused on promoting personal development in young people, for my work with CampMariah, through the Fresh Air Fund. I’ve never been deeply involved in politics, and at thetime I really didn’t fully understand the significance of the award and the event. It’s one ofonly two medals legislated39 by a congressional act (the other being the Medal of Honor). Iwas being honored along with former secretary of state Colin Powell.
We were hosted like dignitaries, and there was a very elegant, formal sit-down dinnerbefore the ceremony. My mother and I were in high- powered, bipartisan company,including Tom Selleck; former Republican Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott, fromMississippi, and former Democratic House Minority Leader Dick Gephardt (who ran forpresident a couple of times). This is one of the few events where both political parties putpolitics aside and proudly participate equally as Americans. On this night, in a room fullof politicians, it’s understood no one discusses politics (even I know that). I was proudthat a little girl who grew up feeling like an outcast now had an honored seat at one of themost esteemed40 tables in the world.
I had my mother all dolled up: hair, nails, professional makeup41. I bought her a new,fancy dress—the whole nine. This was an occasion to look our best and be on our bestbehavior.
Well?…
She had a few cocktails42 on the short plane ride from New York to Washington, DC,and continued to booze it on up during the dinner. As the effects of the drinks kicked in,her decorum slipped away. She began to theatrically43 express her political opinions, whichyou absolutely don’t do at a distinguished44 event like this, even stone-cold sober. Herthoughts descended45 into insults, which melted down into a small but disturbing tirade46. Theone thing everyone knew not to do was what my mother was now fully engaged in. I wasmortified.
My security leaned over and whispered, “We have to get her out of here.” I agreed.
They whisked her out of the dining area and hid her in my dressing47 room near the stagefor the awards ceremony—apparently just in time, because it was reported to me thatwhen she got into the room she started yelling, “I hate Mariah! I hate my daughter!” WhenI escaped from the dinner table to go and check on her, she was completely sloshed.
I slid back to my seat and cheerfully performed as if all were well (Lord knows I’vehad lots of practice). I was escorted to the stage accompanied by two beautiful youngBlack women from the Fresh Air Fund, who, thankfully, anchored me in the purpose ofthe evening. I managed to make it through my speech and accept the award. When I gotoffstage, it was clear we had to get my irate48 and inebriated49 mother out of the venue50 fast, asshe was now throwing a full-blown fit. My security worked swiftly to get her into the car,to the airport, and on the plane. On the flight, still decked out in the designer dress I hadbought her, she slinked into her first-class seat, continuing to drink and drone, “Morgan isthe only one I love. Morgan is the only one who loves me.” Security got my mother safelyhome and poured her into bed. Alone in the back of a limo, in my black silk gown,hugging an award from my country, I cried.
She may have been in a blackout and unaware51 of what she did or said. But I had toprocess the sadness, embarrassment52, and pain of the experience. The next morning, I wasnervous her booze-induced performance would make it into the press. But it didn’t. I hadprotected her. I don’t know who saw her, but mercifully, her congressional calamity53 didnot make it into the tabloids.
She didn’t call to apologize. She didn’t say anything.
Being Mariah Carey is a job—my job—and I had to get back to it. I knew there would beeyes and lenses everywhere. I needed someone to light the way out of the darkness thatplace had become. By that time, I trusted only a handful of people. So before I was able tosee my way out of the shadowy “Cabin in the Woods,” I called on my trusted friend andanchor makeup artist Kristofer Buckle54 for support. He lifted me up, reapplied myprotective public face, and walked with me into the sunlight.
I was wounded, but I got myself back to my penthouse in Manhattan. There was somuch recovery and repair to be done. I was still quite fragile, very concerned with thecondition of my very new, very big deal at Virgin55, and a very short time away from therelease of Glitter. The coverage of my “crack-up” had everybody understandably shook—not least of all me. I had not regained56 my emotional or spiritual strength. I was still verymuch inside the nightmare, and Morgan was still very much in control. But I didn’t seehim as a puppeteer57 just yet. I still held a desperate, distorted trust in him. He had snappedme out of my screaming fit at the hotel by saying “birthdays at Roy Boy’s.” He was not insight when the cops came in Westchester. He had ridden with me to the “spa.” So I didn’tassociate him with the current collection of catastrophes58. He seemed at best an ally, atworst an innocent bystander. I needed someone. And I needed to believe that not everyonewas against me.
The pedestal I’d erected59 for my brother when I was a little girl had long since beenreduced to rubble60, but I kept trying to place him back on top of it. Though I could not seeit then, we were clearly in ruins. If I had had my wits about me, or if someone on mypayroll had known better, I would have had a team of specialists and professionals linedup to evaluate and treat me at my home. I did have the wherewithal to want to tuck myselfaway at an actual spa for a few days, where at least I could get some rest, wholesomefood, maybe some body treatments—all the things I’d wanted on my way to that firsthellish “spa.” I also wanted the opportunity to clear my head and protect myself (and thelabel) from more salacious headlines.
Morgan recommended I go to Los Angeles, where he was currently living, making thecase that there were actual spas there (true) and no New York newspapers (also true). Aspa in LA seemed like a good idea at the time. I allowed Morgan to make thearrangements (not a good idea, at any time, but I was desperate).
When we got to LA my anxiety and disorientation was intensified61 by the tragedy ofAaliyah’s sudden and horrific death. Just a few days earlier she had told the press, “I knowthis business can be difficult, it can be stressful. Much love to Mariah Carey. I hope shegets better soon.” The entire music industry was rocked by her death, but the R & B andhip-hop community was devastated62. She was indeed our little princess.
So much was happening, and I couldn’t fully understand the magnitude of the damagebeing done to me. Morgan hooked up with some random guy who he said would behelping us. I remember driving around on the highway for what seemed like an eternity63.
We finally stopped at a place that did not look like a spa at all but, rather, a detox facility. Iwas still in the hold of extreme exhaustion64, so while I wasn’t thrilled, I didn’t resist.
Morgan even went so far as to say, “Come on; it’ll be fun.” It was not fun. It was one ofthe most harrowing times of my life—and I had seen some times.
Once more, I didn’t have control of the situation. I could not speak up for myself, andwhen I could, I was ignored and overpowered.
The facility in LA turned out to be a hard-core detox and rehab center. The first thingthat happened to me was they administered drugs—heavy, hard narcotics65. They were gianthorse pills the color of Pepto-Bismol. At first, I refused to take them, but I didn’t have thedrive to fully fight. I was so weak. I thought maybe I would just be able to get a little sleep(where was the Ambien when a girl needed it?). Eventually I did sleep, but fitfully. Thedrugs blocked me from whatever energy and will to fight I had in reserve. They put mybig, bright God further in the shadows. They made me sluggish66, puffy, and compliant67.
I was in a fog much of the time.
Frumpily ensconced in some piece of shit hideous68 institutional ensemble69, I wasdrained, and my soul was heavy. My face was vulnerable and hadn’t had any protection inmany days. That’s one function of makeup—even while giving a natural look, it can serveas war paint, an invisible force field. It often does for me. It shields me from peopleliterally getting into my pores and under my skin. But I had no such protection in thatplace.
One morning, I was in my bleak71 room, feeling drowsy72, when an attendant came andbrought me into the common area. It was crowded with staff and inmates73 — I mean,patients—and all were staring up at the large television in silence. On the screen was whatlooked like the view from the kitchen window in my New York City penthouse in the sky.
But the picture was framed in chalky, gray clouds of smoke. Orange and red fireballs wereshooting out from the top of the glistening74 silver Twin Towers like meteors against avibrant blue sky. Then the proud, monumental buildings crumbled75 from within. One at atime, they came crashing down in excruciatingly slow motion. The effects of the drugs I’dbeen kept on were no match for the shock I was experiencing. In that instant, I was stone-cold alert as I watched my majestic76 skyline disintegrate77. My home city was burning andcollapsing, and I was thousands of miles away, locked inside a dismal78 detox—drugged,devastated, and alone.
I was frozen, eyes locked on the horror unfolding before me, when someone from thestaff tapped me on my shoulder. They told me it was being reported that terrorists hadattacked the World Trade Center, and that they would now be releasing me. I was free togo. Miraculously79, it seemed, I was no longer in need of containment80 or sedatives81. I was nolonger crazy and out of control.
So I was magically “good to go,” because terrorists had attacked America and a“cracked-up diva” wasn’t interesting anymore? (Hello?!!) But I didn’t ask questions. It feltlike the world was coming to an end for all of us. And if it was the end, I wanted to get thefuck out of there. Between being there, getting out, and the chaos82 and terror of the attacksback home, I didn’t even realize it was the day the Glitter soundtrack was scheduled forrelease.
The coincidence of my sudden release from “rehab” and the release of the Glittersoundtrack and the 9/11 attacks was haunting. You know how, in a sci-fi horror film, theapocalypse happens and then there’s a lone9 survivor83 wandering around surveying thedevastation? That was me on that warm and cloudy day in LA. On September 11, 2001, Iwalked out of detox pumped full of toxins84. The city of LA was solid, but I was shaky. Ifelt alone, untethered, and out of my body. I got myself to a hotel and had the firstuninterrupted rest I’d had in weeks. With the tiny bit of strength that rest provided, I wasable to finally get to an actual spa, because I still had to do “the best I could” to prepare forthe Glitter movie premiere, which was now only ten days away.
It was a blur85, 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 Americanflag 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 Westwoodwith a smile. I was blessed to have lots of kids and young people at the premiere, as theywere the intended audience. Glitter was not made for serious cinemagoers and art-galleryhoppers; it was an imperfect, fun, PG flick86.
The box-office sales for Glitter were dismal, in large part because the country was stillreeling from the 9/11 attacks. The tragedy was still fresh, and no one was ready for thelightweight distraction87 that was Glitter. Out of respect for our collective mourning, onewould think the media would have turned their obsession88 away from me as well, but itseemed to only intensify89.
After the Glitter premiere, I stayed in LA to prepare for the America: A Tribute toHeroes telethon, honoring the thousands who died in the attacks. Organized by GeorgeClooney, 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 whattrue heroes really look like. Never had I imagined when I wrote this song that it wouldmean 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 gotto work putting itself back together in the wake of the attacks, and I was eager to put mylife back together too. I wasn’t permitted to resume residence in my penthouse yet, asmuch of lower Manhattan was still closed off for safety and security reasons. In themeantime, I stayed in a hotel and blocked my family and others from getting to me. I waswaking from the nightmare they’d created, and I had to get my own help; I wanteddesperately to get back to being okay.
I chose a therapist in upstate New York. He had a profound intellect, but also a deepsensitivity. His insights were not only acute but comforting—he gave me a modern whiteBuddha vibe. Under his qualified90 care, I was able to begin to unpack91 the demoralizing anddehumanizing ordeal92 I had just been through. Losing my power and being put in scary,inappropriate institutions by my mother and brother while the press ravaged93 my reputationwas almost the end for me.
My therapist named the physical illness I’d been experiencing for so many years—allthe nausea94 from being humiliated by kids and teachers, all the breaking out in hives allover, all the severe upper back and shoulder pain from stress from Tommy, all thedizziness and revulsion from the terror of my brother, all the psychological distress95 Iendured which wreaked96 havoc97 on my body had a name—somatization. Having a highlyrespected professional name, it validated98 that what I was physically99 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, butthey didn’t kill me, or my spirit. They didn’t permanently100 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 coveredin the light of restoration. It wasn’t an easy journey back to myself and to God, but I wasback on my feet and walking forward. No one, I decided101, was going to stop me or take allmy power again. Ever.
In therapy, my emotions were safe to come out of the frigid102 hold of survival mode, andI was fucking furious. I was supporting everybody around me, and they had the audacity103 tothrow me into institutions, give me drugs, and try to take control of my life. When I toldmy therapist what had happened, he assured me I was absolutely not crazy. At most, hesaid, 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 alsoaffirmed that I was completely justified104 in being enraged105. He very candidly106 suggested Iexamine the role money had played in the experience with my family. I was so wrapped upin the childhood history, the betrayal, the love I had once had for everyone involved that Iwas blind to motive107. It was no coincidence that my mother and brother were working onthe side of the record company instead of protecting me and advocating for my well-being,and that they just happened to claim I was unstable108 and try to institutionalize meimmediately after I had signed the biggest cash record deal for a solo artist in history. Icould accept that I was a cash cow for record companies; after all, I was “the Franchise109.”
It’s the name of the game—it may be dirty, but I had no illusions that the music businesswas, first and foremost, a cutthroat business. But though I hadn’t cut a business deal withmy mother or my siblings110, they were happy to take me to the slaughter111 just like the recordcompanies and the media.
I knew for a long time that to my family, I’d been an “ATM machine with a wig112 on” (amoniker I gave myself). I gave them so much money, especially my mother, and still itwasn’t enough. They tried to destroy me in order to take complete control. The therapistmade an obvious suggestion: if they could prove I was unstable, they certainly could havebelieved they would become the executors of my affairs. He asked me to look at themobjectively—how they viewed the world, how they never really had consistent, legitimatework but still felt like the world owed them something. We all had varying degrees oftough shit to go through in my family, but in this way, we fundamentally differed. I didn’tthink the world owed me anything. I simply believed I would conquer the world I wasborn into, in my own way. As I worked myself to extreme exhaustion, they watched andwaited for me to fall, like scavengers, so that they might gain control over the fortune Ihad negotiated, built, and fought for.
Years later, the pattern still continued, as patterns do. My family didn’t change. One of thedefinitions of insanity113, it’s often said, is doing the same things over and over andexpecting different results. My version of insanity was allowing the same thing to be doneto me, over and over, by the same people.
“Please change your cast of characters.” That was the simple and profound request mytherapist 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 mysanity and peace of mind, my therapist encouraged me to literally70 rename and reframe myfamily. 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, bigbrother, and big sister I fantasized about. I had to stop making myself available to be hurtby them. It has been helpful. I have no doubt it is emotionally and physically safer for menot to have any contact with my ex-brother and ex-sister. The situation with Pat, on theother hand, is more complicated. I have reserved some room in my heart and life to holdher—but with boundaries. Creating boundaries with the woman who gave birth to me isnot easy; it is a work in progress.
After I was broken, I received a blessing114. The trouble and trauma I endured was not onlyemotional, it was spiritual as well. As such, I sought healing for my soul. I knew I had torevive and recommit to my relationship with God. I am eternally grateful to have met mypastor, Bishop115 Clarence Keaton, when I did. I met him through Tots. We used to attendchurch together at True Worship Church Worldwide Ministries116, right across from theLouis Pink Houses projects in East New York. Tots and I were even re-baptized theretogether. At True Worship, I became a student of the Bible, doing a three-year intensive.
We went through it from Old to New Testament117. I took notes, and I took the healingwords in.
Bishop Keaton used to be a pool shark; he lived a very different life before becoming apastor. He’d already earned respect in the neighborhood, when at that time it would not beuncommon to duck bullets in broad daylight, so he had protection, and people didn’t messwith him. I would have security provided by the church, and the congregation wouldrespect my privacy—the bishop saw to it. I found community in the church and family inmy bishop, who treated me like a daughter. He often came to talk to me, even when hewas going through health issues toward the end of his life.
It was such an honor to solidify118 Bishop Keaton’s legacy119 as a great spiritual teacher inmy 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 choir120 joined me on Good Morning America toperform “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 yournew friends and your new prayers?” None of my biological family understood what itmeant to care so much about God. But I had to. Returning to God was the only way Imade it out of all my trips to hell. I believe my ex-brother and ex-sister have been to a hellof their own; they may still be trapped there. They chose drugs and lies and schemes tosurvive, 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 guilt121 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 brethrenBut who remains122 standing20 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. Andafter all that shit, “Loverboy” ended up being the best-selling single of 2001 in the UnitedStates. I’m real.
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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nutritious
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| adj.有营养的，营养价值高的 | |
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trauma
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| n.外伤，精神创伤 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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groggy
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| adj.体弱的；不稳的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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therapeutic
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| adj.治疗的，起治疗作用的；对身心健康有益的 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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humiliated
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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21
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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22
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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23
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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24
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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25
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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26
tabloids
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| n.小报，通俗小报（版面通常比大报小一半，文章短，图片多，经常报道名人佚事）( tabloid的名词复数 )；药片 | |
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27
tabloid
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| adj.轰动性的，庸俗的；n.小报，文摘 | |
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28
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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29
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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30
caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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31
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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32
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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33
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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34
coverage
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| n.报导，保险范围，保险额，范围，覆盖 | |
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35
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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36
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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37
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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38
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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39
legislated
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| v.立法，制定法律( legislate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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41
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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42
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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43
theatrically
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| adv.戏剧化地 | |
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44
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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45
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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46
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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47
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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48
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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49
inebriated
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| adj.酒醉的 | |
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50
venue
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| n.犯罪地点，审判地，管辖地，发生地点，集合地点 | |
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51
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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52
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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53
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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54
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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55
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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56
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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57
puppeteer
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| n.操纵木偶的人，操纵傀儡 | |
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58
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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59
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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60
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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61
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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63
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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64
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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65
narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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66
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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67
compliant
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| adj.服从的，顺从的 | |
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68
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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69
ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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70
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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71
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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72
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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73
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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74
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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75
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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76
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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77
disintegrate
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| v.瓦解，解体，（使）碎裂，（使）粉碎 | |
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78
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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79
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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80
containment
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| n.阻止，遏制；容量 | |
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81
sedatives
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| n.镇静药，镇静剂( sedative的名词复数 ) | |
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82
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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83
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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84
toxins
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| n.毒素( toxin的名词复数 ) | |
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85
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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86
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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87
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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88
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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89
intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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90
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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91
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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92
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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93
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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94
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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95
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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96
wreaked
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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98
validated
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| v.证实( validate的过去式和过去分词 )；确证；使生效；使有法律效力 | |
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99
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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100
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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101
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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102
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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103
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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104
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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105
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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106
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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107
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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108
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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109
franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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110
siblings
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| n.兄弟，姐妹( sibling的名词复数 ) | |
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111
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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112
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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113
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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114
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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115
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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116
ministries
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| （政府的）部( ministry的名词复数 )； 神职； 牧师职位； 神职任期 | |
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117
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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118
solidify
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| v.(使)凝固，(使)固化，(使)团结 | |
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119
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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120
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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121
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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122
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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