Fandom: Victorious

Title: Point of View

Chapter Eighteen: Where Country Grows

Point of View: Amanda Rollins

"Cat, hey honey. I know you want to go with Jade, but she's in good hands. I'm sure she'll be okay; it's probably stress. Lord, knows the poor girl has had more than her fair share of it today."

"Yeah, mainly caused by your daughter." The young girl fires back at me, spinning on her heels. Her red-velvet hair fly's, nearly smacking me in the face as she does a 360 twist on her Maison Christian Louboutin elegant ankle boot, which enhances her tiny feet with its sophisticated style—crafted entirely in Black Veau Velours, with discreet tone-on-tone stitching and side zip and mounted on an 85 mm heel, with a slightly rounded toe. It goes perfectly with her sophisticated black wool tuxedo by Giorgio Armani.

"To think, Aunt Amanda, this could have been us living a life of luxury and fast money if only your mama didn't spend all her money on granddaddy's addictions and shopping addiction. The damn suit costs more than I earn in two weeks as a New York City detective, $3,195 for one outfit. It's insane. "Do you ever think about what life would've been like if your mom hadn't squandered all her millions?"

Mazie Rae Rollins, my niece from my only sister Kimberly Mae Rollins, whispers into my ear as she leans across my shoulder. At fifteen years old, Mazie is a beautiful mini-version of my mom when she was Mazie's age, with voluminous, diva-ish, straight blonde hair to her waist, which every girl she ever meets envies instantly matching blonde freckles upon skin that is as white fresh snow. She is a dream from an Irish glen, born of the clover and green fields. Standing height to height with my 5'7 frame, Mazie is striking and poised as any supermodel from the runways of Paris or Milan.

Her question makes me question my thoughts. Have I ever wondered what life would be like if I hadn't grown up dirt poor? Sure, who hasn't? Growing up on the outskirts of Loganville, GA, on a farm we didn't own, life was rough. We had a rundown house that had barely witnessed too many of life's storms. Mama always said we were blessed to have what little we had, and as a kid, I never questioned her; why would I? She was my beautiful, fierce, intelligent, loving, and funny mama. I never thought the grass was greener on the other side of my raggedy fence, which was so faded it wasn't even white anymore.

I grew up drinking from a hose that had so many holes in it we never had to use the faucet poverty was normal because, in my town, no one had money. This wasn't something I didn't realize until I was older. I thought everyone walked to school because everyone from my town walked to the local elementary school. In my world, everyone used food stamps and the food bank; all my friends had the same generic government-labeled food in their cupboards. We all mixed water with powdered milk before we poured our cereal bowls. We all wore skips off the brand sneakers and hand-me-down clothes. This was life.

Grocery shopping in Athens when I was eleven years old was my first real experience understanding the difference between most folks and us. I ran into my camp friend Lucy Hale; my eyes caught the difference between our mother's carts. Lucy's was filled to the brim with quaker oats oatmeal, Kellogg's cereals, Campbell's soups, Stouffer's frozen meals, Coca-Cola, Häagen-Dazs, and we had all government-issued foods.
My mom used paper money that looked different from other people's; she stated we used food stamps to get some help; the moment sealed my fate in the eyes of my classmates. I wasn't like everyone else. I was different. When you are a kid growing up in the south other isn't a celebration.

As I got older, the differences only increased began to notice them in little things, like the way I dressed and talked. My accent was more substantial than my city kid friends; it wasn't just my attitude that was stronger; it was my muscles, my calves; I could run faster and jump higher from all the work I had to do on the farm.

My parents were caretakers to a wealthy family's farm, meaning we did all the job and reaped none of the rewards; Kim and I got up early to feed the animals and milk the cows, we collected the eggs, and walked the horses, chased the chickens and pigs into their cages. I was washing poultry keepers, eggs, feeders, and waterers.

We were always busy. You had chores in those days to do... You come home from school, do your tasks, help with supper, and get your lessons, and it's almost bedtime by that time. You were hauling water, gathering eggs, tending the garden, and filling the wood box. And some chores like milking cows and feeding livestock had to be done more than once daily. Fieldwork started early, with providing and harnessing the horses.

Going to my friend's houses who lived in the city, I noticed no one else lived on a farm, their parents dropped them off at school, and most brought lunches from home. I was never allowed to bring food from home, mainly because we barely had any. Free lunches at school were my daily struggle, nasty meals which gave me stomach aches, so I learned early on not to eat. No one in my family knew how to drive a car, and I never saw my city friends ride a bus.

As I grew older, it became clear to me. We were poorer than dirt. The first day of school after Christmas break, starting in middle school, was always hard because everyone had new clothes, shiny new sneakers, and portable music players. I had fresh bruises. Holidays were not fun for Kim or me; by the time we were in our early teens, my dad's gambling addiction had cost him the farm job, so we were living in a broken falling-apart trailer with no heat and no indoor plumbing.

Holidays didn't include presents for us; my parents were too busy spending what little money the government gave them on alcohol and gambling. My dad was always drunk, and when he was violent, the experience of having a parent who suffers from a substance use disorder can be confusing and painful.

It amazed me how one minute my daddy could be singing some old country song from the 1950s to us, tickling us and teasing us that Santa only comes to good girls who go to bed on time, and a few drinks later, our loving father would turn into a complete monster—screaming and throwing glass vases, landing closed-fist punches to my fragile nose, or slamming me into my tender stomach.

Open palmed slaps with words of rage hauled at me all because I said it's too early to go to bed, daddy. The story of Dr. Jekyll never rang more accurate to me than when I compared it to my dad, who would awaken without memory of the beast that had visited us the night before.

Hearing my friends talk about holidays in Aspen, family gatherings of games, and music with lavish presents filled me with shame and embarrassment. I made up stories about why my mom didn't drive or why my father never came to school functions. I always kept my friends from my home. I knew they would feel the same way I did once they saw what I saw. Kim was the only one who got me. I was the only one who understood her fears.

My sister and I still live with those memories. We have shaped our lives around them. To this day, my sister and I are struggling addicts. She lives in fear of it ever coming into her life. She has trouble in every relationship because, in our society, having a few drinks is the norm, but it's a downfall for her. She's been arrested twenty times for DUI's served five stints in jail for DUIs alone. One drink becomes seven, and seven become a drunk driving horror.

Kim has been to rehab six times. Nothing sticks; she's OD'd. Eight times and nearly died too many times for me to count. I braced myself to get that phone call that this was the time they couldn't save her. I've become numb to being numb. I've gotten used to the hysterical phone calls. "Amanda, I am so sorry. I've tried so hard. Truly, I did; I-I can't do it. I slipped, Mandy. I'm not sober anymore." It got so bad I chose to take her children away from her when they were babies. Mazie came to live with me when she was three years old. She hardly has any memories of Kimberly as her mom. She knows she is, but only because I've explained the situation.

Kim's younger child, her son Carson, is now eight and lives with his father, Daniel, here in California. Daniel has been a great father to both of his sons. He keeps me updated on everything in Carson's life, and I have a very loving relationship with Carson. He doesn't remember Kim at all. He never knew her as a mother; to this day, he believes I am his mother.

In my life, I have problems at social events. Anxiety grabs hold of me as soon as I smell the fuse to the powder keg. Even in a group of close friends, my guard is up when the smell of alcohol is on my breath. When will they go off? Who is going to start an argument? These are the thoughts that someone who grew up with an alcoholic will deal with for the rest of her life. For years my way of handling stress was to open a bottle or head to the closest bar; when my gambling addiction would lead me down a destructive path and I lost all my life, savings drinking helped me cope. Alcohol cost me my marriage to Edele and my relationship with my daughter Remi.

The first time I met Caitlin, I was amazed. She was so elegant and so beautiful, and she was my mom's twin. How the fuck did they come from the same womb? I had seen her on movie screens my entire young life as a sex symbol, an icon, and source material for generations of writers and artists. Elegance, class, sass, and fashion would be a few words that can symbolize her perfectly. Caitlin, also known as the 'Irish Bombshell,' was the most desirable woman of her time. Even now, there has been no match to the charm and beauty that she had, and her accent left me breathless with dreams of Irish coastal hills sweeping into vast seas. I grew up watching her in films, never knowing she was my aunt. Never knowing my mom was Irish or from Ireland. She had shed the skin of her past when she became pregnant with me, her parents disowning her.

I was ten when I discovered the truth, opening my door to see Caitlin standing on my rundown porch. This woman I had seen on my screens growing up now stood before me; I was a huge fan, almost stalkerish; I knew every minute detail about her life; this was before google, too, so yeah, pretty impressive. I used to keep an eye on her whereabouts. But regardless of all the limelight, there are some facts many fans don't know. Like, oh, yeah, she was my aunt, who was exceptionally bright and determined, a woman with a sly sense of humor.

My young mind was blown. The camera flashed behind her; she smiled shyly as she asked for her sister; dumbly, I said um, this isn't Ireland; why would your sister be here? "Because she's your mama, dear. I'm your aunt Caitlin. Didn't your mama ever tell you about me?" My big reaction? One million viewers saw me fainting dead away on my porch when Beverly Hills Dynasty became a hit years later, which gave way under me. The first time I saw Hollywood was a few months later.

Kim was hooked; she wanted to live the lifestyle of the rich and famous, and she wanted to be somebody. To have a slice of the American pie. Beverly Hills is a dynamic city with diverse communities, beautiful architecture, and palm tree-lined streets. Luxury shopping, fine dining, A life above it all, hillside developments with lush greens, unobstructed views of Beverly Hills, and more outstanding Los Angeles attracted celebrities and socialites who commissioned the best twentieth-century architectural icons and interior designers of the day.

Cobblestoned Rodeo Drive, with palm trees lining the walkways and beautiful beaches stretching for miles, the vibe in BH is nothing like down south. Down south, everything is laid back, and people tend to care about their neighbors; folks wave with their index finger held up while holding the steering wheel as they pass on the road. When you go into a retail store or grocery store, people speak to one another and sometimes carry on conversations even if they don't know each other. It's a friendly, welcoming place. There are many fields with tobacco, corn, soybeans, peanuts, etc., and you're likely to get behind a tractor when driving during the planting and harvest time. We pull off the side of the road for funeral processions to pass, and we bring food to the family when someone passes away. It's considered poor form to cuss in public or anywhere, and holding the door for someone is considered appropriate. Money isn't thought about, at least by most folks. People live with a feeling of blessing and wealth because they believe Jesus will care for them.

Beverly Hills it's a far cry from Georgia; here, people will cut your throat to get on the front page of next week's TMZ site, and no one holds the door for you because they are too busy slamming it in your face and stabbing you in the back. When fame makes people hate you even if they have never met you? What attracts people to a life of stardom? Spending nearly 350 days away from their families while they are filming or touring? Friends claiming to be loyal only to sell you out when the next up in coming artist emerges? Who can ever be prepared for all the rumors and the lies they say to sell a headline?

The shops, restaurants, art galleries, and other amenities make for a luxurious experience. Add this to the fantastic private homes and properties with custom-designed features that appeal to the most exquisite tastes: chef's kitchens, luxury pools, temperature-controlled wine cellars, rooms and spaces with marvelous finishes, and more.

It's an allure disguised as the American Dream, but no one ever prepares you for the sacrifices. When visiting my aunt here, the Gaelic Revival, when she was drinking heavily, and we were sitting on the patio, she spoke without guard for the first time that I had heard her talk so softly and honestly. "Amanda, when I look back at life, I'd never thought I'd go this far; I am grateful I get to make a living doing what I love, making music and films. I'm just thankful people welcomed me with open arms."

"Hearing people play my music and knowing I can inspire them is more than any little girl could ask for, but they don't tell you the truth about this lifestyle in all those magazines; the flashing cameras give you the illusion of glitter and riches beyond your wildest dreams. They never tell you to get your fortune. You'll think about all these new friends and people you will hope to trust, who will turn around and try to take advantage; it's got me tired; all I can think about now are their motives."

"They never tell you how every day will be a race to compete with yourself. To sell more albums than your last, headline the biggest tours, and be thinner, prettier, and richer than your best friends or sisters. What's the price of fame? Is it worth worrying that someone will become so jealous they will try to kill you?"

I swore right then that I would never be trapped in the hell of fame. As much as I wanted to get out of Loganville and make something of myself, I swore Hollywood would never be the way for me. I studied hard and followed in my aunt's footsteps in another way public service. I became a cop because I saw how the police always protected my aunt when she went to public events and performed at venues; I got to know some of them very well. All of them told me that being a police officer was something they could be proud of it's a hard job; all of them said it to me not for the faint of heart.

I got a lot of insight from them about what life as a police officer would be like on a typical day. Every speeding ticket you write, every fight you break up, and every incident of domestic violence you respond to might have evolved into a fatality if you hadn't intervened and prevented it. It might be a life-and-death situation that involves pulling a victim out of a crashed car or providing first aid and essential life support to a shooting victim before paramedics arrive. But aside from these prominent, dramatic examples, your mere presence might save countless lives you might never know about daily. You'll frequently find yourself in positions where you can save someone's life.

As I grew, my talks with my aunt became more serious.

I suspected early on she had been a victim of sexual assault, but she never came right out and said it to me. Not until a few years before her death. She convinced me by inspiring me with one of her charity works helping victims of sexual assault. I was sixteen the first time she took me. It's not always easy to know what to say when someone tells you they've been sexually assaulted. For a survivor, disclosing to someone can be very difficult, so Caitlin always encouraged me to be as supportive and non-judgmental as possible.

She held their hands, looked them in the eyes, and always told them, I believe you, and this is not your fault. She showed me support means providing resources, such as how to reach the National Sexual Assault Hotline, helping them to understand they needed to seek medical attention or report the crime to the police. But often, listening is the best way to support a survivor. I wanted to do more than listen; I wanted to put these bastards in prison.

When I told her I wanted to become a detective one day who investigated sexually motivated crimes, she was delighted.

My aunt paid for my first two years of college and helped me find an excellent job at a tabloid news office in Hollywood. Long before, TMZ star was the leading tabloid magazine. I called clients to confirm appointments and followed up on clients who needed to be on time or kept appointments. I answered phones and logged pictures, greeted patients upon arrival, and initiated the completion of required forms, maintaining a clean and neat office area, including the waiting room and kitchen. Set up the waiting areas with magazines, and newspapers, clearing trash.

She always found it funny that I worked for her enemy, but I found it helpful when I saw terrible pictures of her. I could warn her and prepare her publicists. A total violation of my contract, but the looks on their faces when they got the cease and desist letters always made me laugh. They never figured out I was related to her. I knew I wouldn't be there long enough to deal with the consequences.

I watched her struggle with addictions. I'm only one of the billions of kids who grew up with an alcoholic parent. My aunt and my mother were/ are extraordinarily kind-hearted, compassionate people. But like many with addictions, they had a traumatic childhood; my mom was an alcoholic before I was born. I love my mother deeply. She is a wonderful person. Every day, I wish I could do something to take away the hundreds of pounds of sadness they carry daily. But the effects of her alcoholism affected my sister and me terribly.

Apple juice was my favorite drink as a kid. One day, I asked my mom why her apple juice always had foam on top of it. She told me to try it and laughed. Her laughter became louder when I spat it out, making a face. It took a few years after that to connect my mom's dramatic mood changes and her consuming the foamy apple juice.

"Alcohol-juice baby, you may not like the taste right now, Mandy, but I promise you one day you will; all Ryan's love it. After all, we're Irish." After a while, she drank directly from beer cans. She hid these cans and bottles all over the house.

By 11 years old, I regularly looked through the closets and cabinets, poured out the beer, and returned the empty cans and bottles to their spots. I also often organized the cabinets and closets because it made me feel there was a kind of order to the house, even though my mom's behavior made everything unpredictable, chaotic, and messy. I always paid the price later when her fists took their rage out on me; I find it funny now how I felt a sense of pride in myself

, even bruised and battered.

My aunt was my savior in two significant moments of my life. I could never save my aunt; it still haunts me. When alcohol threatened to destroy me when I was twenty-seven in 2007, I married Edele when I was eighteen; she was forty-five, already living a life of luxury and pleasure. I was never one to live off someone else's hard work, which annoyed Edele, who hated their job; she called me crazy for working at a tabloid; to her, it was the lowest class of people out there. What attracted me to Edele was her sarcasm and her laughter. She loved to laugh. Her high self-esteem. Something I never had growing up poor with abusive parents. Edele is well-educated and always eager to learn; she is passionate about traveling and seeing the world. She had ambition all my life when looking for a partner.

I looked for someone passionate about what they do; it's attractive to me in a way that looks never could please me. I figured out I was bisexual when I was a teenager. Another thing that made me different in a small town. Not a good thing. I hid it until I was eighteen and out in LA. I saw Edele at one of the first clubs I went to with a few friends from college. I had no idea Caitlin and Edele were ex-friends; her name was never muttered in my house growing up or in Caitlin's. All I knew was Edele was fun; she danced like a goddess on the floor. I had no idea this majestic limber woman was near twice my age; she seemed crazy like me. She glided across the floor with ease, and grace alighted my heart. She asked me to dinner after we ran into each other five times at five different clubs. She swore it was fate. We had sex the fifth night, and for many nights after; within three months, we married. Edele was someone I felt I could trust, rely on, and truly felt was my soul mate. I never introduced her to my mom or dad because I wasn't on speaking terms with them at the time.

We knew we wanted kids, and we wanted them soon. She was already forty-five and felt the time was passing her by too quickly; she could never settle down in one place long enough to have them. I have to go where the work is, Amanda. As an actor, you never know whether your character will get killed off or the show you're on will be discontinued. So, Edele was always seeking work; she always told me you're lucky to get an audition. Then you get it; you get there, and you walk into a room full of ladies that look just like you. You realize you're not the only one with a size one waist. Then you can hear the other women in the other room auditioning, singing like her voice is being carried on a butterfly's wings, and now you're thinking, I don't stand a chance. To be in a profession where you're constantly judged, critiqued, and scrutinized; however you want to classify it, I've always been very adept at self-observation. Too bad I wasn't a good judge at self-observation, or I would have seen sooner Edele was only using me as a vessel to have her kid. She picked the donor; I carried the baby she legally adopted before our daughter was even born.

Shortly after Remington Rain Rollins was born, our marriage went to hell. Rumors of infidelity filled the tabloids, and my aunt returned to LA from her year and a half of filming in New Zealand. She promptly blew a casket when she saw who my wife was, which led to massive fights between them, and I left caught in the middle of a war that started long before I was even born. I was crucified in the press, my aunt was so mad she barely talked to me, and it killed me; she was the only family member I gave a rat's ass if I never spoke to again. So, I turned to my stress reliever. A few glasses of the magic potion didn't matter beer, tequila, whiskey, brandy, vodka. I drank it all and danced the night away across every tabletop in every VIP room in the city of angels, except I was not an angel in the clutches of the night. Sin filled my veins, and suddenly I was a relaxed, happy, fun, supremely confident little devil. Alcohol answered something in me. It took away my ever-present anxiety. I could be in the moment. I was 15, the first time I experienced just how sublime being drunk could be. I could drink a lot comparatively without showing it.

The divorce was in the works, and I was dealing with my third year of college, which I was now paying for. To relieve the stress of working late, going to school all day, and caring for a crying baby when my wife was off working on some disclosed location, properly screwing whatever hot younger actor/ actress she was working opposite. I drank 3-4 bottles of wine at least five times a week and took speed to prevent blackouts. But drinking was still fun. I was with a young, beautiful, and hard-partying crowd. What I did was normal in context. There were some bad hangovers, a few guys/ladies I slept with that I regretted, and a night in the drunk tank when the campus police found me crawling home in a skirt and t-shirt in mid-January, and I was too drunk to tell them where I lived. They probably saved my life. I got a second job at the viper room serving tables at the bar where the NBA, BFL, NHL players, and high-end celebrities all partied. Once again, my drinking and drug habits seemed pretty normal.

My downfall came when I was so drunk and zonked out on Ambien that I threw a party for my university mates. We were partying and dancing, blasting music, smoking using drugs, and someone lit the house on fire. I ran out with my friends, so zoned out, I left Remi in her crib.