Things were going so well, in fact, that we were invited to participate in the workshop’s 15 Minute Musicals festival. Our short original musical would receive a full production, complete with professional actors, lights, costumes, props, the works. It was an incredible opportunity. So what did I do? I quit. Rob didn’t show up for a writing session one day. He was usually a reliable guy and had simply forgotten the appointment, but I felt slighted and turned into the hypersensitive, chip-on-her-shoulder psycho from high school. How dare he disrespect me! I will not be ignored!
When I finally calmed down, I realized that I’d made a terrible mistake. I told Rob I wanted to continue our collaboration, but he had already found a new librettist for the project. Kindly, the new partners offered to make it a threesome. I gladly accepted, then spent the next few weeks being difficult and complaining bitterly about anything and everything Rob’s new partner did. I hated her script, her song cues, the way she parted her hair. I was acting out my anger at having been replaced so easily, but I had no awareness of this. I just played the part of a prima-donna douche bag while Rob tried helplessly to keep the peace. His reward for the effort was that I quit again, just a few days before dress rehearsal. As money was now involved for actors, costumes, musicians, and sets, the director of the workshop stepped in. He told me that if I dropped out at such a late stage I’d be barred from the group forever. I loved the workshop. It was my only artistic outlet at that time. So true to form, I dug in my heels and ditched the group. I could always find a way to ruin anything good that came into my life.
—
BACK IN THOSE DAYS, I came off as either a weirdo or an asshole. It wasn’t my intention; it just didn’t occur to me to act any other way. When people are aloof or impolite, others often judge them harshly, saying it’s a sign of poor character. We think, He’s cold or She’s rude or He’s odd when, in actuality, the cold, rude, odd person doesn’t always realize they’re being that way. Social skills are learned, not inherent. No one is born with the knowledge that they should chew with their mouth closed or say thank you when they’re given a job or treat their collaborators with respect. We pick up these rules of human behavior through direct instruction and by watching others. The patterns we learn can be changed, but we often believe they are who we innately are.
Having been raised by a narcissistic psycho, I had a lot of patterns that needed changing. My poor manners, suspicious nature, and chip on the shoulder, as well as the self-consciousness I felt at not fitting in, all combined to make me not so great at relating to those around me. I was a hard worker, though, and highly driven to succeed. So despite my social shortcomings, I began to work my way up in the theater world—from a data-entry temp to Equity stage manager to assistant director. I even toured with a show that had a run at the New York Shakespeare Festival, allowing me to achieve the dream of working professionally in Manhattan.
During those years working in theater, I began the long process of healing from my childhood. As I was now safe from abuse, some of my worst fear triggers naturally subsided, and I was able to enjoy malls, motels, and sunsets again. Through work, I made friends and began to experience something like a normal social life.
I began to write again, selling three short stories to anthologies and penning a play about my experiences with the legal system.
Most of the time, I got up in the morning, went to work, came home, and lived an uneventful life. For most people, this isn’t something to write about. But for me, normalcy and predictability were very new experiences.
One day, I was washing dishes at the kitchen sink when a warm, calm, happy feeling enveloped me. This is contentment, I thought. It’s the first time I’d ever felt it. I was twenty-five years old.
Credit for that contentment and any other progress I made to that point must be given to Steve. We’d known each other for seven years by then and had been living together for four, so I’d had a lot of time to soak in his lessons. Steve comes from about as normal a family as one can imagine: working dad, stay-at-home mom, two kids, two cars. He grew up with nightly family dinners and annual family vacations where no one hit one another or even yelled much. As a result, Steve developed a steadfast, even-keeled, patient personality. When trouble comes along, he’s able to think things through rather than act things out, and he spent countless hours teaching me to do the same.
Every night, as I histrionically relayed the crisis of the day, Steve would calmly talk me through it—asking how things made me feel and why I felt that way. Most people take knowing how they feel for granted, but the ability to recognize and name one’s feelings is also learned, not innate. Generally, children learn these lessons when they’re very young.
On the first day of kindergarten, a nervous child might say her tummy hurts, and the mother responds with “Are you feeling scared?” Over time, the child learns to associate her bodily sensations with the names of feelings. This is the beginning of emotional intelligence.
Like social skills and emotional intelligence, moral values are also learned at a young age. That works out fine if your parents are on the up and up. But when you’re raised by a sociopath, basic issues of right and wrong get kind of fuzzy.
Steve possesses an impeccable moral code. He knows right from wrong and knows himself, so he can’t be manipulated into doing things he doesn’t believe are good. In our nightly conversations, Steve tried to help me develop my own sense of ethics. I’ll never forget the first time he asked me what the “little voice in my head” was telling me to do. Little voice? What the hell was he talking about? It took a long time and a lot of late-night talks before I developed the inner voice that most people recognize as their conscience. Whatever good that conscience possessed was due to Steve, who taught me what it meant to be a decent human being who treats others with respect and kindness. That’s why, when I decided to stop using Gary’s last name, I chose to honor him by changing my name to Stevens.
—
WHILE MY FRIENDSHIP with Steve remained solid, our romantic relationship did not. As the years progressed, I grew to love him more and more—but not in that way. As a couple, we were not compatible. We were both too introverted and staid. I yearned for more adventure. I wanted to explore the world, and I needed to be with people who would coax me out of my shell. For a long time, I kept my feelings to myself. I was deeply attached to Steve and didn’t want to hurt him in any way. But I was also bored and increasingly lonely. I felt stuck and didn’t know what to do.
Then one day as I was exiting an off-ramp on my way to work, I had another epiphany. That clear, strong, authoritative voice that had helped me out in the past said, “Michelle, you’re gay, and today’s the day you’re going to deal with it.”
This came as a bit of a shock. I mean, I’d been living with Steve for years, and before him, I’d gone out with a few other guys. But I’d never dated a woman. Hell, I didn’t even know any lesbians! (Though I certainly enjoyed the Victoria’s Secret catalogue more than any straight girl should.)
Truth be told, I think that I’d simply been too preoccupied with surviving to think much about my sexuality before that moment. Most people start to become aware of their sexuality and sexual preferences during adolescence, but I was being raped and prostituted during those years. Later, I was trying so hard to look and act “normal” that I dated boys just to fit in. It was only after I began to heal that I gained the energy necessary to focus on my sexuality. It’s not unusual for survivors of child sexual abuse to deal with their sexuality later in life. But I’m guessing most people don’t figure it all out in one moment as they’re exiting the 101!
Sitting at my desk that day, I wondered what to do with the new knowledge I had gained about myself. Oddly enough, I knew right away that it was true. I was gay; I just knew it. I also knew I had to do something about it that very day, so I picked up the phone, called Steve at his job, and asked him to meet me for dinner later that nigh
t. Sitting together at Bob’s Big Boy, I watched him chow down on a burger, completely unaware of the storm about to hit. I knew that telling him would be a major blow and that he would probably want me to move out of our apartment that very night.
I waited till he was halfway through his chocolate cream pie before breaking the news.
“Steve,” I said. “I have something to tell you. I’m gay.”
He pulled the fork out of his mouth mid-bite, then spat chocolate pie into his napkin. “Are you seeing somebody?” he asked.
“No, of course not! I would never cheat!”
“Then how do you know?” he asked.
“I just do.” I shrugged.
Steve started to cry.
I felt awful. Here was the first person ever to treat me well, the first person to teach me anything about love, and I was breaking his heart. God, I was a real shit!
“Look, Steve,” I said. “I know you’re upset, and I don’t blame you. I don’t want to make this any harder on you than it has to be. I’ll move out tonight.”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t have to move . . . I think I’m gay too.”
Searching for Judd Hirsch
Coming out as a lesbian was a giant leap in my healing process. Through the Los Angeles Gay & Lesbian Center, I quickly made new friends and started hanging out with them at parties and bars and coffeehouses. Soon enough, I started dating, and I enjoyed getting to know a great variety of women who introduced me to lots of new activities, neighborhoods, and ideas. For the first time in my life, I began to feel that I was actually living my life—the normal life of a twentysomething. Before then, my need to feel safe had always trumped my desire for adventure. But after nearly a decade away from Gary, I was finally feeling more sure of myself and my ability to protect myself from harm.
After a few years of dating, complete with all the usual stories of heartbreak and stalker chicks and romances gone bad, I grew tired of the revolving door of girlfriends. I yearned to meet someone substantial, someone I could be serious about. I was ready to settle down. I was looking for someone who was smart and funny, talented and ambitious, trustworthy and mature. I wanted someone who shared my fairly traditional values regarding marriage, money, education, and child rearing. Unfortunately, these were not the kind of women I was meeting at Girl Bar.
They were not the kind of women I seemed to be meeting anywhere in LA, and I started to blame it on the city. “I’m from the East Coast,” I reasoned. “Perhaps I need to meet East Coast women.” I seriously started to contemplate leaving my job, my friends, everything I had built in Los Angeles just so I could move back east and meet a decent girl! I became so convinced that moving was my only hope that I once again bargained with God. “God,” I prayed. “If you don’t send me somebody decent, I’m outta here. I mean it! I’m moving by the end of the month!”
A few days later, I was sitting in my office at Center Theatre Group when I started catching pieces of the conversation next door. My friend Monica was on the phone with one of her friends—a guy who worked at the Directors Guild of America and had, apparently, suffered a disappointing date the day before. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Bob!” I heard Monica saying. “I know you liked her a lot. I can’t believe she turned out to be a lesbian.”
I don’t know what came over me, but like a shot, I popped my head into Monica’s office. “Lesbian?” I asked. “What lesbian? I want to meet her!”
And despite not knowing Bob or his lesbian in question, I was soon set up on a blind date with a woman I knew nothing about.
It was my first blind date. I had no idea what to expect.
The night before, I couldn’t sleep, but it wasn’t because I felt nervous. I was electric with anticipation. I just knew this mysterious woman was going to change my life.
Meeting Chris certainly did change my life. Right from the start, we were inseparable, and it was clear that we were meant for each other. Not just because she was smart and fun and adventurous and ambitious and made me laugh on a constant basis, but because there were all sorts of freaky signs.
One day, for instance, she opened the trunk of her car to reveal a bunch of Broadway sheet music. Evita. A Chorus Line. They’re Playing Our Song. All the shows I loved. She could play my favorite Marvin Hamlisch songs on the piano and had spent her childhood performing in music and theater groups just like I had.
When I stayed at her apartment for the first time, I took the obligatory browse through her bookshelves. Prominently displayed—and lovingly preserved in a plastic book cover—was The Official Preppy Handbook. She could recite every word of it.
Despite these odd similarities, Chris and I came from completely different backgrounds. She was born in Cleveland, the daughter of Filipino immigrants. Her parents were both doctors and worked hard to earn their place among the American middle class. They sent their only child to prep school and paid her way through college.
In many ways, Chris was like Steve. They were both children of well-to-do families, accustomed to expensive lessons, foreign travel, and parents who expected their offspring to be successful professionals. The difference was: Steve was a part of the culture he inhabited; he fit right in at the club. Chris was an outsider in her very white-bread world. Kids called her Chink on the playground and made fun of the stinky Filipino food she brought for lunch.
That’s why the Preppy Handbook mattered to Chris. Like me, she devoured its lessons in how behave like a successful American. Even though it was a joke book, we both read it at impressionable ages—and it sure did make an impression! We both grew up dreaming about the day we would own Labrador retrievers and Volvos to tote them around.
Needless to say, the part of me that was the Preppy latched right onto Chris. We shared the same traditional views on money, children, and marriage. (I understand that the word traditional might sound strange when speaking about a gay couple, but we grew up wanting to be in The Brady Bunch just like everyone else.) The part of me that was the Writer was also smitten. Chris had graduated from a college writing program before moving to Hollywood to pursue a career in television. In her job as a TV executive, she worked with writers every day and helped them fine-tune their work. I soon realized that Chris was like the Einstein of story structure, making her the perfect sounding board for my writer’s creative ideas.
Did I mention she’s also really cute?
—
EVEN THOUGH it was clear from the start that Chris was the One, we still had big problems. Couples’ counselors usually like to say that both partners are equally responsible, but I take most of the blame. I entered the relationship with more issues than People magazine and a cast of characters in my head more changeable than Doctor Who.
My myriad problems had crept into relationships before. When I met Chris, they seemed to decide it was time for a fiesta. I’ve seen this phenomenon happen in the lives of my clients; all their insecurities and bad behaviors come to the forefront when they finally meet M. Right. I think this is because as a mate starts to feel like family we wounded people assume they will be just like the crappy families we had before. In order to protect ourselves from the sequel, we start to look for problems and test our mates relentlessly. We think, I know he’ll hit me if I mouth off (just like my father did); I know she’ll leave me if I demand all of her attention (just like my mother did). Then we act badly until our mate has no choice but to prove us right.
With Chris I acted badly in so many ways! A few months into dating, I remember a fight I picked while driving to Idyllwild for our first romantic weekend. Chris was talking about her friends from high school, college, and Hollywood when she realized they mostly came from wealthy families. “Of course they come from wealthy families,” I pointed out. “People tend to associate with people who are just like them.”
“But I’m not from a wealthy family,” Chris said innocently. “My dad came to this c
ountry with forty bucks in his pocket.”
Instead of honoring Chris’s family and the obstacles they’d overcome, I became infuriated. All the rage I felt about coming from poverty, having to pay my way through college, and having no family to fall back on exploded in a tirade against “rich kids” who were “given everything in life,” had it “so easy,” and never had to “worry ’bout nothin’!” Chris tried to protest, but I went apeshit, accusing her of being a spoiled rich kid who had no idea what it was like to have a hard life.
Lost in self-righteousness, I conveniently forgot that Chris too had a tough childhood. But unlike me, she did not grow bitter from her experiences. Chris was a humble, thoughtful, generous person who generally liked everyone. I was the one with the black heart. I was the one who was spoiled.
I was also the one who demanded Fatal Attraction levels of devotion. An intense need for attention and reassurance is common in adults who were abused or neglected as children. We are running at such a deficit in the love column that when we find it we can’t get enough. Unfortunately, other adults—no matter how much they love us—can’t provide the kind of selfless, unconditional love we didn’t get from our parents. In grown-up relationships, our partners have their own lives and needs.
Scared Selfless Page 18