by Dyan Cannon
A middle-aged woman moderated the group sessions, and she’d call on us like we were shy schoolchildren, urging us to talk. One woman talked about having been molested; one man talked about his mother, who didn’t love him; another woman talked about her husband, who had cheated on her with her best friend. At first, I didn’t want to hear their pathetic stories, and I didn’t want to tell them mine. But gradually the stories didn’t seem so pathetic. I started to understand where they came from and how they got where they were. They were normal, intelligent people who had been pushed over the edge, one way or another, just like me. All seemed fragile. They had reached a point where the pressures of daily living had become too difficult to bear.
I could relate to that.
It was at least a couple of weeks before I could muster the presence to say anything when called upon. Finally, when I decided to speak, I blurted out, “My husband said maybe a breakdown would be good for me. But I think I’d rather have gone to Disneyland.” There were a few empathetic chuckles. We were all in the same boat, and the biggest wall that could be broken down between people was judgment. “Well, I got what he wanted.” There was some more sympathetic giggling. “And I feel like I’ve been wandering through the scariest funhouse ever created. I see myself in all these different mirrors, I can’t tell whether I’m eight feet tall and six inches wide, or six feet wide and eight inches tall.”
“What do you think he meant when he said a breakdown would be good for you?” the moderator asked.
“You know, I think there was a part of me he would never be able to control, and he couldn’t stand that. But now that I am broken, who’s going to put me back together again?”
“Do you really think you’re broken?” the moderator asked, prodding me.
“No,” I said, though my answer truly surprised me. “I think I’m badly bent.”
The group laughed, and as the session went on, a few other people who had never shared before opened their mouths for the first time.
The afternoon was playtime—board games, cards—just like kindergarten for loonies. Or we were allowed to go back to our rooms and enjoy a little solitude, which is what I usually chose. Then we had dinner and watched television. One evening, we were watching a rerun of 77 Sunset Strip. I was drowsy and hadn’t tuned in to the fact that it was an episode of the show that I’d been in. One of the other patients recognized me. “Look,” she said. “That’s you!”
I started to freeze in embarrassment, but I thought, Isn’t this just what you always wanted, Dyan? To be known for your acting? So what if I was in the nuthouse? That was only an image of me on television, one that had nothing to do with who I really was.
“That’s me all right,” I said, mustering a fairly sincere laugh.
“You’re an actress!” one lady exclaimed.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “I’m really just here to research my next role as a patient in a mental ward.”
They laughed with me, not at me. “Well, you know where to find extras!” one man said.
I smiled at the idea of making my own movie with my fellow patients as extras. In a way, this whole thing—my whole life, in fact—seemed like a movie. But from where did the movie of my life originate? You can’t change what’s happening in a movie by going up to the screen, reaching into it, and changing what the characters are saying and doing. So what could I do to change it?
It occurred to me that what I was seeing in the movie of my life came from a projector of some sort—just like all movies did. And I thought, Well, if I don’t like the movie, why not change the reel?
I stayed with that thought for a while. I was tired of watching the movie about Dyan being heartbroken, miserable, and crazy as a cage full of howler monkeys. I wanted a change. I wanted to watch the movie about Dyan restored to full strength and vitality, full of energy, love, and mirth.
Coming off the pills, I had many sleepless nights with too much time to think, and I had no appetite. But gradually, my appetite started to come back, and when it did, it did so with a vengeance. I certainly needed nourishment, but I also was aware that I was using food to fill the void that I’d been using drugs for. Neither me nor my fellow patients were likely to ever miss a meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks—yeah, it was hospital food, but it was food.
Out of habit, I reflexively went to the bathroom to purge after the first couple of meals, but I stopped myself. It no longer felt right, but I still struggled with it. The compulsion began to lessen, though it would take months more of determination to abandon it completely. However, I knew I needed to get my strength back, and to do that I needed to keep what I ate. Over the weeks I made progress and started gaining weight.
I started to feel my mind lightening and I really started to feel like I was in the safe place I needed to be, as Dr. James had said so emphatically. I started to trust Dr. James, as well as the other facilitators. I guess that was what they called progress.
One night when I was fast asleep, a bolt of light from the hallway shot across the floor. I opened my eyes, then closed them again, thinking it was a nurse who’d come in by mistake. The door closed, and then I felt the covers being pulled off of me and I looked up to see that midwestern orderly who had been so nice and gotten me my cheese sandwich. Before I knew it, he pushed my shoulders to the mattress, climbed on top of me, and started kissing me. When he reached for my legs, I grabbed his wrist and hissed into his ear, “Get out of here right now or I’m going to scream.”
“Why would you do that?” he grunted. “I work here and you’re crazy. Who’s going to believe you?”
I screamed like a banshee. Farm Boy rolled off the bed onto the floor, sprang up, and bolted. A nurse rushed in, asking what had happened, and I told her.
“I saw him running out of your room,” she said. “Don’t worry! We’ll take care of it. You’re safe now.”
Yeah, right. I shoved a chair against the door and lay in bed all night, unable to sleep. Was I ever going to find a safe place?
Dr. James came by at about nine in the morning. When he came in, he saw my packed bag resting by the door.
“I’m sorry, Dyan,” Dr. James said. “You’ll never see that orderly again.”
“I want out of here,” I said. “Now.”
He sat down on the chair I’d blockaded the door with. “Dyan, I am as upset as you are by what happened last night, and I accept full responsibility,” he said. “I am taking every measure, for your safety and that of all the other patients, to make certain nothing like that ever happens again. I understand you wanting to leave, but you’ve been making good progress. And I’ll work with you to the best of my ability to make sure this doesn’t result in a setback for you.”
“I was almost raped last night,” I said.
“But thankfully, you weren’t. A lot of terrible things can ‘almost’ happen. But you can work with it, if you try.”
“How?” I asked skeptically.
“It’s like we’ve been talking about. We can’t change the past and we can’t control the future. What happened is over and done with, and thank goodness you’re all right. You can turn it into either a setback or a stepping stone.”
“You can’t keep me here,” I said, persisting, though I wasn’t actually sure whether he could or not.
“That’s true enough. But, Dyan, this unfortunate incident aside, aren’t you starting to feel more stable?”
I didn’t answer because I didn’t want to admit it was true.
“Please stay with this, Dyan. You’re doing so well,” Dr. James said. “Stick with the truth. It won’t let you down.” He turned and left the room.
I looked at my bag.
I’ve got to leave, I’ve got to get out of here, I thought. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. And then suddenly, I stopped. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. What is the truth here? I broke down, that’s the truth. But, Dyan, they’re not trying to lock you up and throw away the key. You’re not Elsie and this is not Fishponds. And th
ere are people out there who love and care about you. Your mom, your dad, Addie, Mary . . . most of all your daughter—she needs you! And then I stopped and thought, But even if there was no one in the entire world who cared about you, would your life still be of value? Think about that. No more pity party. Snap out of it!
Something was changing, shifting, moving.
The next morning I played hooky from the group session and went into the game room. There were a number of books on the shelves and I chose one at random, looking for something fairly mindless to gaze at. This one was a picture book written for young people called Creatures of the Wild. I opened the book to a section on monkeys and started reading.
There was a story about how hunters caught monkeys. The hunters would go to the place where the monkeys lived and dig holes in the ground the length of the monkeys’ arms. They would place jars in the bottom of the hole and then jostle big sacks of nuts around as the monkeys watched them from above in the trees. Finally, the men would pour nuts into the jar at the bottom of the hole and leave.
The monkeys would see the nuts placed in the holes and would scurry down from the trees to get their share when the hunters had gone. But the hole was wider at the bottom than at the top, and with their fists clenched around the nuts, the monkeys couldn’t get their arms out. They had to let go of the nuts first. But unfortunately, they held on. So when the hunters came back, the monkeys were trapped. What monkeys loved more than anything was their freedom, but they’d sacrificed it for a few lousy nuts. All they had to do was let go, and they’d be free. But they held on.
Why did that strike such a chord in me? And then I realized that I was just like those monkeys. I was stuck. Really stuck, because I wouldn’t let go . . .
But I couldn’t let go, because I didn’t know how.
That afternoon, I had a session with Dr. James and I told him about the monkeys. He smiled. “What do you have to let go of?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Think about it.”
I was quiet. “Okay, come to think of it, I don’t want to let go of anything.”
“Why not?”
“Well, at least the monkeys had their damn nuts to hold on to. If I let go, what will I hold on to?”
The doctor just looked at me expectantly.
“Doctor! I asked you a question! You infuriate me when I ask you a question and you don’t answer! You’re the smart one here. What will I hold on to if I let go?”
He just stared at me, not saying a word.
“I’ve lost everything,” I said. “Do you understand? There’s nothing to hold on to.”
“Think about it.”
“Damn it! What’s to think about? This stinking world doesn’t work! People make promises and break them. They get your hearts, then twist them and turn them until you’re on empty. Okay? Okay! I’ll let go of that. How’s that?” The words were boiling out of my mouth, and it seemed like I didn’t have anything to do with them.
“That’s a good start,” the doctor said. “What else?”
“I’ll let go of all of the hurt. I’ll let go of all of the pain. And I’ll let go of not wanting to help myself. And I’ll let go of him.”
“Him? Him who?”
“Him, Cary. And all of the hims that hurt me.”
There was a long pause and then the doctor said, “Good. Very good. So you see, Dyan, you do have the answer.”
“I do?”
“Yes. You let go of the pain and you hold on to the peace. When you let go of the hurt, it’s gone. When you loosen your hold on the sadness, joy takes its rightful place. Do you see that?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Okay, you asked me what you would have to hold on to if you let go, right? After you let go of all the things you just talked about, what you have to hold on to is a fresh new concept of yourself.”
I was very quiet.
“This is big, Dyan. Give it a chance.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Liberation Day
On a cool, breezy day in March, after picking up Jennifer from school, I noticed that the gas needle was falling into the empty zone, so we stopped at a Texaco. “Fill ’er up?” the attendant asked.
“Uh, just a second,” I said, counting the money in my wallet. “No, just five dollars, please.” Our pantry was completely empty and I still had to go to the market. There, Jennifer ran ahead of me, picking things out, as I pushed the cart through the aisles, thinking of how to stretch our food budget as far as possible. At the checkout counter, Jennifer’s eyes lit up at an equestrian magazine, and she started to point to it. I pretended not to notice and placed my items on the conveyor belt. The total was more than I expected and I had the cashier set aside several items.
At home, the mail had brought another notice from the bank. I was behind on the mortgage and I had thirty days to catch up, or . . . no more house. I took a deep breath and tried not to let Jennifer see my worry, but she was already on her way out the door to join some friends on the beach.
I’d bought this house in the Malibu Colony because I urgently wanted a safe, happy environment for Jennifer to grow up in, and she loved it. Her school was close by, and there was the beach, the sun, the fresh sea air, and lots of kids on the beach for her to play with. The thought of losing the house made my heart sink.
It was now about five years after the divorce and my meltdown. Since then, I’d made steady progress. I had stirred back to life, and little by little, so had my career. It started one day, in late 1968, when I was offered a screen test for Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. Later on the same day, Universal Studios offered me a four-picture deal.
Bob & Carol was a movie about two couples who try their best to navigate the sexual revolution by overcoming such traditional hang-ups as, well, marital fidelity. The script was brilliant and I found the premise to be fascinatingly perverse, maybe because it was about people trying to find happiness in freedom from the borders of marriage, when I’d driven myself to madness while trying to stay safely inside them. The film reflected the prevailing anxiety about so-called “free love,” which not only wasn’t free but in the story came with quite a hefty emotional price tag. Paul Mazursky had directed, and it co-starred Natalie Wood, Robert Culp, and Elliott Gould.
It was hard to turn down a four-picture deal—it meant getting to work right away—but something told me I needed to play Alice.
“A bird in the hand, Dyan,” my agent said.
“How do you know the bird in your hand won’t just peck a hole in it?” I asked.
“With a big six-figure deal, you can have your hand sewn up and the bird stuffed,” my agent said.
I stuck to my guns and screen-tested for Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. My agent thought I was crazy, naturally. But being true to my creative standards paid off in its own way. I got an Oscar nomination for best supporting actress, and that led to a quick succession of roles that to me were exciting, challenging, and fulfilling. That triumph did a lot to restore my confidence in my own judgment. I was in demand.
Maybe I’d gotten spoiled, but then I’d always been particular about the characters I played. But after a back-to-back succession of movies, I stopped coming across roles that appealed to me. Many times, the characters were too shallow, too weak, or just didn’t require much but showing up and being the Girl. I told my agent I only wanted to do parts that were uplifting to women. The problem was, there just weren’t very many of them.
Auditions are kind of like parties; after you turn down so many invitations, they stop inviting you. Now I was paying the price for being so particular, and my finances were a disaster. I’d never worried much about money; I’d been working consistently for several years, Jennifer’s school and basic needs were taken care of, and I always operated on faith that one thing or another would turn up. I didn’t want to have to go to anyone for money.
For the first time in a long while, I felt myself being tugged back into a morass. For five years, I
’d strived and strived and I’d made progress. Great progress, and not just with my career; I’d climbed out of the deep hole I’d fallen into mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
I’d called Lily soon after I got out of the mental ward. What I’d been through was beyond my understanding. Here I’d always been an independent, spirited woman, and the quivering, insecure mess I’d been reduced to—it just seemed like a bad dream, but one that I was determined never again to have. I was a seeker and always had been, and I wanted answers. I wanted to get to the bottom of some of the big questions about life, and not only the ones that had to do with me . . . What I’d been through, I decided, could be useful. No, it would be useful. I knew if that had happened to me, it had happened to others.
During my first conversation with her, I told Lily I was genuinely seeking a spiritual path, but that there might be some obstacles—namely, that the word “God” made me extremely nervous because it had been such a flash point for conflict in my family.
“Can we just use the word ‘love’ instead?” I asked her.
“That’s the best word you could possibly use, because that’s what God is,” she said. “God is Love.” And I knew I’d found my teacher. The idea that the power that ran the universe was something called love made sense to me. I didn’t completely understand it, but I sure was going to explore it further. I spent many hours a day in pursuit of that tiny glimpse I’d had of it. I found myself growing stronger, calmer, and more secure.
It was funny how the people closest to me used such similar words to describe the change they saw come over me. They all talked as if I’d gone somewhere far away, with a stand-in walking through my life and saying my lines for me. “I’m starting to see traces of you again,” Mom told me a few months after I was out of the hospital.
“You’re back!” Dad said. “We’ve missed you so much.”
Addie said, “I can finally breathe again—I’ve been so worried about you for so long.”