Huffing and puffing after the multilevel dash, I stumbled down the aisle, found an empty seat, threw my backpack up on the rack, sat down, and collapsed. I leaned forward to catch my breath and smacked my head on the tray table’s release button. It popped open, and the sharp metal edge sliced my cheek, cutting my face open. So now I was bleeding. I couldn’t believe what had just happened, and I started to laugh. I must have looked like a crazy American tourist laughing through my tears, blood running down my cheek.
I wiped my face and realized this had become a true pilgrimage. I had sold my home, given away my possessions, was traveling in foreign lands with nothing but my backpack, searching for some clue as to what my life was about, and what I should do. I had no cash. Then, out of nothing, came everything I needed.
The train pulled away from the station, and I sat in that seat, full of gratitude. I didn’t have to try hard, I didn’t do anything for them and yet people stepped up to help me. I’ll never know who those people were, but I still thank my angels. I owe them more than the coins they gave me. I was supposed to be the giver, but that day I received. It was humbling and overwhelming. This experience showed me to trust in the Universe beyond all fear and have faith. The Universe provided. It was a turning point for me, not only on the trip, but also in life, such a small moment with a huge lesson.
What would happen if I took all the advice from the many books I read and actually trusted the Universe? Trusting my Source was the new lesson that would challenge me over and over again.
Wikipedia gives this definition: A pilgrimage is a long journey or search of great moral significance. The long journey had just begun, and the moral significance in my life would change me in ways I could never have guessed. I realized that day leaving Paris, that giving was something to be shared, not controlled. Not a way to be “good” or “get to heaven.” My indulgences were banked, but that would not grant a safe journey. Something more was needed. I started to give back with a new awareness.
YOUNG ARTISTS UNITED
Europe was an incredible learning experience for me. When I returned, I became involved with Young Artists United, a nonprofit group dedicated to helping the youth of America make socially responsible choices, founded by Baywatch star Alexandra Paul and manager/producer Daniel Sladek. I soon served on its board and headed the National Speaker’s Network.
There were dedicated actors, some celebrities, filmmakers, publicists, producers, and writers in the group. YAU made PSAs (public service announcements) to educate young people. We worked voter registration and getting out the vote. It was an inspiring time for me. I wanted more—giving back had a new meaning and relevance in my life.
We sent speakers all over the country to talk to kids in middle and high schools. We shared our experiences and why we made the choices we did. I booked the tours and helped train the speakers. I learned so much from my time on YAU. It was a place where I felt I actually made a difference. I could tangibly see it at our presentations. It was the first time I was involved hands-on in a nonprofit, not just lending my name, or showing up somewhere to be the celebrity draw. We worked hard and I made lasting friendships with many members.
Alexandra Paul has been an angel in my life. Her commitment and tireless work for others is incredible. When I produced and hosted segments for Entertainment Tonight on eating disorders and young women in the entertainment industry, Alexandra told her story with touching passion. She shared her emotional ordeal with bulimia, self-image, and recovery. She was living proof and an inspiration for women everywhere. She still is. I was still struggling with my own body image, my self-worth, and trying to get work as an actress. Her example taught me to move forward in my search for healing with my own food issues. Her depth as a person and actress is why I chose her to play the lead in my directorial debut, For the Love of May, years later. Once again, she was inspirational and an angel for me.
Daniel trained me to run the speaker’s network and I joined our other board members on an annual retreat. We had gone away for the weekend to plan the year ahead. On this retreat, I had a big wake-up call and a humbling lesson that forced me to face my deepest fears of failure.
We were all gathered at publicist Val Van Galder’s parents’ beach house. I was presenting my plan, which was nerve-wracking for me. New to this board of directors thing, I was timid and felt deficient. I stood up and plowed through my notes. Someone questioned my plan; I got rattled and became even more unclear in my explanation. Sarah Jessica Parker, who was wonderfully patient, interrupted me and asked me why I was so mad. I was so embarrassed, became more upset, and didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to do it right—why were they questioning me? I managed to make it through to the end and sat down. I can’t remember much of the rest of the meeting.
Later on that same retreat, Mark Gill, the fabulous producer who worked in PR then, taught me my first lesson on presentation. He walked down the beach with me and explained how I came across as angry. “But I wasn’t mad, I was scared,” I whined. I felt myself getting angry and defensive, and knew my face had turned bright red. Because of all those years of growing up on the show, I had not been at school or in college to learn how to deal with people or groups, or even to speak in front of a class.
My inexperience felt like quicksand swallowing me, and I didn’t know what to hold on to. Mark gave me solid advice on how to present myself. He gently gave me some tips and helped me do a better job. I went back to the group and explained myself.
His lessons were a turning point for me with public speaking. He was a professional; I was untrained. He took time to help me, and to this day, I’m grateful for his kindness, feedback, and friendship.
My second big lesson with YAU came when we were planning a PSA on social responsibility around drinking and driving. There had been recent press coverage of some not-so-responsible behavior of our “Brat Pack” members at the 1988 Democratic National Convention. A videotape was leaked to the press of Rob Lowe having sex in the convention hotel. We had to reshoot a voter registration PSA starring Rob.
Judd Nelson was on our board of directors at the time, and he wanted to use his friends Emilio Estevez and Charlie Sheen for the new PSA. Not wanting to damage the future of that PSA, I threw out an idea for their consideration. “Could we choose actors who are leading responsible lives or don’t drink, so we don’t have to scrap the PSA if they get arrested or—?”
Judd spoke up, defending his friends, whom I never meant to criticize. He thought they were the perfect people to do the PSA. They were stars, working actors, and kids would listen to them. Then he turned to me. “Do you think you should do it?”
“N-no,” I stammered. “I just thought—”
“Well, you can’t,” he said. “You don’t work enough as an actress to matter. People will listen to Emilio and Charlie.” Besides, Charlie and Emilio were “in the public eye.”
The room went quiet, no one said a word. I couldn’t believe my ears. My worst fear had been spoken out loud in front of the people I respected and admired, whom I was working with to make a difference. I was humiliated and devastated. I was the wicked witch melting into the floor. I shut down, and somehow we made it through the rest of the session, but it was all a blur to me.
What happened next was big for me in my growth as a human being. Later that afternoon, the girls were getting ready for dinner. Sarah asked me where I wanted to go, and I said, “I don’t know. I don’t think I work enough as an actress to pick the restaurant.”
The tension in the room broke, and everyone’s mouths fell open as I acknowledged the elephant in the room. I was surprised I had the guts to say something, and was nervous that I had opened my trap. Sarah spoke first and made it all okay. “Oh, my God, what was that? I can’t believe he said that!”
Val jumped in. “I can’t believe nobody said anything. I think we were all stunned.”
“I was just horrified, I froze,” I said. “Why didn’t anyone call him on that?”
&
nbsp; No one knew, but it didn’t matter, the ice had been broken. I was able to be vulnerable with these supportive women and share my fears. As we talked about the “incident,” there were gasps and giggles.
I had always taken everything so personally before. This was a first step not to take it in so deeply. Instead of hiding, feeling miserable, and pulling away, I was actually able to laugh a little myself, but it was still a hard-hitting blow to me.
He was the mouthpiece voicing my insecurity, confirming I was nothing. His words were my worst self-esteem nightmare. I wanted to work as an actress so much, it hurt inside. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t working, or didn’t have a powerful enough agent to get me in to auditions, or why the people who knew me didn’t let me read for parts on their new shows. I was doing everything I could, but I wasn’t enough and this “Brat Packer” had reminded me of that. He was the schoolyard bully, telling me I wasn’t enough and could be replaced.
To this day, the YAU girls and I recount this story, Val retells it the best, and we just laugh. It had such an impact on me, I obviously haven’t let it go. I so appreciate my girlfriends for sharing my anger at that comment, and for still being aghast to this day. I’m glad I can see the lesson now, but the meaning of his words would echo in me through several more years of self-doubt.
I can look back and see the positive now, but his words forced me to wander the mountain to find out: if not an actress, what did I have that mattered? I wanted to matter. That desire and his words eventually helped me find myself, my inner power, and what exactly I did have to offer the world.
Through YAU, I learned I could give myself to a cause. I had more to offer than a photograph, or that I played Erin a long time ago. I worked behind the scenes, and when I saw a kid touched or affected in a positive way, I was proud to be a part of YAU.
SOAPS
I had a screen test for a soap opera when I was twenty-one. I was excited at the possibility of full-time work again.
Years ago, soap operas were looked down upon in the industry. Everyone wanted to be a movie star. Times have changed. The stigma is gone today and movie stars appear on soaps and pick up Emmys for guest appearances on TV shows. Prime-time television was the next step down, followed by daytime television. Last was the commercial actor. There was a caste system. Many soap actors didn’t or couldn’t cross over to nighttime or movies. People didn’t realize that soap opera actors are the hardest-working actors in the business. They have massive amounts of dialogue to learn every day, and they make it seem easy.
Since most of the soaps were based in New York at the time, I had to make a decision. My agent asked me, “Do you want to be a soap actress?” so I knew that meant the other Coast. I didn’t know if I wanted to move, but I did want to work as an actress, so I ended up in New York to see if I liked it there.
I landed a day player role on One Life to Live. My scenes were with Phil Carey and Robin Strasser. I told them I’d never done any soap work, and Phil took me under his wing, pointed at Robin, and said, “Be careful of her. She’s a shark. She’ll eat you alive.” Robin laughed, but it didn’t do a lot to calm my nerves. I was afraid of blowing my lines. Soaps are known for not cutting, and I had been told, “Whatever you do, don’t blow a line. If you do, cover and keep going. They hate to cut!” Talk about nerves. When Phil flubbed a line, I felt much better. I didn’t blow any lines that day, but as much as I love New York, I never got to move there permanently. The scene was fun to do because Robin and Phil were so delightfully evil as Asa and Dorian. I played a girl they used in one of the many scams their characters schemed up. They were a great team, and I learned just by watching them. It was also fun to have big hair, fancy clothes, and so much makeup, I was barely recognizable.
Years later, I also did a day on General Hospital. I did flub my lines, but not because of the nerves. This was due to a day of preshoot starvation, my blood sugar tanked. It took me a long time to learn that not eating was not conducive to working!
People still remember me from General Hospital and ask how it was to work with Bobbie Spencer. Jacklyn Zeman was very nice to me. I played a woman who had adopted a red-haired baby (always the hair). Bobbie came to see me to talk about adoption. The fact that the child had red hair made her character happy, of course. It was a positive statement for adoption in the 1980s.
At one of the soap screen tests, I was excited at the possibility of full-time work again. The casting director told me confidentially, “You’re not going to get this part. I know they’ll go with looks, but they want to see an ‘actress’ too. So that’s you.” I think it was a compliment. At least, I took it that way to confirm what I hoped: I was a good actress. He was right; I didn’t get the gig.
It’s not too late. Wouldn’t it be fun to play a villain!
BLONDE AND…
The fears continued to plague me, cemented by my agent calling me and saying, “Well, kid, you always get down to the wire on jobs. You’re good, but the only thing I can think is, it’s not your time. I’m cutting you loose.” That was the last conversation I had with the agent I’d been with for years.
I tried to change my image. I was set to do a sexy photo shoot for Oui magazine. It seemed like everyone was doing Playboy or Oui or making a poster. Why not me? When they interviewed me, I was unprepared for the sexual questions. “How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it?”
I wouldn’t answer. The publicist was angry, and they canceled the whole photo shoot, which turned out to be a gift. Big angels on my side again. Deep down, I knew sexy half-naked pictures was the wrong path to finding work. It wasn’t me. I wasn’t comfortable; yet the industry seemed to demand it for success. I battled between my professional identity, my personal privacy, and my desire to keep working. I continued to fight against my values as I struggled to establish myself as a working adult actress. I sacrificed a part of me to do what I thought they wanted. I let people abuse me as I bent every which way to mold into an image, a look, a poster girl. I was worn down, and eventually I gave in and took the step I thought would help me and my career.
It was the Dallas era, where big hair and big boobs were the order of the day. I didn’t go out for as many parts as my friends in acting class, so I knew each audition was important. I remember once, after interviewing for another part, my next agent said, “They went blond and booby with this one.”
How many times had I heard that? All these comments pushed my “you don’t fit in, you’re not enough” button. No matter how much I brought to the audition, or how hard I worked, I wasn’t thin, blond, or built enough.
I was still studying acting five days a week at the Loft with Peggy Feury. I believed if I truly honed my craft, I would work as an actress. After all, wasn’t that what all those comments implied? While I wasn’t blond, there was something I could do about…
A fellow thespian told me about her breast implants. She had just had hers put in and loved them. I admitted they looked great, and she seemed so confident. She gave me her doctor’s name, a reconstructive surgeon who used the latest implants recommended for cancer survivors. I thought this had to be a good thing. After all, don’t doctors know best? “First, do no harm,” they promise in the Hippocratic oath.
I did not arrive lightly at the decision to have implants. I was worried. I’d never had surgery before. There was so little information, but I met with the surgeon and asked all the questions I thought important. The new implants, made by Bristol-Myers, had a foam coating to prevent hardening and to create a natural feel. The devices sounded nice. They even had my initials, Meme.
One side effect he mentioned was that I might not be able to breast-feed. Breast-feed, are you kidding me? I was twenty-two, and I didn’t even want kids. So why would that matter? If I changed my mind, I was bottle-fed. So what’s the big deal? Is that all?
“Oh, and you might lose a little sensitivity in your nipple.” He told me they’d last a lifetime, and when I was in my coffin, they’d still be
“perky.”
One wise person told me, “Don’t get these, thinking they’ll help your career.” Hold on, I was getting them for my career, and to feel whole and accepted. Everyone wants to feel pretty, attractive, and desirable, right?
I looked forward to feeling better about myself. As uncomfortable as I was with the idea of having something unnatural in my chest, the upside seemed bigger (excuse the pun). I just knew they would help. And I wanted to get my career back on track. So if this would do it, then so be it.
I love acting, being on set, the whole experience. I had grown up loving and bonding with my television family, and wanted to continue working in the world I adored. I cherished working with talented people and facing the challenges of weather, deadlines, even wearing stinky old wardrobe clothes. It’s in my blood, in my foundation. I craved returning to what I knew, where I had a true sense of belonging. However, I was so incredibly embarrassed about getting implants, I didn’t even tell my mother I was having surgery.
9
BOOBS IN, BOOBS OUT
During the surgery, I woke up and felt a huge pressure on my chest, but other than that, the procedure went smoothly. A friend drove me home. I felt every bump and cried out in pain. Once home, I slept all afternoon and through the night.
The next morning, I woke up with a rash across my back and chest and called the doctor’s office. “It’s just the bra. You’re allergic,” the nurse told me.
Allergic to cotton? Despite my fog from the painkillers I was taking, I sensed something didn’t seem right about that logic.
THE FUN PART
While my recovery took a bit of time, I did have some fun with my new breasts. Let’s be honest. I was twenty-two, and when you have a bad booby image, doing something society says is sexy felt good for a while. It was exciting as I explored this new image of myself.
A new beau called to ask me out to dinner, and I told him I couldn’t go out yet because I’d had surgery. After a few tries at guessing the mystery procedure, he said, “Are you like Mariel Hemingway now?”
Lessons from the Mountain Page 19