The Road to Reality

by Dianne Burnett

  November 19, 2001

  He hasn’t said anything about it. He hasn’t said much to me at all. But I know Mark. If he’s acting this distant for this long, he must be having an affair. My stomach is in a knot. Maybe it’s true: the leopard never changes his spots.

  Just after we returned home from that taping, we were invited to the 2002 People’s Choice Awards; Survivor Australia had been nominated. This time when Mark and I approached the red carpet, he motioned to his publicist, who appeared at my side.

  “Di,” my husband said as we approached the media gauntlet, “I want to walk in by myself.” The publicist escorted me away, and Mark proceeded down the red carpet alone.

  So I knew there were problems, serious problems, but I kept thinking we’d work through them. I thought that’s what being committed meant—weathering the storms until sunnier times resurfaced. I hoped that by not pushing the issue with Mark, and not speaking about my fears about his indiscretions, I was somehow keeping us together.

  I didn’t even seriously consider that my marriage might be entirely over until Howard Stern clued me in. The way I later heard it, Mark had been seen all over New York with Mount Twenty-Something. I wondered if someone had mentioned it to Howard, and if that was why Howard kept pushing Mark’s buttons that morning on the show.

  One day around the time of the radio interview, Mark sat on our bed, not looking at me, finally copping (somewhat) to what was happening. But he didn’t come clean about the affair he was having with Mount Twenty-Something, which had been going on for more than a year, dating back to Eco-Challenge Borneo, which I’d missed. That wouldn’t come for some time.

  Mark told me he’d rented a house—a house exclusively for The Burnett Boys—on the beach. He wanted me to keep with the story that he planned to tell the boys—that it was their club house and Daddy’s new place to work. He didn’t want to reveal the harsh truth: that he was leaving, and that our relationship, which for the previous thirteen years had defined me, was kaput.

  “Mark, are you sure?” I asked. “We have such great history together. Do you really want to throw our marriage out the window and break up our family? Can’t we just move beyond this problem, whatever it is?”

  I had to admit that even I wasn’t content with the life we were living. Yes, I loved my husband and my kids, but was this the life I envisioned? Was I fulfilled? Being a mother was very fulfilling in one respect, but not being able to always be me wasn’t.

  Even though I suspected that he’d fallen for somebody else, when I hinted at it, he stuck to his classic line: “No one is going to come between us. No one will come inside our bubble.”

  And I still believed him.

  Chapter Twelve

  REWRITING THE SCRIPT

  Learn to get in touch with silence within yourself, and know that everything in this life has a purpose. There are no mistakes, no coincidences. All events are blessings given to us to learn from.

  —Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

  “OKAY, NOW, SPIN HARDER,” the instructor yelled out. “One, two, three, press your arms, one, two, three, one more set, one, two, three, let’s go!” In my mind, I was in Tuscany riding my bike past silvery olive groves, stone castles, and vineyards. In reality, I was atop a stationary bike at a Malibu gym’s spinning class.

  That was fitting: my life was spinning—my days were proceeding frenetically, with my every waking moment scheduled with an activity, followed immediately by another. Everybody has their means of coping with emotional pain: some drink, some turn to drugs, some eat, some stop eating entirely. My outlet was becoming a perpetual motion machine. After Mark moved to his beach house, I steered my reality back onto its axis with sheer “busyness.” I jammed new activities and roles into my calendar—and whirled through the days at a lightning pace so that I never had a free moment to reflect.

  I jumped back into acting classes with a passion, hoping it would fill the void that Mark no longer did. I launched my own theater productions. I volunteered even more at my kids’ schools—I was the mother who drove the children on field trips, who served as lunch monitor, and who helped out in art classes. I took up tennis, and I threw pots on the wheel in ceramics classes. I delved into charity work, and auctioned off Survivor props to help causes.

  I even started remodeling the house—basically, I did anything to avoid thinking about what was happening to my marriage, and the implications this held for my life. I was desperately trying to stay clear of that constellation of emotions that accompany breaking up: “I love him, hate him, need him, wish I’d never met him, we should get back together, I never want to see him again, it was his fault, it was my fault, I should have gotten a boob job, I love him, hate him …”

  I never let on to my emotional state, though. I had kids to raise, and I took the role of mother even more seriously now that Mark and I were “sharing” our kids and dividing their free time.

  “You’re taking it all so well,” commented friends at their dinner parties, where I hid in the bathroom, sobbing, as I thought of my failed marriage. And although I’d grown accustomed to attending dinner parties solo even when Mark and I were together, I still wasn’t comfortable as the officially-separated wife surrounded by couples.

  “Pump your arms, one, two, three!”

  I continued to cycle through the Tuscan countryside in my mind. I’d just read Under the Tuscan Sun—and fantasized that I was the heroine moving to Italy and starting all over again.

  “Hit it harder, one, two, three.” With sandy-brown hair and hazel eyes, the instructor was sort of cute. Sometimes in my mind, I was biking through Tuscany with him. Before long, in real life, we struck up a casual friendship. I liked to go out to dinner with him on the nights that the kids were at The Burnett Boys’ clubhouse on the beach with Mark.

  In the deepest recesses of my mind, however, I continued to loudly crank the theme song from “The Mark and Dianne Show.” I still believed that Mark and I would get back together and revive our marriage. My thinking about that changed when I journeyed to Asia in June 2002 for Survivor Thailand, the fifth season of the world’s most talked-about reality show. I was no longer living with Mark, and I knew there had been other people in his life. But I still found him the most attractive man on the planet; romantic that I am, I still believed he was my soul mate. So I continued to push on, hoping that things would change.

  As I traveled with the two kids to Bangkok, for the first time I began to seriously think about life without Mark, wondering how I would cope with such a scenario. When the boys and I landed in Bangkok, Mark wasn’t there to greet us, and he wasn’t waiting at our hotel suite. “Amanda, where is he?” I asked, calling his assistant upon my arrival to an empty room. My husband was in Phuket for some R & R, I was told—only later hearing that he was vacationing there with Mount Twenty-something.

  Happily, Mark was all cheery smiles and bright eyes when he showed up in Bangkok on the second day. We jaunted off for family outings—taking in everything from the golden Buddhist temples to jungle elephant treks. And then we flew off to a tiny island in the south, Ko Tarutao, where Survivor Thailand was taping. It was lovely, dripping with orchids, and the monsoon rains made it lush, but what I recall most of that month with “The Burnett Boys” was the end of the trip.

  As the taping of Survivor Thailand wrapped up, Mark announced another change in plans: he was taking the boys to Scotland for two weeks. To smooth my ruffled feathers, my husband arranged for me to spend another two weeks relaxing in the land once known as Siam. In fact, he flew in a traveling companion: no sooner had I hugged the boys goodbye at the airport, when my spinning instructor from the gym arrived. Mark financed our two-week vacation to tropical isle Krabi, the moated city of Chang Mai, and beachfront Phuket.

  My husband playing Cupid for me appeared to be a sign that our marriage was beyond the point of return. On the other hand, it was sweet traveling around a dazzling country of glistening mountain-top temples, romantic islands, and lush m
ountains with a good-looking man who liked me and continually showered me with respect, attention, and affection. I was deeply conflicted.

  August 25, 2002

  Well, huh. My life has become a question mark. Why in the world would Mark pay for my vacation with my gym instructor? Does Mark really want me to be happy? Or miserable? Is Mark trying to say “Everyone fools around,” or “Di, we’re seriously done”? Is he saying, “Let’s have our separate flings, then get back together,” or “Let’s go our separate ways, forever”?

  Is this a reflection of the sudden changes in our lives with the success of Survivor or it a reflection on the state of marriage in the 21st century? Can I love two men at the same time?

  Well, I know the answer to one of those questions at least. No, I can’t love two men. I only love one. His name is Mark. And I fear with every cell of my body that he’s gone, gone, gone, and that I can never reel him back in. And I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing. But it sure feels like a bad thing to my heart.

  And now that I have these quandaries out of my system, I’ll slip into another sexy dress and put on my famous smile, and go out to another fabulous dinner with my spinning instructor, whom I silently refer to as “The Replacement,” and try to figure this out when I get back home. I get to be an actress after all, this time in the story of my life.

  Despite my reservations, I took Stephen Stills’s advice—“Love the one you’re with.” My friendship with The Replacement evolved into a romance, and it continued when we returned to Malibu.

  Maybe it was because I was no longer “available”—thanks to Mark’s match-making—or maybe my husband had descended Mount Twenty-Something. A few months later, Mark suggested that we start dating again. I wasn’t sure. Was a reunion the right thing for our family or for our kids? Was it a wise course of action for me? I wasn’t sure if being with Mark gave me room to grow. Complicating the situation further, now I was involved with The Replacement.

  I realized how much I’d changed over the previous fifteen years, and how I was no longer the woman who Mark had married. Back then, I was a sharp-dressing career woman, financially independent, and I had my own aspirations and identity. When I moved in with Mark at age 23, and then married him, I gave up the “I” to partake in “us” and adopted Mark’s dreams as my own. I’d transformed from individual to partner, bouncing board for ideas, his speech coach who helped him with pitch, a solicitor for event sponsors, a support system, cheerleader, loving mother and devoted wife—all roles that I cherished. But it was time to make some adjustments—and merge my past with my present and future. I wanted my own identity again.

  I wanted to perform solo in “The Dianne Show”—starring, written, and directed by me. I viewed life as a self-made movie, with each person casting themselves in their own roles. I needed to recast myself in a new part and jump into new arenas. I needed to sell myself to the world. I needed to announce that I existed.

  As I started to list accomplishments for my bio, I faced a problem well known to full-time mothers. Much of my experience—such as my Warranty Salesperson of the Month awards—dated back two decades. I had been vice president of Eco-Challenge—and had business cards with that title, but now Mark was downplaying my role. I had also been president of our production company, DJB, Inc.—the name was derived from my initials—but Mark had me sign off on that just before we were separated. I’d never demanded a production credit on Eco-Challenge or Survivor, although I’d made contributions to both—not the least of which was coming up with the name of the series—but I was disappointed that Mark hadn’t given me an official credit on either. Now, my reticence about asking for credit was hurting my résumé.

  It became more important than ever for me to put my face out to the world.

  “Dianne, you’re too old,” some said when I announced my renewed interest in theater. “You can’t just launch an acting career at your age!” They didn’t say that again after I produced a play and cast myself in the lead: Christopher Durang’s Beyond Therapy played for two weeks at the Santa Monica Playhouse. I put the whole thing together from top to bottom. Holding auditions at my house, I brought in a number of actors from my Film Actor’s Workshop to begin the casting, and hired everyone from the director to stagehands.

  During rehearsals for the play, Mark wanted to start dating me again. I found it ironic that he wanted to rekindle the relationship when he saw me go out into the world and make things happen.

  For our opening-night performance, the original Broadway director of the play came to see us. The curtain went up, and the electricity cut off. On the up side, at least most of the stage lighting worked. On the down side, there was no air conditioning or fan, and it felt like a sauna; halfway through the leading man got “dry mouth.” Yet, the show went on.

  On the second weekend of the play’s performance, Mark was in the audience. On that night, the leading man had a conflicting engagement. The Replacement, who is also an actor, filled in that night. In the play, there’s a steamy scene between my character, Prudence, and the character played that night by The Replacement.

  “I love you,” I said onstage to The Replacement. “I want you …” And then I recalled Mark was in the audience.

  Around then, I saw a poster that called to me. It was an advertisement for the L.A. Marathon, to be held in three weeks. That poster seemed to present me with a dare: “Can you do it, Dianne? Can you?”

  Never mind that I wasn’t a runner, and that I had only three weeks to train. I bit.

  I even delved into the history of the event, learning about Phidippides, the finest Greek runner back in 490 b.c. Following a Greek victory over the Persians in the town of Marathon, Greece, Phidippides was tasked with delivering news of the victory to the rulers in Athens. He took his job seriously, running 26.2 miles up and down hills, along coasts and through forests, and finally into the great city of Athens. Making his way up to the Acropolis, running all the while, Phidippides burst in, and yelled only “Niki!”—“victory” —then collapsed and died.

  The modern marathon commemorates the final run of a man who pushed himself to the ultimate limit. His single-minded purpose, first captured in a legend, spawned the event known as the marathon, now run in 82 countries around the globe, with 1,000 individual events held every year.

  To this day, finishing a marathon is applauded as a major personal milestone. Completing a 26.2-mile run is a symbol of overcoming hardship and persevering through adversity. For those who have been told, “No, you can’t,” finishing a marathon is a way of saying, “Yes, I can!”

  When I told Mark I planned to run the L.A. Marathon, he rolled his eyes. “Dianne, you’re not a runner,” he said. “You can’t finish a long-distance race!”

  I intended to prove him wrong.

  The day of the marathon, my sons, my brother Nico, and The Replacement were at the starting line to cheer me. A friend, who is an experienced runner, ran alongside me, giving me words of support. I started off feeling strong. All the way through mile 7, I was still neck-and-neck with my friend … then mile 10, then mile 15 … By then, the endorphins had kicked in, and I felt high. This wasn’t hard, it was thrilling; why hadn’t I run a marathon before?

  Then mile 17 came long. My feet were blistered, my legs hurt, and with 5.2 miles to go to the finish line, I wasn’t sure I could make it. But then I thought of Phidippides, the determined messenger. I thought of my kids. I thought of Mark, telling me that I’d never finish. And I got my third wind. And I kept going, visualizing the finish line in my head.

  When I got home, I took off my running shoes and let out a satisfied sigh, so happy that I succeeded in meeting such a rigorous challenge with little preparation. It underscored that if we really put our minds to something, nothing can deter us. I was on a high that lasted for days. Mark came over and congratulated me, but his kind words couldn’t compete with the message that was blasting in my head: I DID IT!

  For the sake of my own self-esteem, I also finis
hed something I’d started long before. For years, I’d put off taking the test for my real-estate license—but not because I dragged my feet. When I was in the Topanga house, I took evening real-estate classes. However, every time I would set an appointment to take the test, all of a sudden Mark would uproot the family to go on location with Eco-Challenge. Although I scheduled test dates three times, I had to cancel every single one because of the trips.

  Now I didn’t have an excuse. I ordered all the books and study guides covering the complex accounting rules, land-use regulations, and thousands of other obscure details. I studied like crazy. A month later, I went to downtown L.A. to take the test, and passed! After all the years of being thwarted, getting my license allowed me to get listings on properties in Malibu, Aspen, and Mammoth, and make multimillion-dollar deals. It was very rewarding, in many ways. My confidence returned, as did my sense of personal power.

  The reemergence of me, Dianne Burnett the individual, helped me through what would have otherwise been a very tough time.

  Breakups are always painful. But they turn surreal when your ex is the hottest ticket in town. Every time I opened up a newspaper, I was bombarded with stories about Survivor. Every time I switched on the TV, there was an interview with executive producer Mark Burnett, who was dubbed the “King of Reality TV.”

  And by then Mark was launching a new show—The Apprentice, hosted by Donald Trump. I was happy for Mark, but that series only increased the already-high visibility of my ex. Even my sons rated write-ups in celebrity magazines after the Donald took wife number three.

  One afternoon in 2004, not long after The Apprentice premiered, Mark invited the boys and me to a Lakers game. During a lull in the action, he took James and Cameron to meet Donald Trump. When Mark returned, he was alone. He said that Donald’s fiancée, Melania Knauss, adored our sons.