by Jennie Garth
So much for getting away from it all so I could I lick my wounds privately while trying to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and patch them back together.
But there was an upside, a silver lining of sorts. Reality TV (if you still believe in the “realness” of reality TV, please skip over this next part, or better yet, read it and learn the truth) is just contrived enough so that there is a bit of a barrier between your “real” life and the one that is portrayed on the show. It’s a tiny margin, but it was there, and I was to learn, mercifully, that it’s just big enough so that I could actually make the show without totally losing it on camera. This was the upside.
So I found myself moving into production on a show about my life, a life that lay broken at my feet. I had no idea how this would work out, how we would fare, but we—I—had made a commitment and I was going to honor it.
So let the cameras roll.
IT’S NOT EXACTLY THE OK CORRAL
I probably should have consulted with Mr. Showbiz before I spill some of the trade secrets of reality television production, but I didn’t—so here goes. Contrary to what some of you may think, reality television isn’t entirely unscripted. For each episode, there’s a basic story arc that’s set up in advance, and though there’s no written script, everyone knows what the basic narrative is for that episode, and so everyone sets up and the cameras start rolling and then . . . the best improvised moments that are caught on film are the ones that are edited into that day’s story. Well, that’s the goal, anyway.
In the case of my show, which was called A Little Bit Country, the producers brought in a character who would serve as my foil. This was Corrine, who was brought on board to work as my new personal assistant and to give me another adult to interact with.
As my comedic foil and partner on the show, poor Corrine had to do all kinds of things that no person in his or her right mind should ever agree to do. But she did, often, and we can chalk it up to taking one for the team.
In one episode, we went to a local livestock auction to buy a cow, and while we were waiting for the bidding to start, Corinne happened to mention that it was her understanding that someone who is about to milk a cow actually sucks that cow’s teat, in order to get the milk flowing. This was not made up or written for the show: She actually believed this. Of course, this was the most absurd thing I’d ever heard, but Corinne would not let it go. So I made a bet with her: How about if we polled a few of the local cowboys and ranchers sitting around us to find out if this was true or not? If she was wrong, she’d have to suck a cow’s teat. If I was wrong, I’d have to do the same. Corinne, God bless her, made the bet. I will end this story by saying simply that I won this particular bet, and once we’d bought our cow and gotten her home, the cameras rolled while Corinne paid up. This was not pretty. But you know what? Mr. Showbiz was right: This kind of thing was distracting. And I needed that. My girls needed it. We needed some levity and some life and some sense of purpose and camaraderie around the place to lift our spirits.
I took advantage of the work of the ranch (we had horses, a cow for a second, the pig, goats, lots of dogs, chickens, and cats) and the work of mothering my little girls, and, of course, the work of the show, to keep the deep sorrow I felt at bay. Until finally I just couldn’t anymore. It happened one day when I least expected it. While Corrine and I were walking toward the house, she blurted out, “So where is your husband?” I was so unprepared for this that I froze, and then, after an awkward silence, I told her the truth. I managed to gulp in some air and stammer, “We . . . are separated.” At that point, the well opened up, and I barely managed to hold it together for the rest of the shooting day.
Now, the show was no longer just a light comedy about two women and three girls navigating life on a ranch. The “real” part of this production was that I was recently separated and now all the world (or those who tuned in) would know. In other words, the revolution, or, in my case, the devastation, was being televised. Doesn’t that sound like great TV?
Here’s the deal: I had promised myself, for those intense but short weeks while we filmed the show, that I’d be in on the “gag,” that I’d go along with the premise that I was a city slicker trying out the country thing—a contemporary take on Green Acres, if you will. I was supposed to play the straight man to my “assistant” Corinne’s fish-out-of-water shtick, and I didn’t anticipate being asked this kind of question. But now that the cat was out of the bag, there would be no more acting for me, no more pretending, at least not about the reality of my marital status. And this caused quite a dilemma for me professionally, because I was so coiled up, so bogged down by so much emotion, that I just didn’t know where to put it all. I’d wake up, open my eyes, realize I was on the cusp of this huge, massive life change (my marriage very possibly ending for good), and then I’d step into my kitchen, foggy-headed from the immensity of it all, and there would be about a half dozen people milling around—the camera and sound crew for the show! I’d snap back into the present and realize there was a show happening. Here were these people, all waiting for me to do something funny or spontaneous, and I just wanted to crawl back into my bed and give in to the self-pity and sorrow that wanted to consume me. As good an actress as I can be, I just couldn’t be A Little Bit Country Jennie and not at the same time be heartbroken, frightened Jennie. It was all just out there.
Ugh.
Now I had done it; I had broken the unspoken Garth/Facinelli family code of silence, big-time.
Learning to be a separated person sucks. To all of you out there who may (and I pray you don’t) have to go there, do not—under any circumstances—do so while making a reality TV show.
I guess I thought the best way to handle it all was to be open and honest and real. Which was at the time the only thing I was even remotely capable of being. But you know what? It is possible to be too real—especially for reality TV: God, I look back at those episodes now and I want to shout at the screen, “Someone kidnap that poor blonde and take her away before she says something. . . . Oh, no! Too late!” It’s like watching a train wreck over and over and over again. At least, that was what I thought—until I started to hear from viewers that I had made it easier for them to not feel so alone, so alienated while they went through their own separation, and I felt a bit better. Then I heard from another, and another, and . . .
But this outpouring of support didn’t make me feel like it had been a wise move on my part. I mean, I do have three young girls who watched all that then—and can certainly watch it again if they ever want to. I tried to be diplomatic and sensitive to all parties, and sweet Jesus, I tried to keep my stupid tears from flowing for all the world to see, but there just came a point when the floodgates gave. . . .
Along with the fan letters came a ton of flak, too, from all kinds of people who criticized me for talking about my stuff in such an open, raw, and unglamorous way. For a while, I listened to this criticism and felt really bad about myself. It took a long, long time get past the sense of failure that engulfed me when my marriage ended.
I still sometimes wish I could erase that whole time of my life, especially what’s caught on that reality show film, but you know what? In the end, I did the best I could; I spoke the truth. My truth. And that’s got to count for something. Because at the end of the day, I’m really all I’ve got, and I’m the one I’ve got to live with.
Staying on the ranch once the cat was out of the bag just wasn’t an option. The show had taken on a new, bizarre direction, and I needed to figure out a way to shift my energy, big-time.
I told the producers we needed a change of scene, and so they suggested that I take a weekend, perhaps spend a day or two without having to be in “mommy” mode. They came up with the idea of sending me to a “love retreat” at Esalen, an outrageously beautiful and world-renowned retreat center located on the Pacific Ocean in Big Sur, California. I called Adele, who is now a therapist, and asked her what she thought about this. She did some quick resea
rch and thought it couldn’t hurt; why not? And she even offered to come with me. So here it was, life ring number two, in the form of a love retreat. I was barely treading water at that point, but when this was pushed toward me I reached out and took it. So, in the middle of filming the show, Adele, Corinne, and I hit the road in search of some healing, some relief. And the show’s camera crew hit the road, too.
LOVE ON THE ROCKS
Esalen is quite possibly the most idyllic, beautiful spot of land on the West Coast. It’s set on a rocky bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and its grounds are just the right amount of wild and rugged, cut through with serene and easy. It’s a place that feels out of time—and that’s the whole point. You come to Esalen when you need to let go of your worldly cares and woes and give your weary soul the chance to take a little breather. And I needed that badly.
I’d read a book called Ten Things to Do When Your Life Falls Apart by a woman named Daphne Rose Kingma, a relationship and love expert. She would be leading a retreat called “Love After Love,” which was a concept I really needed to try to get hold of.
We checked into our rooms, which were kind of no-frills, like a summer camp for grown-ups. The quiet there was intense—even compared to nighttime on the ranch. Our weekend would be spent largely in group sessions, led by Daphne, and because these would be attended by other “civilians,” the camera crew that had come along with us wouldn’t be allowed to film them. And thank God for that, because for once in my life, I opened up some and shared my feelings in a small group of humans who were, each one of them, utterly present and supportive and attuned and so damn loving.
I was able to talk about how losing my dad, and now Peter—the two most important men in my life—landed a one-two punch that had knocked the wind right out of me. I just hadn’t been managing these losses very well, and I realized, in that very caring and easy energy environment at Esalen, that I hadn’t had anyone to talk to about these losses. Back at the ranch, I was with my little girls and my mom, and I felt like it was my job to stiff-upper-lip it as best I could.
I was every inch my dad’s daughter: stoic, withholding, uncomfortable sharing my feelings. And unfortunately I’ve perfected acting as if everything is okay, even when it’s not. I was an avoider of the highest order, and letting my guard down, letting my feelings actually break through the surface, turned out to be a much-needed and unexpected relief.
To say I was sad is an understatement. I had been with Peter for almost twenty years, and I felt anguish at failing in our marriage, at not being able to make it last, not just for our daughters’ sake, but for mine.
But I also felt angry. Super-scorching-hot angry: at myself for not being enough for him; at him for not believing I was enough for him. And especially for not knowing how to tell him how I really felt, to ask him for what I needed. It was a revelation, letting all this anger out, because I’d worked so damn hard for so damn long to keep it bottled up and out of sight that it had cost me everything.
I spent some good one-on-one time with Daphne, too, and she let me know that the anger I was feeling was normal and healthy and necessary—as long as I kept expressing it and releasing it, from both my body and my soul.
I cried a lot that weekend. So did Corinne and Adele. I think it was cathartic for all of us to talk about how, at one time or another, love had failed us and how we had failed love. I know it was healing for me, and I walked away from that love retreat feeling something I hadn’t felt in a very long time: a glimmer of hope.
It was time for me to go back up to the ranch, wrap up that crazy show, and figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
Ready or not, it was time.
OPA!
I was in no mood for a party. I had been living up at the ranch with the girls for nearly two years, but now, with the end of my marriage official, I felt like it was time to get back to civilization and get back to work. Get back to life. But knowing this and actually doing it were two very different things. The fact of the matter was that I was depressed, I was fat, I was tired. I was suffering from shell shock. I was having trouble getting out of bed, never mind mustering the energy required to pack up four people and a bunch of animals for a long-distance move. Especially now that I would be doing it alone. I didn’t feel like seeing anyone, I hadn’t showered in days, and I’d find myself, in the middle of a chore, suddenly paralyzed by how conflicted I felt about moving back to LA. I was pretty much a walking zombie, and so I just shuffled from room to room, doing the best I could.
The kitchen was the last room to be packed. So on that last full day at the ranch, I got out the bubble wrap and began, for what seemed the thousandth time, to pack up the Williams-Sonoma cream-colored dishware, our everyday set of dishes. I had moved so many times—why was this time so freaking hard? I reached for a plate, and just as I was about to lay it on the sheet of bubble wrap in front of me, my hand abruptly stopped as though it were paralyzed, and I watched as the plate just left my fingertips and fell, in what felt like slow motion, to the floor. Crash! Just then I heard Liz, my assistant, shout out in her cheery way, “I know! You ought to have a dish-breaking party!” Did she think I’d dropped that plate on purpose? She came around the corner then. “Really. It will make you feel better.” She was smiling at me. I looked from Liz to the stack of dishes on the counter. I loved those dishes so much: They were thick and durable and so creamy. And besides, we’d had them forever: I think they may have even been a wedding present. Liz went off to finish what she was doing and I looked down and kicked the broken bits of that plate out of my way. I started to pack again. I picked up another plate and . . . whoops! It, too, hit the floor. I picked up another and again, as if in slow motion, I watched as the small salad plate seemed to do a swan dive out of my hand and land, with a perfect smash, on the wooden floor of my tiny farmhouse kitchen.
It seemed that if I wasn’t going to throw myself a plate-breaking party, the universe was going to do it for me. There I was, in my sweatpants (which I’d probably slept in), no makeup, my hair a mess, my feet surrounded by broken bits of dishes. I realized I felt better. So I picked up a teacup. Crash! Then a bowl. Smash! Then another bowl, and a plate, and a saucer, and . . . what was this? A full setting for ten? I lost myself in a frenzy of dish dropping. I was not cursing and hurling those lovely plates. I was simply letting them slide out of my hand, letting gravity do its job. It was awesome! In no time at all, the whole cupboard full of dishes was now a pretty good sea of shards, and I was standing in the middle of it. I was sweaty and a little shaky from the adrenaline rush this gave me, and I felt a little disoriented. But I also felt better. Lighter. After all that crashing of pottery, I stood, panting, and noticed the house was absolutely still and quiet. Liz had used her incredible sixth sense and had coaxed everyone—including the movers—out of the house so that I could have some space.
Looking down at all that broken pottery was like looking into a crystal ball; I felt as if it were trying to tell me something I badly needed to hear, that there was some wisdom in all that wreckage. But no profound insight was coming to me, just the acknowledgment that there was a heap of broken stuff there. Broken like I had been.
I got the broom and swept up the mess. Well, I thought. There’s one less box I have to unpack back in LA. After that, I was able to get on with my work, and I finished packing up the kitchen, and that night I took a long, hot shower, and ate something healthful, and slept better than I had in months. I was, bit by bit, beginning to lighten my load.
When I go up to the ranch now, I like to see the gashes from that impromptu dish-breaking party in that wooden floor. I can’t imagine fixing it, because then I’d be erasing an important part of my history. “Something happened here” is what those marks say to me. Some living went on. Maybe there was even a party. Opa!
Thanks, Liz.
A NEW DAY, A NEW HOODIE
Coming back to LA was almost as stressful as filming that reality show. That’s because th
e tabloid media had decided that the failure of my marriage was big news. Being hounded by the paparazzi was the last thing I needed.
There’s this really ridiculous line of thinking that goes something like this: Once you become famous, you give up your right to privacy. That by your choosing to be an actor, your life becomes public domain. I don’t think my fans feel this way at all, but all the hacks and hounds who make their living by feeding the insatiable gossip beast certainly do.
I don’t think I’m alone in saying that this is the biggest load of bullshit that those of us who work in Hollywood have to put up with. But because of the way our laws work, and because I try, you know, to be a civilized human being, the whole paparazzi game is something that, for the most part, I’ve learned to tolerate. I’ve been at this a long time, and so I’ve honed my ability to compartmentalize my feelings about the paparazzi. When I’m angry or my righteous indignation flares up, I practice a kind of paparazzi Zen, wherein I set my face in “neutral” and I just put every ounce of my focus into breathing or walking or, now, staring at my cell phone. It’s important to do this when you’re being stalked by a camera, because if you don’t, you can pretty much guarantee that the most spectacularly hideous picture of you of all time will wind up on the cover of some rag the very next day. But since there’s not a whole hell of a lot you—or anyone—can do about this, you have no choice but to figure out how to coexist with all the unwelcome cameras.
Looking back, way back to those faraway days when I first started out in the business, I realize how lucky we were that we came of age, we 90210ers, before there even was such a thing as the Internet. There were no smart phones with their fancy cameras, no Twitter, or TMZ, or Instagram, or any of these new “social” technologies that make it possible to take a photo of anyone, anywhere, anytime.