by Carre Otis
I confided in Rita, sharing with her all that I couldn’t share with anyone else. She, too, had sisters, had grown up witnessing abuse, and had her own secrets. She helped me see clearly where I was at and that the situation I was in with Mickey was neither normal nor healthy. She also encouraged me to get help and go to therapy.
I had a week before Mickey was due home. And I decided that a move was in store. Rita lived on San Vicente, so I had begun to know the beach area as well as Santa Monica. I wasn’t ready to leave Mickey, but I was ready for a change. I wanted to get out of the neighborhood that we’d been living in for so long and settle in one that fed me, that supported the lifestyle I knew would help me remain healthy long-term. Beverly Hills had ghosts and shadows for me, whereas Santa Monica was untainted, fresh, and bright. I found a house on Ocean and Sixth, and when Mickey arrived back home, I announced that we were moving.
He was so stunned he couldn’t argue. He sensed a profound shift in me, and in a way I know that it terrified him. I felt compassion toward that fear. Change is scary. The steps I was taking required a tremendous amount of courage on my part, but that courage was rooted in the realization that falling back and silencing myself ever again would only lead to my death. And I wasn’t ready to die.
LEAVING MICKEY
The Santa Monica house was a charming two-story Craftsman with many rooms and hideaway spots. In all the time we were together, this was the first house I had chosen for us to live in, and it reflected my San Franciscan roots. The majority of my days were spent outdoors, running along the water’s edge or working out at Gold’s Gym in Venice. I could bicycle everywhere and loved the intimate sense of community the area provided.
Mickey, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the new access to an outdoor lifestyle. He had a separate room on the main floor, with windows that he covered in tinfoil and an air conditioner that pumped freezing winds into his room. I would jokingly call it his igloo. I literally had to wear a coat whenever I went in to visit him.
I was thriving in this environment. And so were my beloved four-legged friends. Somehow, as depressing as Mickey’s energy was, I was motivated to get up and out from the very first light of day. It wasn’t unusual for us to pass each other at the front door; Mickey would be coming home from a night of raging, and I would be heading out for an invigorating morning jog. We were on two different planets, solitarily orbiting a shared sun.
My room was in the back of the house. French doors opened onto a small patio; there was a wonderful little loft above it with a second deck. Here I created my space, a small office and practice area. I could sit in silence and watch the sunset, hear the waves crashing on the shore. It was a slice of heaven. Finally.
It was clear that Mickey and I were growing apart and had become estranged in many ways. We hadn’t had sex in over a year, which was fine by me. I was certain that he’d been sleeping around for some time and didn’t trust that he was going to great lengths to protect himself or me from any type of STDs. I had grown tired of the fight. It was so much easier not to talk.
And so it was that one morning as we passed each other in our hallway, Mickey asked, “Aren’t you going to say anything, Otis?”
“Like what, Mickey?” I looked him in the eye.
“Like, ‘Where have you been?’ Don’t you wonder?” he asked me, trying to push my buttons.
“No. I don’t. Not anymore, Mickey. I know where you’ve been.” And as I said these words, I realized I couldn’t continue to care in the ways I previously had. It was as if the spell was broken. The part of me that had been all-consumed, the part of me that was obsessed and addicted and hooked—it was liberated. I was free. Or well on the way to being free.
Mickey didn’t like this. He tried to tighten his hold. I realized I was going to need support if I were ever to take the next steps in reclaiming my life. I needed to find a therapist, just as Rita had recommended; I needed to understand how and why I’d ended up where I was. And determine where I wanted to go next.
I found Dr. Nancy Sobel, and she soon became an integral part of my life and healing process. She gave me encouragement and steadfast support, and she invited deep reflection. She asked hefty questions that I didn’t always know the answers to. She got me thinking.
Mickey was angry about this choice. He saw therapists—as well as friendships outside of those he had preapproved—as a threat. I was able to endure his constant verbal criticism of these people, although I was worried about the threats he made toward them. I was never too sure how far he would go with his violence.
I decided to hide my therapy sessions from him, willing to take the risk of being discovered. I knew that most likely Mickey was still having me followed and that the phones were probably tapped. I’d learned to navigate around these roadblocks. I had to continue to live my life and get the help and support I needed to stay sane and sober. My “normal” was unlike other people’s. I’d learned to work with it.
One day, as I was sitting in Nancy’s office, she said, “You know, Carré, you have really changed.”
“How so?” I smiled, sensing that it was true and wanting to hear her thoughts.
“When you first came here, you were a shell of who you are now. Like a shadow. Now you embody yourself. I can be here with you. You are present.” She smiled back.
“It must be scary to have to move between these worlds that you are in: to have to go home and not be this full and powerful.” She looked at me with love and concern. I knew that she was holding a place for me to come into my full power. Somehow I knew that she could already see the woman I would become, even though I couldn’t see it just yet.
I thought for a moment about what she was saying. The majority of my present life was spent living separately from my husband, even though we inhabited the same house. Now the hardest part of being with him was to lie and pretend that I wasn’t growing. Why would I do that? Why would I need to? And why would I continue to make that choice? To be anywhere other than in my full glory. Why would I choose not to shine?
Nancy continued. “How would that look, Carré? A life without Mickey?” she asked.
The question made me nervous. My heart skipped a beat. My eyes misted. Free-associating, I began to speak.
“It would be scary. It would be unknown. I’ve been with him for so long. I would be scared for him. What if he wouldn’t be okay? Who would take care of him? What if he took too many pills? What if he died? He doesn’t really have anyone honest around him, anyone that gives a shit. . . .” My voice trailed off as I realized I was speaking only about Mickey and how it might be for him if I left. Talk about codependent! I was so conditioned to not think about myself. I laughed out loud.
“Okay. Let me try this again.” I took a big breath and began. “It would be scary. It would be venturing into the unknown. It would be great. It would be freeing. It would be challenging. It would be my life. I wouldn’t have to lie. I could really grow and become who I know I’m meant to be.” The tears came again. There was some sense of grieving that was taking place. I was beginning to mourn the death of a relationship as well as the death of the unhealthy young girl who’d been ruling my life. “The problem is, I don’t know how to get from here to there.”
Nancy smiled and nodded. She understood. There was no pressure, just discussion.
“Would you like to talk about that? How to get from here to there?” she asked.
I thought for a moment, then looked up at her. “Yes,” I said with absolute certainty. “Yes.”
I knew that for me to leave, I would have to realistically address some of the concerns I had about Mickey’s well-being. “Can you recommend a therapist for him? I don’t know if he would ever go, but I would like to try to have a number for him to call,” I said.
“Of course, Carré. That’s a great idea. What else would it take for you to be able to leave?” I knew that this was one of her areas of expertise, dealing with domestic violence and finding safe houses for the
women who were ready to leave their situations.
“I would want to take my dogs. I could never leave them behind. I would also need to . . . have a safe place where Mickey would not be able to find me.” I was thinking it all through.
“Are you scared he might come after you?”
“Not so much that . . . It’s just that I know how hard it is to be badgered by him. And that my chances of really leaving him, for good this time, will depend on my having a place he can’t get to. Inside and out. Emotionally and physically.” And it was true; I wasn’t scared of him physically anymore, although several friends warned me that my mind-set was naïve. I was sounding to them like a textbook case of someone unwittingly falling into victim mode again.
I knew myself well enough to be honest about what it would take for my attempt to be successful. I had to cut him out entirely, extract myself from our very enmeshed lives. Down to our accountants and friends, he had infiltrated every aspect of my life. From past experience I knew that Mickey could get just about anybody to give him the information he wanted. He was an absolute master manipulator.
“What if I told you that I knew of a house that will be available in the next month? A perfect safe place with a backyard for your dogs, tucked into a quiet neighborhood in the Pacific Palisades?” Nancy asked, as if testing my sincerity.
Excitement sparked in me and I sat up eagerly, only to slouch back down with a sigh of doubt. “I’m scared,” I said simply.
“I understand. I’m not going to lie and tell you it won’t be scary. That is part of life and change. But I will tell you right now you can do this. And you are ready to do this.”
I knew that it was true. I also knew that there had to be a method to the extraction process.
“Okay. Let me give it some thought. Let me see if I can convince Mickey to see a therapist. Let’s go from there.” With that, our session was over. I was out the door with a lot to consider.
Within a few days, I knew that I could and would do it. I knew that I was ready. So I began to organize the details that would enable me to leave. I got a new credit card with my own account that couldn’t be traced. I made a reservation at a hotel under another name. I began to pack my belongings and then secretly took them from the house—a few boxes at a time—and put them into storage. I didn’t have much. I didn’t want to take anything that was Mickey’s. I just wanted out.
Mickey agreed to go to therapy, and I set up an appointment for him to see an addiction specialist whom Nancy had recommended. My husband was at an all-time low, and the antidepressants and antianxiety meds he’d been on clearly weren’t working. It was an enormous relief for me to know that at the very least he had someone to go to who was a professional and might really give him sound advice. I had tremendous compassion and concern, desperately wanting Mickey to have the opportunity to work on himself and his life. I wanted to see him happy. Even if from afar.
Within a week my clothing was moved out, and although Mickey didn’t know it, my room lay empty. I organized a joint therapy session and, when asked, told him not to worry, that it was no big deal. Just a check-in on neutral ground.
It was on an afternoon in early March of 1997 that we met in the doctor’s Beverly Hills office. Mickey and I came separately. When I arrived, he was already meeting with his therapist. Nancy was sitting in the waiting room. After a supportive hug, we entered.
Mickey stood up to greet me, then looked around. He hadn’t known that Nancy would be there, and in a flash I could see his mind at work putting two and two together. He was panicked. He was nervous, and I was, too. I took a deep breath. My future lay before me. I was terrified.
“Thanks, everyone, for coming today,” I said, attempting to open up the conversation. This was my call. I knew that it was up to me, and I had to take the lead. I swallowed hard, closed my eyes, and envisioned my life, my safety, and my love for Mickey as well as for myself.
“Mick. This is really hard.” My lip trembled, and my palms were sweating. “Our life together, it’s been full of so much. And so much hardship.” I looked down at my shaking hands.
“What’s up, Otis?” he asked. I knew he felt small. And I knew that his defense mechanisms would soon lead to his rage. I had to be ready for that, yet still be unwavering.
“I need to leave you, Mickey. I am leaving you, Mickey. That’s what’s up.” I needed to summon all the strength I had to be able to look him in the eyes.
“No, Otis. No . . . What? What do you mean?” He was shocked. And began to breathe rapidly, the first signs of a panic attack coming on. Usually this was where I backed down. But instead I pushed onward.
“I’m sorry, Mick. I love you. But I cannot be with you. My things are already moved out. I’ll be coming back in a few weeks for the dogs. I’m sorry.” I started to weep. My heart was breaking, but I knew that there was no turning back. As painful as it was, I was ready.
“Wait, Otis. You can’t do this. When did you move your things out?” Mickey began crying, too.
“That’s the thing, Mickey—we’re so far apart, you and I. My room has been empty for a week . . . and you never even noticed. That’s where we’re at. So far apart that you didn’t even fucking notice your wife’s belongings are gone! We haven’t been together in a year! A whole fucking year. I’m twenty-seven years old! I’m your wife! We’re married! And we don’t even make love. . . .”
I was angry. I was hurt. I was crying, but I knew there was nothing more to talk about. It was over. I had mourned the loss of this relationship for the past few years. I could walk away.
I stood to leave. And Mickey did, too.
The doctor spoke. “Mickey, sit down. Let Carré go. And let’s talk.”
He had a wonderful and gentle manner. I knew that Mickey trusted him. And I knew that I could walk out the door and if there was any chance in hell Mickey might get on the right track, it was with this man in his life.
As I stepped past Mickey, he reached out and touched my arm. I looked at him, deep into his eyes, and lifted my arms to hug him. It was one of the most painful, honest, and relieving embraces we had ever shared. Our bodies shook with tears and with the pain we both held. My heart physically hurt.
“It’s not that I don’t love you, Mick. I will always love you. I’m doing this because I love you. And because I love myself.” I pulled away and walked toward the door.
Stepping out into the sunlight on that busy street in Beverly Hills, I kept on walking. I didn’t look back.
Chapter 4
On My Own
MAKING AMENDS
There were many challenges in those first days, weeks, and months after I left Mickey. I was adjusting to a new way of being and to a new world, calibrating my life to my own rhythm—something I hadn’t done since my teens. Moments of doubt passed like shadows. But I had a support system in place that was growing stronger every day. I was reassured repeatedly that “this, too, shall pass,” and that I would gradually find firm ground. I was going back to the basics, learning to put one foot in front of the other, pushing myself forward one step at a time.
I’d been on several different medications to treat a multitude of symptoms. Most were antidepressants. And truthfully, for a time they saved me. They helped make me available for the psychological and spiritual work I needed to do. At this point that work consisted chiefly of attending therapy several days a week. Despite some setbacks, I was making headway.
My life was still full of secrets, but now the secrets were intended primarily to ensure my privacy and safety. I let no one else but my close inner circle know that I was staying at the Oceana Hotel in Santa Monica during the first month after I’d left Mickey. Then, just as Nancy had promised, the quaint Palisades home became available to me, and I began the process of moving my belongings in. It had been a long time since I’d lived in a house that was truly and solely mine. And this was met with as much excitement as anxiety.
It took quite a while and quite a bit of work to get thro
ugh a day without feeling as if doom would be walking through the front door any minute. With wonder I realized that I had a choice as to who could come into my home and who could not. I was finally allowed to tell people to leave if they were not welcome. I had endured nearly a decade of cohabiting with men, all sorts of men—the men who worked for Mickey, the men who did not, that damned omnipresent entourage. Away from all of them, it took me some time to accept and rejoice in my newfound freedom.
This new home was situated on a small cul-de-sac just off of Sunset in the heart of Pacific Palisades. It was smaller than any place I had lived in for years, and I welcomed the simplicity of it. Two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom in the middle, a charming living room, and a kitchen that led to a lush fenced-in garden with a deck and trellis. Once I had settled and carved out my space, I knew I was ready to go and retrieve my dogs. That had been one of the most painful aspects of leaving my Santa Monica home. I knew that Mickey would have someone take care of them, but the Chihuahuas were my one constant, and without them there was a void in my life.
I had a small convertible BMW and wasn’t sure how I would manage to pick them all up and get them safely to my new place. A greater worry was getting them out from under Mickey’s watch. I didn’t want to run into him or have to confront him. So I waited until I knew he was away filming and drove several times around our old house to assess which assistant was on duty.
The door to the Ocean Avenue home was unlocked, and as I snuck in, my beloved herd greeted me. They were beside themselves, whining and shaking and wagging their tails. I gathered up the ones that were closest to me, trying to leave those pups I knew Mickey was closest to behind for him. Angel, Monkey, Romi, Esmeralda, and Raphael were led out to my car, and in an instant I was off, speeding home. Beau Jack, Choco, and Loki would stay. That much had already been decided.
