by Tatum O'neal
It was a great evening. I felt good in my black dress and makeup. I ran into some old friends, including Farrah’s best friend, Alana Stewart. The speech I gave to commend Howard went smoothly. Tom Morello from Rage Against the Machine played. Patty and I had a nice time together—she said I was the best date she’d ever had. Afterward, I dropped Patty off at her house and headed back to Malibu. I was in a great mood now, happy and proud. I liked my friends. I liked my life. And when I got back to the beach house, Ryan and I had plans to watch Manny Pacquiao face off against Antonio Margarito in the World Super Welterweight Championship. My dad is a major boxing fan and has had me watching fights since I was a little kid. This was a big one, and I was looking forward to it.
I walked in, put my stuff down, and headed up to my father’s room. He was lying on the bed. Without a hello, he said, “Have you really thought about this therapy thing, Tatum?” I was taken off-guard. Where was he going with this? And now that he was venturing into somewhat rocky terrain, where, oh where, were the cameras?
I said, “I do think we should do therapy, yeah.”
He said, “Have you thought about what might come up?” His tone was foreboding, and the implication was that I had deep, dark secrets that would be exposed during our televised therapy sessions.
I said, “I want us to get better, Dad. I’m not afraid of what it’s going to bring up for me.”
“What about me? There are things I don’t want to bring up, Tatum.”
I said, “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to stop it. What about Farrah, shouldn’t we protect Farrah?”
I said, “What about me?”
Then, at the top of his lungs, he yelled, “I love you!”
I felt dizzy with fear and anxiety. This was the father I had grown up with, the mercurial father who mixed love and anger. My father yelling “I love you” while I sat frozen. That was us in a nutshell. He loved me, but he didn’t know how to say it. I was afraid of him, even when he was doing his best to communicate. We were trapped in the pattern we’d developed years ago. We could do better. As an adult, I believed I was capable of breaking my side of the pattern, but it would take some work. Same with my father—I knew he wanted a different dynamic, but he wasn’t going to putz around the kitchen and suddenly launch into the reality of what happened.
We needed therapy, the very therapy that had triggered this outburst.
I did feel conflicted about pushing Ryan toward what had the potential to be enlightening but would definitely be painful. I didn’t want to hurt him in the twilight of his life. But the worst pain we were talking about facing in therapy was also the truth. As hard as it may be to face, I believe that the truth never does damage. It only heals. But I had no idea whether my father could or would ever see it that way.
Chapter Seventeen
Better Late Than Never
NO MATTER HOW old we are, growing up and growing away from a parent takes a major emotional toll. It reverberates throughout our lives. I think that part of why my son Sean first turned to Ryan as a father figure and why he was now leaning on me was that he was going through post-adolescent separation issues with his dad. And, of course, now that he was on the West Coast, where Ryan and I were, and John and Patty lived in New York, it only made sense that Sean would transfer some of his emotional dependence to the nearest adult authority figures—Ryan and me.
Sean is twenty-three. He’s a grown-up, but in some ways, still a child. I want him to learn to stand on his own two feet and to be an independent adult, but even so, he needs a parent and, given my absences in years past, I’m grateful to be there for him.
Through a friend, I had helped Sean get a job at a restaurant. At twenty-three, this was to be Sean’s first real job. He was going to be a waiter. To me, having a job signified young adulthood, responsibility, and the ordinary experiences of growing up and trying to make a living, which I’d never had. Sean was going to take people’s money and give them their change. Radical.
Sean went to the restaurant for a few training sessions. But a couple of weeks later, he said, “I can’t do that job. It’s not working for me. I am not a restaurant person. I don’t care about food. I’m not good with the service industry. I have to find something else to do.” He stopped working. He wanted to sing, play music, audition, and look for a job that would work for him. This was his decision, and I let him make it.
As a parent, I don’t scream or force opinions on my children. I don’t think conflict gets me anywhere. Instead, I try to get to the heart of the matter, all the while thinking about how what I say sounds from my child’s perspective. I told Sean, “For me to continue to support you, I need you to have a job and to make some money of your own.”
Then I got an angry e-mail from the friend who had helped arrange the job. Sean had still been in training when he left the restaurant, and I had assumed that he left on good terms. According to this e-mail, that was not the case. He had just taken off without notice, leaving the restaurant high and dry. I was shocked and disappointed.
Here I was, trying to see my son through that tough first year after college. I was trying to help him get on his own two feet, so I’d found him a job. Now, it seemed, he hadn’t acted responsibly. So much for my efforts.
I said to Sean, “Are you kidding? This is how you leave the job after my hard work? What’s up, kid? You tryin’ to embarrass me?”
Sean said, “I know, I’m so sorry.” I told him to apologize to my friend and to the restaurant manager, explaining why he felt the need to leave, and why he did so without giving proper notice.
Like most mothers, I worry about all of my children pretty consistently. Sean, as the one who wasn’t in school or working, was top of the list at the time. It had been more than two years since my arrest, and my children had recognized the change in me. I was solid, and it made them feel safe in a way they never had before. This is a feeling all children should have, and I had wanted to give it to them for years, but it had come a little on the late side. The response was different with each of my children. Sean, in my opinion, was acting out now because, at long last, he didn’t have to worry that I’d go back to using. Maybe since I was stable, he was free to take risks.
Sean, as I’ve said, is a sensitive kid. I was careful with how I parented him. In becoming a parent, I thought often about how I was parented, and I did my best to understand and forgive my mother and father.
There are good reasons my mother, who was a warm, loving soul, ended up the way she did. My mother’s parents and sister were killed in a car crash when she was six, leaving her an orphan. She was first adopted by one side of the family, who couldn’t afford her. Then she was adopted by the other, wealthier side, but there was no salvation to be found there. Rumors spread that a member of the adoptive family molested her. Still, my mother’s beauty and dramatic flair were irrepressible. From a young age, she could sing, dance, and play the piano. She was the life of the party, even before pills and alcohol controlled her. She went to a good college, where she was discovered and brought to Hollywood. In Hollywood, the studio executives introduced her to speed, the de rigueur method of keeping young ingénues slender. Like Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, and so many others, my mother became addicted. My mother never talked about the horrors of her childhood. If rumors are true, which they too often are, she, like me, was rescued but ruined by her hero. I understand and forgive her—how could I not? Her heart was true—that shone through. If she hadn’t lost her own parents, everything would have been different. Maybe she wouldn’t have lost me.
That Tennessee Williams–esque history, the tragic loss of her family, being adopted twice, still being mad at and in love with my father—it all added up to an adulthood of drug and alcohol abuse. I understood this as I got older, but when I was a child, I just wanted her to be my mother. I wanted her to be alive and awake. And, I am somewhat ashamed to admit, I was angry with her for not having a beach house, a Mercedes, and my dad’s e
ffortless coolness. I wanted a life where everything was rosy, and I was furious at her for failing me. We fought, often because I would accuse her of being drunk and she would say, “What are you talking about? How dare you, Tatum? You’re lying. Goddammit, you’re always making up stories about me.” Her denial of her alcoholism was almost worse than the alcoholism itself. I smelled it on her breath and knew that she was lying. And, oh, I was so mean. “Pull yourself together,” I’d scream at her, at seven years old.
It was always important to me as a parent to draw certain boundaries for my children, no matter what was going on with me. I made sure to look them in the eye and say, “Yes, I have problems. Don’t ever think you are a part of them. You’re not. This is me. This is not your fault.” I always wanted them to know that they didn’t cause my problems. It was in my upbringing, my family, my blood.
At the same time as I took responsibility for my struggles, I insisted that the children treat me with the respect that I wish I’d always given my own mother. I would often say, “I hear some resentment in your voice. What’s the issue? Let’s talk about it.”
In contrast to my mother’s youth, to all appearances, my father had a golden childhood. His parents—my grandparents—were, to my young eyes, a beautiful, loving couple. My grandmother had long strawberry-blond hair that she always kept in a bun, a smooth face powdered to be pale and perfect, full red-lipsticked lips, and dark eyebrows. She was always elegant, wearing nice pantsuits, white or beige gloves, and Rive Gauche perfume. She had a British accent—we’re not exactly sure where it came from—and was always saying “Dahling Tatum.” My paternal grandmother was the only woman who was a constant in my life and who, at times, bathed me, fed me, and nurtured me. How I miss my “Mummy” now—her softness and warmth. I loved her so.
Ryan was always handsome and charming. Once, when I asked him, “How come you’re so funny?” he said something like, “Because I never thought I was very smart. I had to rely on something else to get the girl. I thought being funny would do the trick.” My father has always wanted the girl, and he has always gotten her!
My grandma was an actress, my grandpa a successful screenwriter. They produced two actor sons, of whom Ryan was the perfect, golden boy. My grandmother wanted him to be an actor and nothing else. Sure enough, at twenty-three years old, he landed a leading role on the soap opera Peyton Place, and the life my grandparents envisioned for him fell right into his lap. He never knew anything different. But sometimes perfection and great success carry their own burden. In his parents’ eyes, Ryan could do no wrong. Somehow in that mix, which bred such early and massive success, maybe my father never learned to cope with sadness or disappointment. I turn mine inward, where it becomes self-destruction. I wonder if Ryan’s sadness or disappointment turns to anger.
I TRIED TO give my children outlets for their emotions. Above all, I wanted Kevin, Sean, and Emily to be happy in my home. Sean remembers walking into my apartment as a teenager and immediately knowing that he was in a safe place. The smell of the apartment, the tone of my voice. My home, wherever it was, was always a loving safety zone. It was a place in which they could escape whatever stress they encountered in the outside world.
It’s hard to be the bad guy with your kids (and when I say “bad guy,” I just mean the one who lays down the law, says no, and generally breaks kids’ hearts in small ways that prepare them for the bigger heartbreaks that are sure to come). I wasn’t a pushover, but I tried to teach my children how to regulate themselves. When they were young, I spent a lot of time talking to them, finding out what was going on in their lives, letting their needs and desires drive our time together. I had fought for time with my children; I maximized every moment we had. We have always talked a lot. That’s it, plain and simple.
SEAN’S FIRST JOB was over and done. It was great that he was working on his singing and taking all his lessons, but I believe that, at a certain point, everyone has to support himself. You need to learn the value of money, how to take responsibility for yourself, and how to deal with people in the world. I wasn’t sure if, in leaving the job, Sean was dodging work, or if he was sincerely trying to figure out his next steps. Either way, I didn’t plan on cleaning up his mess for him.
Sean sent an apologetic letter to my friend. When I read it, I felt that Sean had listened to me. But if he didn’t find himself a job soon, I didn’t know what my next step should be. I realized that by providing Sean financial and emotional support, I was making up for the times I had not been there for him. I hoped he wasn’t taking advantage of me, that he was working through issues he hadn’t been able to deal with when I was unavailable. Only time would tell.
Chapter Eighteen
Regret
THE 2010 WINTER holidays were upon us, and, as holidays sometimes do, they made me think about what might have been. Thanksgiving dinner itself was too small for words. It was just four of us at the house of a friend from AA: Emily, who was spending her Thanksgiving break with me, Sean, my friend, and I. My father was down the street at a friend’s. Kevin couldn’t get time off work, so he was with his dad in New York.
Years ago, I had made the decision that I would never force family holidays. I wanted to make it clear to my kids that they had no obligation to be with me on major holidays. This is an all-too-common problem in divorces—the children feel like they should be in two places at once. So I left it up to them to decide how they wanted to spend holidays. If Kevin felt like staying with his father for Thanksgiving, I knew that he’d be able to balance it out and do what was right for him.
That Thanksgiving, I felt grateful to be with my family. A family. That was my goal, before I was even old enough to think about such things in clear terms. As a child, all I really knew was that I wanted to be rescued. I wanted my life, as it was, to shift. I didn’t want to be teased in school for wearing dirty clothes or tell tall tales about myself in a misguided effort to fit in. I wanted to be nurtured and loved.
Lo and behold, I found early and unheard-of success as a child actor. The attention and accolades presented an amazing opportunity, and maybe if I’d been loved and supported, I could have taken all that opportunity and thrived. But it wasn’t what I was after. It wasn’t what I needed most. I just wanted the close, stable family I’d never had.
Over the summer, Sean and I had gone out to dinner with my father’s onetime girlfriend, Anjelica Huston. Anjelica told a story from when I was a kid. I had come to her crying. I said, “My mother called and said she’s going to drive the Corvette off the Santa Monica pier.” For hours, the household was up in arms, making calls, trying to figure out where Joanna was. Anjelica remembered staring worriedly out the window at the ocean, her mind filling with gruesome images of my mother’s body floating to shore. At some point, I walked over to stand next to her.
She pulled me close and said, “Are you okay? Are you okay?”
Apparently, the shock of the initial phone call had worn off. I was perfectly calm. I said, “Of course I’m okay. Don’t worry. Trust me. My mom’s not going to do it. She just wants to upset everyone.”
At dinner, Anjelica, reflecting on the moment, said, “You were like a cunning adult.” I was twelve.
As I look back on those days, I forget how much I could take. I forget how many hugely traumatic things were happening to me on a daily basis and how resilient I was. Today, it astounds me. But that resilience belied what was lying underneath. I was always in a state of semi-shock. Getting that kind of phone call from my mother was run-of-the-mill.
Only during my twenties, in therapy, did I begin to realize that I’d held on to those feelings. I lived in pain until I met cocaine, which briefly brought relief, and it was a completely new and deceptively wonderful sensation for me. The rest of the time I spent in a constant state of apprehension, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I lived in fear that someone was going to yell, accuse, hurt, crash, or die.
And then I met John. I ran into John’s arms because I loved him,
and in his world I found an oasis of calm and a reason to be on the planet. He was my protector. I cut off contact with my family. It is easy to remember a failed marriage as an unmitigated disaster, but I also realize that it was the most stable time of my life. We had the kids. We had a structure. We created a family. John loved me. He couldn’t abide my father, and when he kept me away from him—or tried to—I knew that he did so out of anger for the past and a desire to protect me. I have no doubt he loved me in all the best ways his heart allowed.
Despite the love we had for each other, it soon became clear that John was threatened by my spirit and opinions. I was only nineteen when we met, but as the marriage progressed, I started to come into myself. As I approached thirty, I was finally in great physical shape. I felt popular and confident. John didn’t like that I went to social events by myself when he was busy. My self-assurance seemed to threaten him. Some of the mothers at Trinity, the kids’ school, said, “Who cares what he’s doing to you? You’ve got five houses and anything you want.” But I cared about more than money. Eventually, I wanted out of my marriage. It just wasn’t working.
I wish that I hadn’t left John in such an abrupt way. After having been married for nine years, I was done. I refused to work on the marriage. Had I not endured so much with my parents, I believe we could have worked through our problems, or at least given the marriage the effort it deserved. But by the time John got me, I’d been pushed so far that my threshold was close at hand. Anything that made me feel attacked, assaulted, or vulnerable made me flee. I didn’t have the resilience that marriage requires of both partners.
When it came to the divorce and custody battle, I didn’t anticipate John’s training as a competitor. I was blindsided by the ugliness that ensued. Oh, John McEnroe is a formidable opponent. He absolutely refused to lose. That custody battle took everything out of me.
