I ran into Bette one day while hiking the Hollywood Reservoir with my friend Thom Fennessey. She had just started work on a new movie, which turned out to be Beaches. She got me a featured role in a number written by Marc Shaiman called “Otto Titsling” (a fictional account of the invention of the bra), wherein my already-oversize bosom was costumed in outrageously huge falsies. During a break, Marc, Bette, and I walked out onto Wilshire Boulevard. Still in full costume, I stepped to the curb, where I pretended to hitchhike while bouncing up and down to jiggle the enormous breasts. We three fell out at the faces of the passing drivers!
When I wasn’t working, I grasped for anything that might help me feel whole—crystals, face reading, moon baths, the Ouija board. What a mess I was! Longing for Thomas. Longing for Miguel. Confused as to why I was not elated at the progress of my career. God help me. Nothing was ever enough. And, of course, it didn’t help that I was having sex with far too many men: Adam, Tim, Tucker, and Eddie (Green, not Murphy!).
Tucker introduced me to porn, but I never really liked it. It gave me a headache. The videos showed too much banging and not enough foreplay. The action always looked painful to me. Okay, maybe I like to see a little hair pulling, but not all that oversize extra. You know you’re bored with porn when you find yourself criticizing the acting skills of the participants.
Tucker also introduced me to the waterbed thing. He liked waterbeds because he had back problems courtesy of the Vietnam War. All that splashing around spoiled the rhythm. I pretended to fall on the floor so we could finish up on solid ground.
I discovered how annoying it was to have sex wearing Lee Press-On Nails. I had to wear them for a television show, but they made sex difficult. A few men complained. Poor bastards.
I flew to New York for an audition and while I was there, made my appearance at a few of my old haunts, including Possible 20.
JOURNAL ENTRY: Rude waitress tells me Elaine Swain is dead. Horrible moment.
I returned to the West Coast and was in a downward spiral for weeks. The inevitable breaking point came after a huge long-distance fight with Thomas the day before I had an important audition for a role on Thirtysomething, the drama series about yuppie angst that was the hottest show on television at the time.
I was already in emotional distress when I arrived for the audition at a nondescript office building. My scene was with Peter Horton, the director and one of the show’s stars. Right from the start, things went south. I was auditioning for the character of Rosie, but I was drowning in the character of Jenifer Lewis and wearing a mask. I felt like my entire career depended on this one audition, a crushing weight that made it impossible for me to focus on the character or remember the lines. I became overwrought, and for the first time in my life, I said, “I can’t do it.”
Peter Horton was lovely. “Yes, you can, Jenifer.” I started over but simply could not get the words out. I thanked Peter and, barely holding myself together, walked blindly out of the room. As soon as I stepped into the elevator, I completely lost all control, sobbing and gulping as I slid down the wall and melted into a puddle on the floor. The suit-clad people in the little compartment just looked at me.
Back in my Mazda and still sobbing uncontrollably, I could barely see the road as I drove through Laurel Canyon. When the red light stopped me at Ventura Boulevard, I collapsed on the steering wheel. I looked up when I heard two beeps from the car adjacent to mine. The older white driver looked at me compassionately, and I could see him mouth, “I’m sorry.” It was just the sweetest little toot-toot on his horn and a simple acknowledgment. I had been seen by this stranger, and it uplifted me, just enough to get home.
Everything was crashing in on me. I spent a lot of time alone watching rented movies on my VCR. One of these was Frances, starring Jessica Lange. It was about Frances Farmer, a mostly B-movie actress during the 1930s and 1940s. Sadly, she is famous largely for having been the victim of an involuntary lobotomy following a diagnosis of manic-depressive disorder.
From the first scenes, Lange’s brilliant portrayal of Frances Farmer’s descent into mental illness triggered recognition in me, especially her crippling depression, the dark cloud that lay over her very existence. Her impatience and impulsiveness. Her lonelinesss. Her inability to handle failure. Her blaming others for her own mistakes. It was all familiar.
I cried through the entire movie. Subconsciously I knew it was my story, but still, I did not—could not—acknowledge that I, too, could be “mentally ill.” I turned the video off with one thought: Damn, I don’t want to be like that.
I never mentioned my reaction to Frances to anyone. I convinced myself that I could make myself better on my own and continued to search for answers in metaphysical spirituality.
Around this time, I got a call from Shirley LeFlore, the dean of students while I was at Webster. Shirley, a wonderful poet and excellent dean, had been extremely supportive of me in college. As a freshman, I went to her office in tears because “every time I do something that gets applause, people steal it.” Shirley didn’t make fun of or patronize me. Instead, she said, “Jenifer, you should be flattered because by the time they’ve stolen your material, you’ve gone on to create something new anyway.”
Shirley was my connection to Beverly Heath. They had been best friends in St. Louis. Shirley had flown out to Beverly’s house in Pasadena for a few days. Like me, she was a native Kinlochian. As soon as I met Beverly and her family, I knew I had found home. Beverly is a social worker and artist and her husband, Albert “Tootie” Heath, is a world-renowned percussionist and was a member of the acclaimed Heath Brothers jazz group.
Beverly drew me into her circle of friends, which to this day I credit for saving my life. These were educated, professional women who came together on a regular basis to exhale, share their stories, eat, laugh, and support one another. They were the most sophisticated women I had ever socialized with. Several were therapists or social workers. Their talk of politics, their Afrocentric clothing, and their worldliness were new to me. I wanted to drink up every drop of their wisdom.
Tootie, observing how Beverly and her friends kept one another afloat, dubbed the group the “Boat.” These women were mighty ships. Some were freighters; others, tall ships with sails. They became new mother figures for me. Beverly, along with Jeanne King, Dr. Medria Williams, Azhar, Myra Lebo, and Dr. Barbara Richardson, gave me levels of practical, professional, and spiritual guidance that I had never encountered before.
I was the youngest member and the entertainer of the group, but the women cut me no slack when it came to honestly assessing my life. When I regaled them with stories of my sexual escapades, they laughed but clearly grew tired of hearing me proclaim again and again, “I am a star and dick is my life.” And when I described some of the esoteric methods—such as trance channeling and Tarot cards—that I believed could help me find direction, Beverly told me, “Jenny, I don’t believe none of that shit! You need to carry your ass to therapy!” I half-nodded, feigning interest.