I went to a party at Marc Shaiman’s house and got drunker than I had ever been. Bette Midler was there, and I sort of swaggered over to her and breathed red wine fumes in her face. Real loud, I said, “Why don’ ya take c-c-care of yer Harlezz, Bette?” Needless to say, she left the party immediately. It was horrible. I was rude, loud, and ridiculous. I did a lot of apologizing the next day, to many, many friends, especially Bette. She definitely did not deserve to be on the receiving end of my acting out.
Living with my own bad behavior was painful enough, but then I was obliged to tell Rachel about the incident. Openness and honesty with your doctor is crucial to healing, but it can be so damn hard. “How much did you drink?” Rachel asked. I didn’t admit to her how much I really drank at that party. I couldn’t. She cut me no slack on what I actually did admit to her. She helped me to further understand how to avoid a repeat of the situation; to recognize the warning signals. We discussed how I might shortcut my insecurities before they led me to do something I’d regret and dig myself into an emotional hole. I was so ashamed of myself.
I was pretty good to my body, eating clean, working out. As an actor, my body is my instrument, and with that in mind, I practiced a healthy lifestyle during the week. But I was challenged by the lack of structure a nine-to-five kind of job provides. Actors work long hours when we’re working, but we have lots of time to fill between jobs, without always knowing how. Idle hours made room for too much drama, getting into everybody’s and your own shit. You get in trouble. And when you find yourself in trouble and causing trouble, you still have to come clean and tell the truth to your therapist. Feel the fear, and tell the truth to yourself.
During the two years that I’d been in treatment with Rachel, she had shown herself to be a sensitive and compassionate person. Yet I was unable to look her in the eye when we talked. I had trust issues and fear. I was afraid that my wounds were so deep that no one, certainly not me, could heal them. I was slowly warming to her, but not completely. Some sessions were better than others.
On my good days, I was talking more and more, exploring issues of intimacy, or rather the lack of intimacy I had growing up. I was self-reflective. I learned that feelings of omnipotence and displays of grandiosity occurred because inside I felt unworthy much of the time. I pondered my pattern of selecting men to date who were really sad little boys. I guess the reason was that I was a sad little girl.
As I grew and learned, my inner diva was summarily dismissed and effectively humbled. My new reality informed the title for my new one-woman show, an autobiographical comedy and music show, The Diva Is Dismissed. There were never enough opportunities for me in the industry, so when they didn’t call I wrote my own stuff. I wanted to work, tell my story, show what I could do. I enlisted the help of my brilliant and talented friends, writer-director Charles Randolph-Wright, Mark Alton Brown, and music director Michael Skloff.
The show was about the search for self, about removing the diva mask and becoming an authentic person. It chronicled my failed relationships, my journey from New York City to Los Angeles, and my difficulties transitioning from live performance to television and film. Ultimately, the diva character, who is me, acknowledges: “I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I wanted to be somebody.”
Lyrics for the show included I’ve got to climb this mountain. It’s big, scary, and tall. I don’t want to fall. . . . No child should have to stay inside and think.
We opened at Off Vine, a lovely, turn-of-the-century bungalow that had been converted into a relaxed, yet elegant restaurant in Hollywood. We chose a nontraditional venue because we wanted the show to feel sort of underground—something special, something different. It was a great success with audiences and critics.
After a few months, we took the show to the Hudson Backstage Theatre on Santa Monica Boulevard. We ran there every Sunday evening for about seven months. The production would never have made it to a theater like the Hudson without Gay Iris Parker, one of the gentlest and purest people I’d ever known. Gay was a publicist for the Pasadena Playhouse. She saw my show at Off Vine and then pulled some strings at the Hudson. I was very grateful for what she did for me. Gay became a close friend, a confidante who loved my crazy ass through seventeen years of sisterhood until she passed away.
My one-woman shows have earned me my most loyal fans over the years, especially among my fellow artists. When Sidney Poitier saw the show, he said, “My daughter told me that you were wonderful. My dear, that was an understatement. You are fucking magnificent.” Thank God someone was there to catch me when my knees buckled.
We sold out every Sunday night. People crammed into the ninety-nine-seat theater. There were nights when I heard the stage manager say, “They’re fighting over the seats out there.” I lost track of the many celebrities and actors who saw the show: Lee Daniels, Chris Callaway, Malcolm-Jamal Warner, Jackie Collins, Sandy Gallin, Mavis Staples, Sheryl Lee Ralph, Rosie O’Donnell, Bebe Neuwirth, Denzel and Pauletta Washington, Carol Lawrence, Bette Midler, Phylicia Rashad, and Bea Arthur all came out to see me.
Some of the show-business big shots who saw what I could do offered me work. Director Lee Rose was in the house one night and went on to cast me in three of her movies.
Seeing Lena Horne in the audience one evening, I didn’t even exit the stage when I finished. I just ran into the audience and hugged her so tight! She whispered in my ear, “You are the fucking best I have ever seen.” Hmmm, seems the word fucking comes up a lot when people describe me.
My friend Attallah Shabazz, the eldest daughter of Malcom X and Betty Shabazz, brought Nina Simone backstage to meet me. Miss Simone was draped in what looked like a monkey coat. She extended her hand, and in her deep, rich tone said, “Hello, I am Nina Simone.” I grabbed that monkey arm and pulled her close. “Bitch, I know your name. I know every lick on every fucking album you’ve ever made. I am you. You made me.” Miss Simone drew back, and Attallah interjected, “It’s time to go.” I was deeply distressed, thinking I had somehow insulted this goddess whom I revered with my total soul. Later that evening Attallah called and said, “Nina praised your performance the entire way home and pledged that she would come out of her retirement and return to the stage because of what she had just witnessed.”