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Chapter Eleven
Cause and Effect

WITHIN A FEW
days I found Sean an apartment a couple of blocks from mine. I was relieved that he was finally out of Ryan's house, but devastated that everything we'd worked for had fallen apart. We hadn't even begun filming, and the show had already changed everything. This wasn't
Paper Moon
—we weren't a movie star in his prime and an eight-year-old girl who hung on his every word. The show was about us, as flawed adults, and it forced all of our issues to the surface in an unnatural way. It made Ryan tense and uncertain, so he lashed out at Sean. It weakened me, because now we shared a commitment. The show was a documentary but was already affecting how we lived. Was it all a huge mistake?

Was Ryan capable of being the father I longed for? Did he even want that role? Was it just another role? Was the problem the TV show, or was it us? Which was damaging the other? Which mattered more? It was tough to separate the two. In a way, I wanted the cameras to bear witness to our behavior. I wanted a connection with Ryan. I wasn't ready to let go of any of my goals. But there was nothing I could do now. It appeared to be over. I wasn't ready to contact Ryan, and all was silent from his end.

In the past, a situation like this—my father and son fighting, my father and I not talking, the show we'd worked on close to collapse—would have given me a reason to check out. I didn't like feeling helpless. I didn't like waiting for people to come through for me. Being able to trust—it's a work in progress.

But now I had an army of support. I went to meetings frequently and regularly. People would notice if I missed them. My sponsor, Patty, is my fortress of strength. She has the empathy of a saint, and the insight to pinpoint what kind of support I need and when I need it. She is a constant in my life.

Although Patty's sobriety is natural for her now, after twenty-five years, she sometimes has her own issues—the problems that arise in a sober life—that we talk about. She had a breakup that we went through together. Her stepfather had recently died. While she had stayed with him in the hospice, the tables had been turned, and I was grateful for the opportunity to be there for her. I listened to her and what she was going through. I loved to remind her how good she is to people, how she is a strong influence with real purpose in the world. I didn't need to talk about myself all the time. Sure, I was fighting a bit with Ryan, but I was okay. Above all, I never stopped appreciating the commitment Patty had made to me. Despite her full-time job, she always found time for me. I relished any chance to pay her back.

I was driving home from a meeting when I told Patty about the fight on Sean's birthday. I was frustrated at the situation. I couldn't bear not knowing what would happen with the show. I said, “I don't like the way it is. I don't want it to be like this. I want life to be different. I don't want to always be fighting.”

Patty said, “Take a deep breath and know that you are supposed to be here. Go home and pray for your dad.”

I said, “I don't want to fucking pray. I'm trying to do everything right.” I hung up the phone.

As soon as I hung up, I regretted it. I was still upset, but at the same time I was terrified at how Patty might respond. What if she was angry, what if she stopped speaking to me, what if I lost her? I called her back right away—five seconds after I hung up. “I apologize,” I said. “I was being petulant and difficult and a total brat.”

She said, “It's fine, Little T.” That's what she calls me—her Little T. I knew we were cool.

Patty and I talked through the fight, and, with her help, I saw that my reaction had been overblown for the circumstances. I thought my anger was noble: I wouldn't let Ryan mistreat my son. But the more Patty and I talked about what had happened, the more ambiguous it seemed. I didn't understand kicking a kid out of a car and I'd gone into Mama Bear mode to protect my son. I lashed out defensively. On the other hand, come to think of it, I had once on a trip to Montauk pulled the car over to the side of the road and told then-sixteen-year-old Sean to get out and walk. I guess grandpas can get mad, too. (Of course, I picked Sean up after he'd walked a little bit. That's where my father and I differ.) I'd said hurtful things to Ryan without ever giving him a chance to say his piece. I told him I hated him. Why would he want to do a TV show with me if I really hated him? I regretted saying that to Ryan. I had lost control, just like he had. I did to him exactly what I had been asking him for years not to do to me. So no one wins. Instead of the thoughtful, measured, adult approach that I wanted to bring to my relationship with Ryan, I had brought my fury about the past to the present situation, a big bundle of pent-up anger that wasn't going anywhere fast.

This was a revelation for me. If Ryan and I were ever to truly reconcile, I had to stop playing my role in the unproductive drama we'd enacted over and over for so many years. I had to break my part in the patterns of behavior that had misguided us most of our lives. I decided to make the first move toward peace.

I sent Ryan a message saying that even if we didn't do a show, I would still be his daughter and I loved him. He texted back the next day. It was brief: “Tate I am going to see Oprah with Ali and we'll talk next week.” He and Ali McGraw were due to appear on
Oprah
in honor of the fortieth anniversary of their movie,
Love Story
.

Then, a few days later, another text came from Ryan. In it, he mentioned that he had sent a text to Sean. He continued in his standard, well-suited ALL CAPS: “WALLY [that's my cat who was still at Ryan's] IS NEXT TO ME, BUT SEAN HAS DISAPPEARED BUT NOT SO MUCH AS A GOODBYE GRANDPA. OH WELL EASY COME EASY GO.” He signed off with “LOVE YOU.” It broke my heart to read that message, which spoke volumes to me. He clearly missed Sean but had no idea how to fix what had happened. There was love between them, I believed that, but it was stifled by the barrier they themselves had made. And so the sad history of Ryan and Tatum was repeating itself with the next generation.

My dad may have truly believed that he didn't do anything wrong or hurtful, but like it or not, Ryan is a parental figure for Sean. My dad doesn't process feelings like most people. Instead, he gets aggressive and, when I was a kid, that led to some scary moments. I never stopped worrying about how it might play out with Sean. I had hoped Ryan had turned over a new leaf, but there was no guarantee.

Sean didn't reply to Ryan's text. He probably understood my father well enough to know there wouldn't be an easy or thoughtful resolution. Time would tell.

UNLIKE FOR SEAN,
it never took much from Ryan to soften me. We both wanted to put the fight behind us. It belonged in the past. I wrote him back: “I will watch
Oprah
. Love you.” I didn't mention Sean. That was between them. But I felt his sadness and hoped that Ryan could redeem himself. I knew he had it in him. His warmth is a greater force than his temper. A little of his love goes a long way. All the light that I have today came from a few critical years of his affection.

Later, when I congratulated Ryan on his
Oprah
appearance, he forwarded me the text message he had sent to Sean. In it he apologized and said he was sad, and he wished Sean luck. I was moved and impressed to see that Ryan had expressed his regret. It was a big step for him to take, and it was a step in the direction I hoped everything would go—with him and Sean, with him and me. It gave me real hope for our family. At the same time, I wanted to set clear boundaries. I wasn't going to get in the middle of Ryan and Sean's relationship. I wrote to Ryan, “I don't know what you want me to say.”

He wrote back: “T, I just thought you should know that he blew me off. He never responded. Be good to each other.” There were a few ways I could read that, but the simplest interpretation was that he wanted a relationship with Sean, he felt he had tried, and now he was giving up. I felt sad to think that both of them would let go so quickly, but only the two of them knew exactly what had happened between them, and each of them knew how much it was worth to himself.

Meanwhile, as the third point of this dysfunctional triangle, I still had no idea whether Ryan was back on the show, or if he'd even officially quit to anybody but me. Time passed, and I tried to be patient. I tried to observe my impatience. I tried to be patient with my impatience. Patty told me that I was powerless and this was God's plan. She reminded me that rejection is God's protection. But all the 12-step rhetoric still wasn't sitting well with me. I just wanted to hear, “Don't worry. If you stay sober, everything you want will happen for you.” And even more than wanting to hear it, I wanted to live it.

Eventually I came around to Patty's way of seeing things. I'd gone through enough and come so far. I trusted in God, and believed that He didn't let me take those meetings, pitch and sell the show, get so far with Ryan, just to have it all disappear. Every daughter needs her father. I had faith that it would work out, and I held on to that rather than despair.

Originally, Ryan had invited me to move in with him. We thought spending time in close quarters would help us connect. With the help of Patty and other friends, I decided that no matter what happened with the show, I would not move into the beach house. Not with my anger ready to explode at any provocation. The nonexistent, tenuous show was changing before it had even begun.

Chapter Twelve
Two Nights

WHILE I WAS
nervously waiting to hear what was happening with the show, I was invited to a party at Sue Mengers's house. The last time I'd gone to a party at Sue's, I'd been underdressed. L.A. is the land of jeans. Dress 'em up. Dress 'em down. You can get away with the right jeans anywhere from Spago to a premiere. So I had walked into Sue's wearing my usual: skinny jeans, boots, and a leather jacket. The way the memory plays in my brain, the entire room turned to look at me, thinking,
She's in fucking jeans?
Among the guests were Lorne Michaels, Jon Hamm, Tom Cruise, Brad Grey, Jennifer Lopez. On second thought, they probably weren't too worried about my jeans or anything about me. Anyway, Sue was always looking out for me and she must have been remembering that over-casual night when, before the party, she said, “Look as good as you always do, but don't forget it's for John Clark.” (“John” is not his real name, but John was a major Hollywood mogul, and this party was in his honor.) I got the point. No jeans this time.

Sue Mengers is widely known as the first female super-agent, and she was my agent from when I was a child through age seventeen. She throws the quintessential Hollywood party in her fabulous Bel Air house. I've been attending her parties since I was nine, and met everyone there at one time or another. At one of Sue's parties when I was twelve, I fell in love with Dustin Hoffman and wrote a song for him. I've met Woody Allen, Robert De Niro, Michael Caine, Elizabeth Taylor, Gore Vidal, Warren Beatty, Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Candice Bergen, Ali McGraw, Diane von Furstenberg, Barry Diller, and every other star of the seventies and the eighties.

Sue's parties were always an exciting prospect, and I was looking forward to this one, but I have general discomfort at Hollywood parties. Plus, I had almost always gone to Sue's parties with my father, but my dad and Sue had had a falling-out, so now it was just me. I may be on some “Hollywood Royalty” party lists, but I still feel like Little Tatum from the ranch.

The night before the party, I tried on outfits in front of Pickle. I settled on black shorts, black tights, a black jacket, a black T-shirt, and heels. It looked like my usual uniform, minus the jeans.

I parked in Sue's circular driveway, and the butler opened the gigantic door. Sue was holding court in a stylish French chair. She was wearing a long, loose dress, with her beautiful hair cascading down. Sue is as maternal toward me as a take-no-prisoners woman like Sue can be. When I arrived a little after eight o'clock, I found out that Sue, as usual, had asked me to arrive at eight and everyone else to come at seven thirty. I guess Sue likes me to make an entrance.

That night, in Sue's grand living room, there were a variety of powerful, interesting people assembled, including Eva Mendes, who had big hair, big rings, a dress that looked like it was Yves Saint Laurent, a fur-trimmed jacket, and the most awesome huge boots with twelve-inch heels and zippers up the sides. Fabulous.

Food was eaten. Jokes were made. To Sue's delight, John Clark seemed to like me. I felt good about how I looked and how the night was going. Then the conversation turned in a way that threw me off-guard. Some of the executives started talking about what certain top actors were getting paid. One TV actor was making $40 million a year on a sitcom. Another was at $10 million. They were boasting about the big salaries they were paying these actors, and I felt sick to my stomach.

It was a little past midnight. I don't know where people may have thought I was going, but I slipped out the front door and left without saying good-bye.

I might be too sensitive for these Hollywood parties. Now that I'm sober, there are a lot of times I still feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Like I really don't belong.

Later, after sneaking out of Sue's party, I told Sean what had happened. “I just left without saying good-bye. I don't know if they noticed.” I had felt so completely invisible. Sean reminded me that it is not normal for people to earn $40 million a year. It's not normal or particularly classy to talk about them. Why was that a topic of interest or conversation? Didn't people have better things to talk about? Sean had a point. But I knew the reason I was self-conscious. I take everything so personally—something to work on.

As for my hostess, I knew Sue would forgive my early departure. She always says, “Honey, with the way you were raised, I'm surprised you're not selling yourself on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard with a needle hanging out of your arm.” (Funny, though, I haven't been invited back since I made my covert exit. So it goes.)

THERE'S A REASON
I didn't end up where Sue envisions me, and it is a combination of my own will and the 12-step program that saved me and continues to help me survive. The morning after Sue's party, I got up at six thirty a.m., walked Pickle, then went to the seven thirty a.m. AA meeting that I usually attend. Sometimes, when I want to feel glamorous, I put on makeup before I go, but that morning, I just pulled my hair back, stuck a baseball cap on my head, and slipped into the room, which was slowly filling with people. As much as I care about my appearance, meetings are not about being seen. I know it is important to be able to go into those meetings, as tired and needy as I might be, without caring what people think. The point is to be there, however you are, to strip oneself of ego and vanity, and to get better. As they say, you cannot save your ass and your face at the same time.

In contrast to Hollywood parties, like the one at Sue's, my meetings are a social world in which I am instantly comfortable. When I entered the room that morning, I was met by the familiar smell of coffee—the stale breath of the abstinent alcoholic that makes me feel like I am home. I recognized most of the attendees, as I always do, even as the faces rotate throughout the week. I picked a chair near the front to make sure I could hear the speaker without being distracted by the stragglers.

As I started concentrating on the prayers and readings, a warm feeling flooded over me. When the speaker began, I was fully transported into another alcoholic's life. It helped me forget myself and the self-doubts I was carrying from Sue Mengers's party the night before into the day ahead. The truth is, it doesn't matter how much money you have if you have some peace of mind.

Almost every day I go to a meeting to sit, listen, and share. I love hearing the intense story of what each person's life was like before he started using, what happened when he met drugs and/or alcohol, and what his life is like now.

Some of the speakers had loving parents and stable families. Some, like me, did not. All of us experimented with alcohol and/or drugs and, for some reason, spun out of control. There are all sorts of stories from all walks of life, but after hearing many of them, day after day, I now see the common threads of damage, pain, survival, and hope that weave through them all. Every one of us has found a way to live without the dread and self-loathing that are the biggest challenge to recovery. It can be very hard to drag yourself to meetings, make friends, and believe there is a reason to go on. It is a tremendous gift to hear how other people fought their way back, and how they found a way to live happy, healthy lives. As I listen, I feel love for the speaker—even if I don't foresee wanting to forge a friendship. I love him for making it to that podium.

Above all else in that room is the love that helps people survive. The support group promises to love you until you can love yourself. That amazing, unconditional love is palpable in the room.

Individually, the stories are deeply inspirational. There's a man who goes to one of my meetings—let's call him Bob—who is a true success story. After getting sober at the age of thirty-eight and starting with nothing, he created his own real-estate business and is now worth millions. His story inspires me, because when you're addicted to drugs and/or alcohol, you're so broken and bruised that the idea of getting sober is hard enough to imagine, let alone going on to launch a hugely successful business or career. It all seems so out of reach when you're using. I felt very differently about Bob's hard-won fortune than I had about the shallow talk of TV-star salaries the previous night.

Then there is Mark, a thirty-year-old friend of mine who often sits with me at meetings. One of the achievements of his sober life is that he has become a person who is always there to help someone who's not doing well and needs extra support. One morning, I noticed that Pat, a man whom I usually saw at my seven thirty a.m. meetings, hadn't shown up for the third day in a row. Though he had stayed clean and sober for almost two years, I suspected that Pat was using. After the meeting, Mark and I drove to Pat's house—there's a rule that you're never to go alone on a “sober call,” so your own sobriety is not compromised—and we coaxed Pat out to breakfast. We convinced him that he needed to go into treatment, and that day, he checked into a residential treatment center.

Carrie W., who was my original sponsor in L.A., is still one of my good friends. She is smart, funny, and beautiful, and she has been sober for twenty-five years. Every time I hear her story, I am newly inspired.

When it is my turn to talk, I give a relatively unemotional, straightforward account of my history of substance abuse. It goes something like this:

The first time I got drunk was when I was six years old and living at the ranch. At one of my mother's parties, I got into the grown-ups' beer. All I remember is sleeping on the floor in the bathroom (instead of in my bed, which was also in the bathroom). By that age, I had already been sexually molested twice.

I started smoking pot when I was twelve and living with my dad. I was a habitual pot user for three years or so, at which point I started adding other substances, like quaaludes, coke, and alcohol. Before I turned sixteen, I had been molested by two men and two women.

At fifteen, I had the first of my many spiritual awakenings when, under the influence, I was in a car accident in which I was thrown from a Jeep out onto the highway. My leg required two major surgeries. I was so grateful to have survived that in the hospital I swore off all drugs.

When I was eighteen, I started using coke in an effort to lose weight. I continued to use coke until I got pregnant in 1983 at the age of nineteen. I was determined to be a mother who never touched drugs or alcohol.

I stopped everything until 1995, when, in the midst of a horrendous custody battle, someone introduced me to heroin. I used heroin, on and off, through many detoxes and rehabs, until I finally stopped in 1998. I was clean until September 11, 2001, when I fled New York and my custody battle for a freefall back into addiction in Los Angeles.

A year later, I went back to treatment and stayed clean but for my close call with crack in 2008. Luckily, the relapse that I was headed toward was averted by my arrest—so you could say God protected me from that one—or from myself!

My neck started to deteriorate in 2004. Since then, I have had three surgeries. Each time I had minor slips with pain pills, but otherwise, I have been close to 100 percent clean and sober for seven years.

I have been sober since June 29, 2010, because that is the day after I took a pill I didn't need for the arthritis I now have in my neck. It was a single prescription pill, and when I took it I hadn't used illegal drugs for five years, but I count from that pill, because that's how we do it in my 12-step program. Some people treat that date as a critical fact in one's sobriety. I don't see it that way. That small slip, the fact of that date—I see it as a very personal, private matter. But they say you are only as sick as your secrets. So I want to give that date, not because it is so meaningful to me but because I hope that in being open and honest about that moment, that single pill, maybe I will help another person to be honest about the small but significant bumps along the way. There is shame in mistakes, but there is greater pride in honesty. So I have been sober since June 29, 2010. For that, I am proud and grateful.

I spent years poisoning my body to avoid the pain, physical and emotional. What have I learned from it? At first, I had to accept that I lived with a cistern of pain. It was no use to pretend it didn't exist or to cover it up. No quantity of any drug in the world was powerful enough to dull the pain for good. Heck, when I'm in pain there isn't a drug that will abate it for an hour, much less forever. Once I accepted that, I began the ongoing process of dealing with my pain in a healthy way, through words, prayer, exercise, friends, and, of course, my support group.

I LIKE TO
start the day by plugging into the bigger purpose of life at a meeting. When you see others fighting for their lives, it puts all your own small daily struggles in perspective.

Sometimes I go to meetings at night, when I'm feeling more social. At nighttime meetings, sometimes I dress up as if I were going out to dinner, to see Patty and other friends, and to find the social exchange that other people might have in a bar or somewhere else where people are drinking. It's nice to be surrounded by nondrinkers. People who have been sober for thirty years are amazingly bright-eyed. They have good color in their faces. It's a look you only find on sober faces.

Going to a meeting was the perfect way to clear my head after Sue's party. My purpose was plain to me. And I was reminded that there was a reason Sue's words about my life on a street corner never came true. Because I was fighting it every step of the way.