True You (9 page)

“My parents saw what was happening and said I was sick. They sent me to a shrink who said the same thing. She was this uptight woman who threw around words like
compulsive
and
obsessive
and recommended that I see her two times a week. But I only wanted to see my boyfriend. I refused help because I didn’t think I needed any. All I needed was him.

“Finally we figured out the lovemaking thing. It was never great but good enough to get me pregnant. I had turned fourteen. My mother was against an abortion, and so was I. I was sent to live with an aunt in another state and have my baby there. My boyfriend couldn’t have cared less. ‘I’m not even your boyfriend,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what you do.’

“I moved to my aunt’s, where I continued calling him every day. By now, though, he refused to talk to me. I did nothing but cry night and day, and only stopped when I had a miscarriage. That lifeless fetus became a symbol of my lifeless love. My deep, deep depression lasted for the rest of junior high and high school. I never
had another boyfriend till college. And even then, the relationship was short-lived. I couldn’t trust a man with my heart.

“When I look back, I see that the very thing I didn’t have was the thing I needed most—someone to talk to. That someone couldn’t be my mother because she wasn’t ready to listen to me, especially about things like love and sex. That someone couldn’t be the therapist because she was cold and distant. My father was even more distant and, an only child, I had practically no female friends. I needed to talk to other girls who were going through what I was going through—heavy-duty teen love. I needed to hear how other girls were not only willing but eager to lose themselves, as I had lost myself, in some guy that they had turned into a god.

“Again, I’m not saying it wasn’t love. It was love. And the more my parents or anyone said I was too young to be in love, the less I listened to them. Teen love is love. But teen love is a crazy love. It was the only kind of love I was able to express at that time. The problem, though, was I had nowhere to go to talk about this love—and no one capable of opening their heart to what I had to say.”

Sonya’s story brings up so many issues. The main one, though, is how she undervalued herself. I related. I remembered.

Teens have tremendous pressure on them.

Parents are overprotective or not protective enough.

Sex is a constant challenge.

Body image is always there. Body parts growing too fast or not fast enough. Skin problems. Hair problems. Too heavy, too thin, too wide, too narrow.

The technological toys are delights and distractions at the same time. Everyone is texting, tweeting, messaging, surfing. Everyone is multitasking to the point that attention spans are reduced to nothing. Four seconds for this task. Two seconds for that one. Click on, click off.

Who can think?

Who can reflect?

Who can stop and say, “Hey, it’s time just to listen to my breath and realize I’m alive”?

If teens were confused before—and God knows, I was—the confusion is tenfold these days.

I was a confused teenager without being told that it was not only okay to be confused, but in fact perfectly natural.

I try to imagine what it would have felt like to hear those simple words spoken directly to me:

Janet, it’s okay to be confused. Confusion is normal. If you’re confused, there’s nothing wrong with you. You can live with confusion. Confusion is part of growing up.

To be given permission to be confused—and remain confused—for as long as it takes would have been a huge gift.

What’s wrong with confusion if confusion is real?

To cut off the confusion and accept an answer just because it’s too scary not to have an answer is a good way to get the wrong answer.

Living with confusion is part of life.

Embracing confusion is a courageous and honest way to live. Admitting confusion is the quickest way to move past confusion.

I’m often confused—about professional choices, or private choices. I don’t like to announce that fact. But if I admit it to close friends or associates, I find myself more relaxed. I’ve admitted the truth. Now let me slowly work my way out of the confusion by weighing all the alternatives, thinking clearly, and reaching a reasonable conclusion.

I guess it all goes back to the strength we gain from exposing our vulnerability. Don’t get me wrong. I love being certain. I love being absolutely sure about a course of action. But if the certainty isn’t there, it isn’t there, and I have to deal with doubt. To deny doubt—to cover it up—is to deny your reality. And that makes matters even worse.

It’s taken me a lifetime to learn, and to admit, that it’s okay to be confused.

Living back at home—briefly with my parents—after my first marriage ended.

W
hile James and I were together, I was cast on
Fame
. Though I loved acting and wanted to pursue it, I wasn’t excited about this television show, and if it had been left up to me, I would have passed. Joseph, though, insisted that I take the role of Cleo Hewitt—so, still the obedient child, I acquiesced. The experience was trying.

I was taking birth control bills and as a result, I ballooned so much that people on the show thought I was pregnant. Once again, producers were telling me that I looked too big, that I needed to be thinner, and that I was presenting the wrong image to the public. These years, roughly from the ages of sixteen to eighteen, were not happy ones for me. The kids on
Fame
were not treated well. We had to use public bathrooms in the studio and were given ill-equipped dressing rooms that were so tiny we could barely change in them.

Some of the cast members were real jokesters. I’d often open my breakfast case and find the food missing. Someone would take it just to tease me. The kids would blow pot smoke into my dressing room, knowing that smoke gave me a terrible headache. They were already a family. It was like an initiation, a rite of passage, and I was the new kid on the block.

In my heart, all I wanted to do was work out my relationship with James. But how? I’d be out until 2
A.M
., looking for him on the streets. Then I’d have to get up at four to be at the set by six. I was often late. I think I wanted to get fired. Fortunately, they did let me go. I had a three-year contract but was released after the first year. Meanwhile, my relationship with James was collapsing, and our brief marriage was annulled.

I was feeling belittled even while I was still feeling fat. The result was more emotional eating—eating to chase away the blues, eating to beat back fears.

What were my fears?

That I would never find love that would last, that I would
repeat the failure of my marriage, or that I would remain forever fat? I’m not sure.

It was touching to see that other young women my age also had a troublesome relationship with their body image. Around this time, I received a long letter from someone I’ll call Sheila, a teenager who had a story much different from mine. Yet I related deeply.

Sheila was reed-thin, and up until she was fifteen, she had never had problems with weight. On the contrary, her brothers called her a scarecrow and her mother was always saying that she was emaciated. In response, Sheila said that she wanted to be a model and liked her body just the way it was.

She wasn’t ready to have sex with her boyfriend. When he insisted, she still resisted. That’s when he forced her. Now they call it date rape, but back then Sheila didn’t have a name for what happened. Shocked, confused, and afraid, she locked the secret inside her heart. Twelve months later, she had gained nearly seventy pounds. Her family didn’t know what to think.

“You’ve turned from scarecrow to pig,” said her brother.

“It’s one thing to gain a little weight,” her mom said, “but you look absolutely grotesque.”

Despite her attempt to curb her eating, she couldn’t. She became obsessed with food, especially breads and sweets. The doctor put her on a program, which she ignored. She kept getting heavier. It was only when a teacher at school suggested that she see a psychologist, a suggestion her mother called ridiculous, that Sheila experienced a breakthrough.

In the privacy of the office of the counselor, a sympathetic woman, Sheila was finally able to tell the truth about what had happened. She broke down and wept. She said that it might have been her fault because she had refused her boyfriend, or because she had dressed too provocatively. Whatever the reason, she was desperately afraid it would happen again. It became clear that overeating was her way of becoming unattractive. If she remained fat, men wouldn’t rape her, but they also wouldn’t approach her and date her. Having this understanding didn’t change things immediately for Sheila, but it eventually helped her to come to terms with what was driving her obesity. Ultimately, she took off most of the weight.

Sometimes I wonder why I did not become anorexic, as so many women have. Anorexics tend to be overachievers, perfectionists, and extremely insecure. For most of my life, I fit that description. I consider myself lucky not to be afflicted with that psychological disease where food becomes repugnant and your very life is threatened by a lack of nutrients. I’ve known girls who, although they are barely eighty pounds, look in the mirror and worry that they appear fat. They can literally starve themselves to death, driven by an unreasonable obsession that defies understanding.

The weight issue resides in mystery. It requires compassion on every imaginable level. It requires infinite patience, relentless attention, and prayerful treatment.

It’s as though we view our bodies with our minds and not our eyes. And it’s also as though we are prepared to dislike whatever we see. It becomes a basis for self-contempt, with consequences that follow us for decades.

If we can understand what’s happening
when
it’s happening, we have a chance to take positive steps. Without understanding, the challenge is overwhelming.

I know that my relationship with James left its emotional scars. I’m not at all blaming him. I’m simply saying that I jumped into the role as a caretaker when I was still immature. I played the part of the rescuer when I myself was lost at sea.

Psychologically and physically, I was intimate with someone I thought I knew—but I really didn’t. I moved too quickly. I behaved irrationally. I didn’t know what I wanted, yet I gave the impression that I did.

I thought I was helping James, but in reality I wasn’t. I was enabling him. I was actually hurting him—and myself.

I was a confused teenager. But at that age, who isn’t confused?

I am fourteen in a limo, feeling alone and overwhelmed.