I'll Scream Later (No Series) (13 page)

On, off, on, off, our relationship was like a light switch gone terribly wrong. If only I had understood him better, his way of thinking, I wonder if things might have been different. Maybe. Maybe not.

On December 26, he told me he was going to check into the Betty Ford Center for rehab, to get his drinking under control. I didn’t understand what he was doing. I didn’t even know what rehab was. I knew, though, that I didn’t want to be alone. Selfish me.

He left that afternoon. I was scared, unsure of what this would mean for us, what it would mean for me. But I was also hopeful. Maybe this would be the start of a new chapter in our lives. It was, but it turned out to be completely different from the one that I expected to be written.

J
ANUARY
10
IS
the other birthday I celebrate every year. I’ve had twenty-two of these celebrations so far, and I intend to keep having them for as long as I’m around.

I officially stopped using drugs on January 10, 1987. Cold turkey. All the cocaine and pot had either been consumed or thrown away the day before.

The tenth was the day I was flying to Palm Springs to spend a week in joint counseling sessions with Bill at the Betty Ford Center. Whatever the future would hold for us, I wanted to be drug-free, and for some reason I just wouldn’t allow myself to walk into Betty Ford high. I knew if I was going to survive in this relationship, if I was going to have a career, I had to turn my life around.

The week was difficult. In one of the first sessions, there were four of us: Bill, his counselor, one of the women’s counselors, Jane, who would later be involved in my recovery, and me. I was seriously frightened going into that session, literally shaking. Jane promised me that I would be safe.

As the session started, Bill seemed agitated, looked at me hard, and said, “Go on, tell them everything.” It was difficult, I had no interpreter with me, but I did tell them everything. It was the first time I had talked about some of the really dark times to anyone else, the violent depths of our arguments. In my reconnecting with Jane not long ago, she remembered it as I do.

My mother had come to California with me, and everything between us was fine until we went to the center one day to discuss my plans to check into the rehab program. We went back to the hotel, both very much on edge because the session hadn’t gone well. My
mom felt they weren’t listening to her insisting that the center cover the cost of providing an interpreter for me. My family was increasingly opposed to my going to rehab at all. I was on TTY talking to Bill when my mom picked up the phone, disconnecting us, and threw the phone on the floor.

What happened next ended up as number five on my inventory of the worst moments in my life. It was January 12, day two of my new, self-induced detox program, and my body and emotions were a long way from understanding how to cope without drugs.

We fought, my mother and I, terribly—or, as she says, “We fought like idiots.” At one point I pushed her, she fell on the floor and started crying. I was horrified, scared, apologizing, could not believe what had just happened. I thought I could never forgive myself for that moment. She left the next day. It would take a long time for me to forgive myself. And for her to forgive me. I don’t ever expect her to forget this incident, and I don’t blame her.

T
HE NEXT FEW
weeks were a blur. I was packing for the Golden Globes; planning for a four-week, under-the-radar stay at Betty Ford; and spending a lot of time on the TTY with Bill, as his stint at the center was winding down. Next up for him was
Broadcast News,
which was going to be filming in D.C.

The tabloids had picked up that Bill was in rehab and that I had visited him there. He sent me a note on how he was going to handle it, and ultimately his publicist confirmed that, yes, he was at Betty Ford.

In those days, it wasn’t considered such big news; there were a couple of brief mentions including one in the
New York Times
and a story in the
Star
. For the most part, though, he was able to handle it quietly. Internet gossip sites have changed the rules of engagement so radically in the years since that these sorts of stories have now become a staple for even more-celebrity-friendly magazines such as
People
and
US
. I am thankful it was a quieter time.

My parents came in for the Globes ceremony, which has been held forever at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. It’s one of the looser
awards shows with film and TV all under the same roof and more of a party atmosphere. The red carpet is short, crowded, and fun. I was wearing a simple black cocktail dress, with spaghetti straps and covered in sequins. It was beautiful and I felt beautiful in it.

Fans were crowding to get as near the red carpet as they could, and as I made my way along it, my mother remembers them chanting my name.

Happier times for Bill and me, Golden Globes, 1986

Tables at the Globes are always hard to come by, and the Hollywood Foreign Press uses just about every available inch of space so there is little room to move around. I sat with Randa and Jack at one, with my parents not far away.

We were definitely not at one of the prime tables—I remember because the walk to the stage when they announced my name was like making my way through a maze. That was a good thing; it gave me a few minutes to collect myself. I was truly shocked, just kept saying over and over to myself, I can’t believe this, I can’t.

Others in the room couldn’t believe it either.

As Jack and I made our way past one of the tables near the front, at least one big-name celebrity was saying to his companion, “Who the fuck is Marlee Matlin?” I’m just as glad I couldn’t hear that. Instead I felt completely surrounded by support. I could feel the applause. I could see so many faces smiling encouragement.

Jon Voight and Whoopi Goldberg were the hosts that year, and Jon had pulled Jack aside before the show started to ask him how to sign “We love you,” in case I won. When I did, Jon delivered it with gusto!

When Randa leaned over and told me that they were calling my name, everyone at my table jumped up. “Oh my gosh!” were the first words out of my mouth.

When I say that I hadn’t written a speech beforehand, I really mean I hadn’t written a speech beforehand. All the way to the stage, I kept saying over and over, “I can’t believe it!”

Jon handed me the Globe statuette and kissed my cheek. I held on tight and hoped that would help steady me as I said one more time, “I can’t believe it!” I needed to buy myself a few moments more to collect my thoughts. As I looked out at the audience, this popped into my head: “Thank you, thank you so much. I’m not much of a speaker—he is,” I said, pointing to Jack. The crowd roared.

I managed to get out a few thank-yous, to Randa, the producers, Paramount, my parents, Liz, and the cast and crew. It was short, simple, and truly all from the heart.

Backstage in the pressroom, it’s just a crush of photographers and reporters, with a short window for questions and photos before you’re whisked off and the next winner is marched in. It’s fast, live, and you really don’t want to make a mistake—a slip of the tongue can easily land on one of those endless video loops that haunt you forever.

One of the advantages at times like these of having someone interpreting what you’re saying is that you have an extra breath between your signing and the interpreting, so meanings and words can be smoothed out. Over the years, Jack and I have done it so often that we have it down to a science.

It was a wonderful night and I never wanted it to end. Of course, it did, and Betty Ford was looming on the horizon.

I
WOKE UP
to a bright California morning not wanting to crawl out from under the covers. Even when the decision to go into rehab is completely and totally yours, as it was in my case, it’s not easy. Even if you’re stone-cold sober and it’s been twenty-two days since you’ve used any drugs—me again—it’s not easy.

No one else in my life was there that day. No one offered to take me, no one offered to go there with me. I was hoping that I wouldn’t just crumble and disappear.

A late-afternoon flight to Palm Springs had been booked for me. My parents, and my Golden Globe, had headed back to Chicago; Jack had caught a flight back to New York where he was in graduate school still. I took a car to the airport alone with doubts and endless worries running circles around my brain. I spent most of the flight trying to rip off the rest of those damned red press-on nails.

When the plane landed, the old guy in the blue vest and the smile met me. It was late enough that I would soon have to go to sleep by myself in a strange place. That thought was terrifying. I felt empty.

I knew when we passed the Eisenhower Hospital that we were there. As I walked toward the entry, I kept telling myself, “Don’t cry, don’t cry.”

Two counselors were waiting inside for me—Bill’s, who to this day reminds me of Rock Hudson, and Jane, short with dark hair, pretty, serious. I remembered them from Family Week, and when I saw them, I just lost it.

I was crying, sobbing, shaking—then I stepped back. I must have looked as if I were planning an escape because they both came to me, reassuring me. Both of them said it was okay—to just let it all out. So I sobbed until there was nothing left.

From there I went to the nurse’s office. She opened my suitcase in front of me. “What are you doing?” She was looking for drugs, but also Tylenol, mouthwash—she looked at everything. There was the urine test to take. I told them I wasn’t high, but they’d heard that before. And medically, they needed to know whether to put me through detox first. I tested clean.

Then I went to my room. No frills, just two beds and a bathroom. I met my roommate, who hugged me and said. “This is your bed, the one by the door.” No one gets a private room, but I didn’t want to be alone anyway.

I felt like a little girl who was so lost. I remember thinking that I was going to let them help me, yet that was terrifying, too.

I was enough of a celebrity by then that I was getting recognized on the street, but I was hoping no one here would know who I was. I wondered if I would be the only Deaf person. I wondered if there would be anyone I could relate to—communicate with. I didn’t have Jack with me; instead I had two total strangers—one during the day and the other at night—interpreting the most painful and emotional experiences of my life.

That night was my first AA meeting, too. An older woman was in the hallway outside my room, and Jane told her it was my first night there. The woman took my hand and said, “Welcome to the Betty Ford Center. I was a patient here once twenty years ago, and I’ve been sober since.” I remember telling myself that I was going to do that, too—stay sober more than twenty years, just like her. And I have. Now I’m
working
on doubling that figure.

On that first day, late as it was, I was given a journal, and one of my assignments was to write about what I was feeling every single
day—no exceptions. I flip through the journal now and can feel the ups and downs in my emotions as I moved through the treatment program:

“Today was a beautiful day…when I received a telegraph from Bill I felt elated. Made my day.” On another day: “I was feeling a little worried about myself…will I understand all the things happening (and those that have happened) to me? I feel anxious, very anxious.”

One frustrating day, I had to read aloud some of the work I’d been doing on the 12 Steps, the foundation of Alcoholics Anonymous, which anchors the treatment approach at Betty Ford. I felt Jane, my counselor, was being hard on me during that session. In my journal I tried to explain my feelings—it was not just a window into that moment, but my past:

I also don’t want to minimize the pull of drugs. Although I quit cold turkey, that doesn’t mean it was ever easy. At my worst, I was probably doing an eight ball a week—that’s three grams of coke.

I had nosebleeds. My heart would race, would beat so fast it would terrify me. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d stay up all night, then the sun would come up. I hated, hated that part. That was the worst, seeing the sun come up and thinking,
Shit, I’ve been up all night.

I still remember the taste of pot. I loved that taste. I loved Thai sticks, black hash, Red Hair, pot in any form. If you are an addict, you are an addict. It’s not that you’re never tempted again, you are. I am. But then I look at my life, my children, all the people I love, and I get through that hour, that day.

M
UCH OF MY
time in rehab was spent dissecting how and why I feel the way I do. That constant examination is never easy, but I was learning things about myself. I was also finding new ways to cope with situations that had hurt me in the past.

One day a group of us were talking, and everyone else dissolved into laughter. I didn’t get what was said and asked the woman next to me what was so funny. “Nothing.” Whoa!

I asked her again, to see if she would hear what she was saying. Again she said, “Nothing.”

I told them, “I’ve taken
nothing
s almost all my life, and I will not take that anymore.” When I wrote about it in my journal, I went on to say, “I hate my deafness, but I’ve learned to accept it. Of course, not totally, maybe seventy-five percent or so. That took a lot of courage for me to speak out today.”