Here's the Story LP: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice (14 page)

let me show you simple me.

Away from all distractions,

that’s the way it’s got to be.

Unfortunately I didn’t know how to get away from the distractions. Getting high was the only way I knew to escape.

Through old connections I’d made at Bill’s, I scored some coke and got high at Lloyd’s one night after everyone had gone to sleep. It was a mistake. The moment I finished, I wanted more. I was an example of the cliché that says an addict can’t just do a little. One line was too many, an ounce not enough. I thought of little else until I was in a position to get more.

Until that point in time, I would have denied ever having put myself in a compromising situation to get drugs. But I was desperate, and desperate people get in trouble because they don’t think. I remembered the name of a man I knew from the Playboy Mansion. He was an older man who had coke and chased young women. He’d hit on me numerous times at the mansion.

One desperate night when I couldn’t think of anyone else, I found his number and called him. He lived in a high-rise not far from my Wilshire address. I went over to his place and pretty soon I was loaded. He had a lot of coke, as I’d thought, but he turned out to be scarier than I ever imagined. Not that I let it inhibit me.

No, my behavior was quite the contrary. Using coke as the lure, he got me to undress and lay on his bed. Then he videotaped me. It’s one of the things I am still most ashamed of. I knew it was wrong and disgusting. I knew I had sunk to a new low. But I was powerless. I wanted the coke.

I finally returned to my place, wrecked, and fell into bed. Sometime late the next day, my father awakened me. He’d used his key to get into my place and stood over my bed. I looked up at him through bloodshot eyes caked with sleep. I was still too messed up to react in any manner to his presence. The scene was like a nightmare for both of us, I’m sure.

Shaking his head in frustration, my father didn’t mince words. He said he knew what I was doing and would call the police if I continued.

“You can clean up in jail.”

Sadly, I knew that threat wasn’t enough to make me stop. I used because of a fear that was so much stronger than my fear of jail, and it was going to take something much more powerful to get me to stop.

The Vineyard

M
y relapse instigated changes. I left Lloyd Schwartz’s home and moved in with my friends Pam and Bill, who believed they could help keep me clean. On their recommendation, I attended group therapy sessions three times a week after work. They had heard people rave about the benefits of the group and the brilliance of the man who ran it, Dr. Henry Gold.

Dr. Gold insisted everyone call him Henry. He was short, stocky, and wore T-shirts and slacks. He perched cross-legged on an upholstered chair in a room where the rest of us sat on sofas and wooden chairs. It felt like a club. Most of the others were in the entertainment industry or related businesses. I was the only actor, and the only person with a public persona. I was scared of revealing too much of anything in case someone talked about it outside the room.

Nonetheless, I was lured in by the problems other people confessed. Soon I dropped my guard slightly and began to open up. I liked participating and hearing people comment and offer suggestions. Pam and Bill gave one of those see-we-told-you reactions when I said it felt good to have a place to go and talk.

But then one night, during one of the groups, someone made a remark about me and later followed it up with a question to me that made me wonder if they might be trying to find out information about me for another purpose. Maybe the
National Enquirer
. I didn’t know for sure. But I was wary and uncomfortable.

I forced myself to keep going. Then one night after the group Henry took me aside and suggested I try LSD. He explained that he believed the drug opened people up to deeper thoughts they couldn’t reach any other way. He said he used it frequently. He said he thought it would help me learn about myself. He even offered to help me, privately.

I said that I’d think about it even though I had no intention of taking him up on the offer. I never went back to the group either.

I fared much better talking to Jerry Houser. Jerry and I had moved past his effort to start a romance and settled into a close friendship. We went out to dinner almost every night after work and talked. He was one of the few people in my life who didn’t seem to want anything from me other than my company. He made me feel comfortable. He seemed to accept me for the crazy, imperfect young woman I was.

One night after dinner, we were in his car, parked someplace, and I told myself that it was time for him to get to know the real me. Of course I had a skewed notion of what I meant by this. I had recently bought some coke. I had a little left, and I wanted to do it.

“Jer, can I do anything with you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Can I do anything?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” he said.

“I mean anything. As in
any-thing
.”

Jerry hesitated. “I don’t know.”

I reached into my bag and took a tiny stash bottle known as a one-hitter. I looked at Jerry, then put it up to my nostril, and inhaled deeply. When I turned back to him, Jerry was staring at me with the kind of reproving, concerned look that I subconsciously wanted. The vibe in the car was suddenly awkward, and it caused me to scoot back against the door.

“I don’t feel comfortable around that,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Jerry took a moment before saying anything. He turned down the radio. “Can’t you stop?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Deep down I think I can,” I said. “But, Jer—and I’ve never said this to anyone before—I’m afraid of what I’m going to feel if I don’t get high anymore.”

Jerry said that was one of the saddest things he’d ever heard. He gave me a hug that was so affectionate I thought he might break my ribs. About a week later, Jerry came by one night and we took a walk through the neighborhood. He asked if I was high, and I said no. I’d been straight for the entire week, I explained, but it had been a struggle.

He offered encouragement, and we kept walking along the tree-lined streets, enjoying the night. We turned on Coldwater Canyon Boulevard and ended up in front of what both of us at first thought was a cottage behind a white picket fence. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a church, the Little Brown Church to be exact. Later, I learned former President Reagan and his wife Nancy were among the many couples who’d been married there since it opened its doors in 1940.

“I wonder if it’s open,” said Jerry.

We turned up a short stone path. Both of us reached for the door at the same time. It was unlocked and appeared to open almost on its own as soon as we touched it. Jerry and I looked at each other with the same whoa-this-is-freaky expression. Neither of us said anything, but we were sure it was a sign. We went inside and felt the quiet solemnity of the small, simple room. There were maybe ten rows of pews. We slid into one in the middle.

All of a sudden I felt nervous. I whispered to Jerry that I couldn’t remember the last time I had been in church. He smiled, then bowed his head and began to pray. He did it in a way that seemed different, at least to me. He said his prayers out loud. It was strange to hear his voice resonate in the silent room. It was as if his words were being heard by other people, and carried more weight because of this.

And what words! In the most beautiful, sincere way, he prayed for God to help me. When I heard this, it was like a dam burst in me. Tears flooded out. It was such a profound moment, almost more than I could handle. I want to say I felt something greater than me come into my life, though it could as easily have been me giving up the struggle to hold everything inside and keep myself together.

Then, suddenly, I began to pray out loud. The words came out of my mouth as if they’d been there all along, waiting for me to let them out. I can still hear myself asking God to come into my life and help me, to give me strength, courage, and purpose to get myself on the right path and stay there.

S
ince then, I’ve come to believe that we know and reflect God through our actions not our words. My faith is rooted in the knowledge that I will help other people when they’re down because I want to believe that others will help me. That’s God’s way. And luckily for me, it was also Jerry’s way.

Jerry was extremely involved in his church, and as I got to know him during the three and a half months
The Brady Brides
was in production, he talked to me about God. Sometimes he was obsessive about it, even “witnessing” between scenes on the set. By the time we finished the series, which wasn’t picked up because of low ratings (and dismal scripts), he really pressed the issue. Despite my resistance, he must have felt I would come around. His intuition was correct. All it took was the right time.

About a week after that night at the Little Brown Church, Jerry got me on the phone and said he wanted to take me to a place.

“What kind of place?” I asked.

“A church,” he said. “But it’s not your ordinary kind of church.”

“This is your church, right? The one you talk about all the time?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know, Jer.”

“Why don’t we just go and you can see what it’s like.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up next Sunday.”

Per Jerry’s suggestion, I was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt when I got into his car. He drove us to Santa Monica, stopping a few blocks from the ocean. When I didn’t see a church, I asked where it was. He pointed to an old movie theater. I wasn’t good at walking into strange gatherings where I felt on display and out of control. I also didn’t like it when people dropped by unannounced. I was like my mother in that way, and I’m sure years of cocaine use had exacerbated it.

With Jerry holding my hand, we entered the theater. It was crowded. As he said hi to people, he introduced me as his friend whom he was bringing to the Vineyard for the first time. I was greeted with a mix of handshakes and hugs and an abundance of warm feelings. I felt a good spirit and energy. The people there impressed me. The majority appeared to be in their mid to late twenties or thirties, and nearly everyone had a Hollywood-perfect look. They were pretty or handsome, tan, with great hair and better clothes. A few looked familiar, maybe famous.

If such superficial observations shaped my initial impression, the service was full of substance, way more than I could honestly handle. I thought it was bizarre when people became so moved by the joyous infusion of spirit that they stood up and lifted their arms. I had never witnessed this before. But I connected with the sermon, and the biggest part of the service was music, great music, which I thoroughly enjoyed. It turned out the charismatic worship leader, Tommy Funderburk, was one of the leading background singers in the record business, and the band and choir were industry pros. Jerry also pointed out some notables in the seats, including Bernie Leadon of the Eagles.

As amazing as the experience was, I felt uncomfortable. I tried to explain this to Jerry, who wanted my impressions. I couldn’t articulate it other than to say that I felt like everyone knew something that I didn’t.

After the sermon, Funderburk said there would be several people at a table outside the theater to speak with anyone wanting to learn more about the Vineyard. It was at that table that I met Fred Walecki. One of several people manning the table, he started a conversation as I looked at some of the pamphlets. We exchanged numbers and he gave me a Bible, promising me light and love would enter my life if I read it.

“We’ll see,” I said.

I
was not an easy or quick convert. Though Jerry continued taking me to the Vineyard on Sundays, and though those Sundays turned into weekday discussion groups, gatherings, sermons, and sing-alongs, and though Fred began showing up whenever I showed up, I still didn’t believe in God. I enjoyed the community and the music, but the religion sailed over my head or at best caromed off me without making a dent. As I told both Jerry and Fred, I had too many doubts and too little faith.

What I didn’t say—because I didn’t know how to—was that I was personally and spiritually empty and lost. “I took a walk outside today,” I wrote in my journal. “Although in the city, I was a million miles away.” However, judging from other entries I made at the time, I was searching inside myself. “Reflections of my past dwell deep inside my soul—like a strobe alternating between war and peace.”

Love for life—it’s there inside

When wrappers they unveil

Happiness must come from within

Even when the skies seem kind of pale

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw vacant eyes staring back at me. I looked like that person I’d told Jerry about, the person who had successfully blotted out all feeling. Self-destruction is an ugly, lifeless process. Would I be able to turn on the light again? Many of the people I met at the Vineyard had similarly dark pasts, some with stories much worse than mine. I was different, though. I didn’t believe. As I told Jerry, I wasn’t able to embrace God, and that made me uncomfortable.

“Don’t quit,” he said.

“That’s not it,” I said. “I like the sermons. It’s like my old drug dealer or one of my friends is talking to me. But nothing’s happening in a spiritual sense.”

Jerry scratched his head.

“Do you pray?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why don’t you give it a try?”

I
didn’t make any promises then. But I began to pray at night—always saying the same thing.
God, if you’re real, please show me. I don’t believe, but I want to believe. I need a sign that You’re real. Please send me a message.
I suppose it was more of a request than an actual prayer, which might have been bending the rules. But at least I had opened a dialogue.

This went on for several weeks. I told Jerry and Fred that I’d started to pray, but I kept it from everyone else. Then one afternoon I was with Carin and another girlfriend in Westwood. The three of us had gone shopping after a meeting at the Vineyard. We were walking out of a clothing store and starting down Westwood Boulevard when suddenly and without warning I was thrown to the ground. Literally thrown. My knees gave out, a force pushed me from behind, and I went down.

What happened? To this day, all I can say is that I had no control over my body. Some other, more powerful force was in charge. The next thing I knew, I was on my knees and my arms were lifted toward the sky. I looked and saw two hands reaching down from the sky toward mine. It was Jesus. As crazy as it sounds—and I still can’t tell this story without thinking I’m a little nuts—I knew it was Him. After pushing me to the ground, He was picking me back up.

Overwhelmed by emotions, I burst into tears. People stared and whispered, “Isn’t that Marcia Brady?” I didn’t care. Carin knelt down, put a comforting arm around me, and asked what was wrong.

“I wanted a sign God was real, and I got one,” I said.

“What?” she asked.

“I was pushed down…then arms came down from the sky.”

“What are you talking about?”

I sat there and filled my girlfriends in on the details. If they commented, I didn’t hear it. I could only describe what had happened to me. They helped me stand and took me around the corner to a Christian bookstore, where I recounted the experience to some people. It was quite a scene. Some of them handed me little pieces of paper on which they’d written verses of Scripture. One woman who looked to be about my mother’s age took my hand.

“God bless you, dear,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said in a soft voice.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

I thought about how to answer. I mulled over the possibilities. “Changed.”

That seemed appropriate and accurate. But was I? I didn’t think it could be that easy—and it wasn’t.