Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing (3 page)

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Authors: Stormie Omartian

BOOK: Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing
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Afraid that the rose man would find out where I lived and follow me, my first few nights alone in the new apartment were filled with tension. The Tate-LaBianca murderers were still at large and, as far as I was concerned, so was he.
But nothing happened. The roses stopped. Only the fear remained.
CHAPTER TWO
ESCAPE INTO MARRIAGE
I rushed past the guard at the entrance to the giant CBS building on Beverly Boulevard. Having seen me almost daily for four years, he didn’t question my identity but waved me on through. Up the elevator and down the hall to the enormous sound stage where the Glen Campbell Show was being filmed that day, I practically collided with the director.
“Sorry I’m late, Jack,” I apologized, as I had done countless times before.
“You’re working yourself too hard, Stormie,” he reprimanded in his stern but kind voice. He knew that I was filming another local TV program on the three days away from the Campbell Show, which meant no time off whatsoever. The look on his face questioned my sanity.
Unable to confess that I was too insecure to turn down any work, I joked, “They’re hounding me, Jack. Dumb blondes are the rage this year, you know.”
He gave me a fatherly hug and said, “Get to makeup quick. Cher is sick and can’t do one of the skits with Glen. You’re going to do it.”
“What!” I exclaimed with surprise on my face and terror in my heart.
“You’re exactly the same size, so her costume will fit,” he assured me. “A quick study like you will have no problem with the lines. Besides, you’ve watched them rehearsing all week, so you’ll remember the blocking.”
I was constantly amazed at Jack’s faith in me. “What about my own skit with Glen?” I questioned.
“You’ll be able to do both. Cher’s costume lady will help you with the fast changes. I’ll send someone to run over your lines with you right after makeup.”
I ran straight to the makeup room and collapsed in a chair in front of the head man. “I need a miracle, Ben. They’re making me a star today, and you’ve got to make me beautiful,” I joked.
Ben Nye was an expert, so I didn’t have to worry about what he was going to do. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe calmly and pull myself together. It was only eight in the morning and already I was exhausted. In the months following the Sharon Tate murders I had filled my life with work. Not only did I have two TV series a week, but I also crammed every spare hour with recording sessions and commercials. I was obsessed with working. It helped minimize my deep feelings of inadequacy and keep a tighter rein on the depression and fear that always threatened to control my life.
Depression was something I dealt with daily. For most of my life, at least as far back as 13 years old, I awakened every morning to the thought “Should I kill myself now or can I make it through one more day?” When my alarm sounded at five this morning, I lay frozen in bed, trying to decide what to do. “You’ve got an important job to do today,” I had told myself. “You’re doing a great skit with Glen Campbell. Rehearsal has gone well.
“No, I can’t kill myself today,” I’d finally decided. “If this part I’m doing turns out great, I might be recognized as an important talent. Then everyone will love me and I won’t feel any more pain.” It had taken only a few minutes to get myself out of bed this morning; some days it took hours. Unfortunately, I believed I was only as good as my last performance, so when a job was over so were my good feelings about myself.
“You’re gorgeous!” said Ben as he put the finishing touches of mascara on my false eyelashes.
“You’re a genius Ben,” I smiled and ran off to Cher’s dressing room. It was the fancy one with the big star. The crew had taken down her name and put up mine in their own crude handwriting. It made me laugh, and I appreciated their constant support. I admired Cher and thought she was one of the most beautiful stars I had ever worked with. I was sorry she was sick, yet thrilled to fill in for her.
“Hi, Maggie,” I greeted the costume lady.
“Stormie, we’re late,” she said, concerned for me as well as herself. Jack ran a tight schedule, and wardrobe people were responsible for having the star dressed and in the proper place at the proper time. An aide came by with my lines, and Maggie helped me dress as I quickly studied them.
“All cast for the opening scene on stage immediately,” boomed the assistant director over the loudspeaker just as Maggie zipped up the back of my costume. “It fits perfectly,” she beamed.
Off I ran to take my place in front of the camera on the mark designated by a little piece of blue tape on the floor.
Glen Campbell came in and gave me a big hug. “How’re you doing this morning, lady?” he smiled.
“Great!” I lied. “Do I look enough like Cher?” I joked nervously, running my hands through my long blonde hair and blinking my blue eyes. Compared with Cher’s dark-eyed, black-haired beauty, I felt terribly inadequate.
“You look sensational!” Glen stated in his usual sweet, encouraging manner. He was a wonderful employer, and besides admiring his talent, I loved him as a person.
“Cameras are rolling! 5-4-3-2-1 action!”
I remembered all the blocking, and with the help of cue cards I got through all the lines without a mistake.
“Great!” boomed Jack’s voice over the P.A. system. “Let’s run it one more time and I think we have it. Good job, Stormie—I knew you could do it!” I was elated to hear that encouragement, and wondered why I myself could never feel that good about anything I did.
On my way back to the dressing room after the scene was over, one of the pretty blonde singers said, “The costume looks great, Stormie. Too bad you don’t have Cher’s voice.”
“Yes, and her money too,” I laughed.
Although I’m sure the comment was spoken innocently, it triggered a memory from far back in my past. Immediately unreasonable fear gripped my chest and unbearable pain from deep within my gut rose up into my throat and made it difficult to speak. Breathing became labored and I felt like I was suffocating. I had to get to a bathroom, dressing room, or empty rehearsal hall as soon as possible.
“I’ll be right back, Maggie,” I said breathlessly as I ran past her into the cast bathroom. “Just give me a few moments.”
Once inside, I locked the door, braced myself against the wall, and tried to stifle the convulsive sobs that were just beneath the surface. The pain in my gut was so intense that I wanted to die. When I contained myself enough to return to work, I acted as if nothing happened. Keeping up a good front for others was a constant requirement for me.
“You okay, honey?”
“Sure, Maggie—just a minor emergency,” I laughed. “Help me out of this costume.”
I breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Once again no one suspected anything about my anxiety attacks. Because of them I didn’t allow relationships to get too close, for I would never be able to explain my actions to someone else when I didn’t even understand them myself. I assumed that I had these attacks because I was strange—a misfit. If I let someone get too close, they might figure that out, and I couldn’t bear the thought of rejection. Besides, in my eyes everyone else was perfect, and I fell short by comparison. The closer I got to other people, the more intense the comparison became and the more aware I was of all my shortcomings. It was better to remain at a distance.
The taping day ended a success and I was relieved. “Great job, Stormie—I knew you’d do it!” beamed Jack as he left the sound booth to go home. “See you in a couple weeks.”
“A couple weeks?” I questioned. Then before he could answer I said, “Oh, of course, the two-week hiatus while Glen’s out of town. Sure, see you then.” My heart sank. Since my other TV show had just ended its 13-week season, that meant no work at all for two weeks. The thought terrified me. When I wasn’t working, I lived in the throes of constant depression. I did find that drugs helped and because it was the late 60’s, they were everywhere. In fact, they were almost difficult to avoid. Psychedelic drugs were used commonly too, but people were freaking out from them all the time and ending up in a mental hospital. I wasn’t about to drop any acid. I was too close to ending up in a mental hospital as it was. Simple marijuana was good enough for me.
I found that as long as I was either working or stoned I could survive life, but I was careful not to combine the two. Work meant too much to me to jeopardize that. Even though I was into health food and exercise in the extreme, I still smoked and drank, and marijuana was a part of every gathering.
That night I took some downers and went to sleep dreading the next day. As expected, I woke at midmorning thinking, “You’re no good. Why don’t you kill yourself?
“You did well yesterday, but yesterday is gone and you won’t do anything good again.
“You’ll never amount to anything.
“Who are you kidding? Everyone knows you don’t have it.
“You’re a nobody.”
Slowly and steadily depression sank on me like a thick, still blanket. When I couldn’t withstand the force of it any longer, I knew I was entering one of my “blackouts.”
For the next two weeks I could barely function. I lay in bed unable to read or even watch TV, getting up to do only the minimum requirements for life. The only thing that could have lifted the “blackout” was a call for work. But no one called.
When the Glen Campbell Show resumed, I returned to CBS with the usual mixed emotions. I was eager to work yet always fearful that someone would find out about my lack of ability and my intense fear. I waved to the guard at the gate. “Did you have a nice vacation, Stormie?” he yelled.
“Great!” I called back. “Not long enough, though.”
“I know what you mean,” he laughed. I laughed with him and perfectly masked the person I was.
As helpful as it always seemed, I did recognize that marijuana was becoming a problem for me. One night before a trip to Las Vegas to work with Glen Campbell in the main showroom of the MGM Grand Hotel, I stayed up late getting stoned with friends. I slept a few hours, then left at six A.M. for the airport, not realizing that I was still under the influence of the drugs from the night before. Traveling down the main boulevard to the freeway, I didn’t hear an ambulance coming full speed in the opposite direction until it came over a rise in the road. We were inches from a head-on collision. I jerked to the right as he swerved left. We were so close as he sped by that the air between us jostled my car. As I braked to a stop to catch my breath, I realized that everyone else on the road had already pulled to the side. They had heard the sirens; I hadn’t heard a thing. I knew then that I was going to kill myself if I didn’t back off from the drinking and drugs.
A few weeks later at Rick’s house, I baked a pan of brownies with a large amount of marijuana in it. Rick ate a few pieces and I nearly finished off the rest of the pan by myself. I had an uncontrollable chocolate habit, and once I started eating it I couldn’t stop until it was gone.
It takes longer to get high from eating marijuana than smoking it, but once the high happens it doesn’t wear off for a long time. I didn’t pay attention to the amount I had eaten. At first I got giddy and silly, then dizzy and numb. Suddenly I realized that I had eaten way too much, for a crushing heaviness settled in my body and I felt like I was going to pass out.
“I’ve got to lie down,” I said breathlessly to Rick as I stumbled to the couch and fell facedown. I hung on tightly to the cushion as the room began spinning so fast I thought I would disintegrate. Soon I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed. My body felt dead, but inside I was still very much alive, trapped and unable to escape.

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