Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing (4 page)

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Authors: Stormie Omartian

BOOK: Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing
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Where was Rick? Why wasn’t he helping me?
I called his name. Or at least I thought I did. But there was no answer.
Six hours later I finally managed to lift my head. I could see Rick in the bedroom asleep. It took another two hours to force my body to the kitchen, where I washed my face with cold water and got something to drink.
What a stupid move!
Had I almost killed myself again because of drugs? I knew I had to take action to correct my lifestyle or I was going to self-destruct, but I felt powerless to do it. Something inside was driving me to keep making bad choices—choices for death—over and over. Half of me wanted to die, and the other half wanted to live but didn’t know how to.
In the months that followed the Tate-LaBianca murders, the mystery surrounding them began to unfold. A group heavily involved in the occult and drugs was responsible.
I
was involved in the occult and drugs too. Was that where I was going to end up—with my mind so fried that I didn’t even know right from wrong or life from death? Fear engulfed me more than ever now—fear of death, fear of rejection, fear of failure. I wished desperately that I didn’t have to live alone.
One morning about 4:30 as I slept soundly in my apartment, my bed began to shake violently and a loud overwhelming rumble from the bowels of the earth convinced me that I was in the middle of an earthquake. Instantly I knew it was a bad one, certainly the most violent shaking I’d ever experienced. I thought the walls and ceiling were going to cave in and I would die a painful death—crushed, maimed, and all alone. The quake was violent enough to frighten anyone, and since my normal state was one of fear, this made me hysterical.
I ran for the door of my bedroom; the force of the shaking threw me against the wall. Groping for the doorpost in the pitch black of the room, I used it to pull myself into the hallway. I was thrown from side to side against the walls of the short and narrow hall, then out into the living room, where I landed hard against the coffee table.
I grabbed the phone and stumbled back to the doorjamb of the hallway, where I knew I was safest. Falling to the floor, I tried to dial the phone, but the tremors were so violent that my fingers couldn’t rest on the dial. I tried three or four times before I realized the phone was dead. All power was off. There were no street lights. In the total darkness I dropped the phone, grabbed the doorjamb, and hung on tightly to keep from being thrown against the walls. “God help me!” I pleaded. “God, please help me!”
All around I could hear the crashing of dishes falling out of the cupboards, paintings dropping off the walls, and lamps shattering against the floor. The enormous roar of the earth rumbled so loud that I could barely hear my own screams.
What lasted only a few moments seemed like eternity. Finally the rumbling and shaking stopped. The sun was just beginning to rise, but I hung onto the doorpost until I could see enough to get to the bedroom, throw on jeans and a T-shirt, grab my purse, and get out. I didn’t check the damage. That was the last thing that concerned me. Earthquakes that violent would have aftershocks that could bring the roof down. I was terrified of dying alone.
Once outside, I ran to my car and sped off quickly to Rick’s house. Broken glass and fallen trees were everywhere. While I was driving, the first aftershock hit, and immediately I pulled to a stop away from power lines to wait it out. The highway rolled and rippled like it was made of rubber. I had visions of the earth opening up and swallowing me so that I would never be heard from again. When it was over I made my way cautiously.
During the drive to Rick’s place I resolved that I couldn’t live alone any longer. I wasn’t brave enough to live openly with a man, and I couldn’t live with a girlfriend because I desperately needed a man’s affection. Besides, my steady stream of boyfriends was enough to irritate even the most patient of women.
Marriage was the answer, and Rick was the most likely candidate. I had known him the longest of all the fellows I was dating. We were somewhat compatible. Beyond eating together and having sex, what else was there to any relationship? Besides, Rick was one of the few men I was dating who was not married. I was forever ending up with some guy who had just freshly separated from his wife—or intending to as I would later find out. They were not good candidates for the security in marriage I needed. Even if Rick wasn’t the greatest partner, I decided that I would rather have a two-year marriage with a nice friendly divorce than live alone.
Over the next few weeks I set about to manipulate Rick into asking me to marry him. I cajoled, pleaded, threatened, sulked, and stomped. I told him I didn’t want to live alone, and we must either make plans to be married or the relationship was over. Finally one night he said, “Okay, I’ll marry you. But it’s got to be 50-50 financially. I’ll make a down payment on a house if you pay the monthly payments and all the rest of the bills.”
I said, “Okay,” but I would have agreed to anything.
After Rick put the down payment on the house we were to live in, we made plans to get married right away. His family was Catholic, and although I had never heard him mention God, he insisted on a Catholic wedding. What did I care? A Buddhist wedding would have been fine with me. I just wanted a male roommate.
Four weeks before the wedding, a young singer friend of mine named Terry Stilwell called to ask me to sing on a Christian recording session. The leader of that session was Jimmy Owens who with his wife Carol was recording a musical that they had written called “Show Me.” It was a full three days of work, and I was eager to do it.
From the start this recording session was peaceful and pleasant, in direct contrast to the stress and pressure of the Hollywood recording business. I didn’t know any of the people in the studio except Terry, who informed me that everyone there was a Christian. She never mentioned the fact that I wasn’t.
I watched each person carefully. Christians to me had always fallen into two categories. Either they were insensitive and obnoxious, trying to beat you over the head with their Bibles, or else they were bland, boring, uninteresting, and without any known personality.
The Christians on this recording session were different. In some ways they
were
boring because nobody drank, smoked, did drugs, told dirty jokes, or swore. So when I was with them I felt I shouldn’t do those things either. I wondered what they did for excitement. Yet there was a very appealing and clean quality about them. They were genuinely caring, and when I was around them I felt comforted and peaceful. They treated me like someone special as opposed to the outsider that I felt I was.
On our first break of the first day, Terry introduced me to a young man she had been telling me about for weeks. I gathered she thought we would be perfect for each other, so I was somewhat wary but curious at the same time. The minute I saw him, however, all doubts were dispelled. He was the cutest guy I’d ever seen. He had thick, dark, curly hair, beautiful olive skin, and large, expressive brown eyes that confirmed his Armenian heritage. He had an intensity about him and a sense of purpose that was very attractive to me. I was smitten the minute I saw him.
“Stormie, I want you to meet Michael Omartian,” Terry said and left us alone to talk. Michael was warm and friendly, and I enjoyed his company immensely. As we talked I heard violins and saw hearts. I was transported into another realm where no one else existed except us.
We were together every spare minute over the next few days, never running out of things to say. During one break, everyone except Michael and me left the studio to go for coffee. Michael sat down at the piano to play while I leaned across the side of it to watch his hands and listen intently.
When he finished the song I said in amazement, “Michael, you’re one of the greatest piano players I’ve ever heard.”
He smiled, looked down at the keyboard, and shook his head. “That’s nice of you, but it hasn’t been easy finding work.” I heard the frustrated musician in his voice.
“It’s only a matter of time for you, Michael. You’re a major talent, and it won’t be long before other people recognize it.” I had been around Hollywood long enough to be certain that what I was telling him was true and not just flattery.
“It just depends on what the Lord wants,” he stated.
“The Lord?” I questioned. “What does the Lord have to do with it?”
“Do you know anything about Jesus?” he questioned.
“Sure, Science of Mind teaches that He was a good man. Play me another one of your songs,” I quickly changed the subject.
He complied and I studied his intensity as he played. I was attracted to him in a profound way. He had a confidence and an energy that I found irresistible. The more my attraction for him increased, the more my confusion also increased. I thought about Rick and our plans to be married. “What am I doing?” I asked myself. I had no answers, so I kept silent.
At the end of the third day I invited Michael to my apartment for a “health drink.” He had been sick for weeks, he told me, and was unable to shake the congestion in his head. Having been into health foods for some time, I had a combination of things I knew would help.
“Hi, Michael,” I smiled with enthusiasm as I opened the door. I was eager to be with him again.
“Hello,” he said coolly. I was taken back by his sudden change from the warm person I met at the studio.
There was little conversation as I mixed up a concoction of brewer’s yeast, wheat germ, lecithin granules, vitamin C, acidophilus, and more into a glass of grape juice. As he drank it, I could tell he thought it might kill him. However, my credibility was saved when in 20 minutes his head started to clear.
We made small talk quietly and with great hesitation on his part. There was something different about him now. He had been friendly at the studio, but now he was cool. I didn’t understand it. Perhaps I had misread his friendliness. Or maybe he felt uncomfortable about being in my apartment late at night. After all, he was one of those Christians. Or maybe he saw through me and found many things he didn’t like.
When he left I was painfully sad. I had felt so good being with him at the studio, and now this encounter was so strained. It reaffirmed my beliefs that there were no good relationships, only tolerable ones. You just had to grab a tolerable one and get all the life you could out of it until it was time to go on to the next. I was getting married because I couldn’t take living alone and Rick was the most tolerable of all the relationships. We would do well if we could stand living together for more than two years.
Even though I accepted the fact that what seemed like a potentially fantastic relationship had fizzled, I couldn’t get Michael out of my mind. There was a quality in him that I loved. Something beyond just physical, although that was certainly there too. I couldn’t give it a name, but it was the same dynamic of life that I recognized in my friend Terry.
Two weeks later Terry asked me to go with her to visit her friend Paul Johnson, a well-known Christian musician. Michael was one of his two roommates. They lived up in the hills of Sherman Oaks in a large, modern house with enormous windows that overlooked the city. The view was tremendous. The view inside was even better with these three good-looking fellows. All of them had clean, healthy, vital good looks plus that sweet, loving, irresistible quality that I still couldn’t put into words.
When I saw Michael again he wasn’t cold this time—only tentative and cautious. Like before, I was caught up somewhere between heaven and earth as we talked about one thing after another. He asked me out for dinner the following night, and I accepted.
At the restaurant our conversation began to move beyond things, places, and people to the deeper topic of feelings. He explained that the reason he turned suddenly cool at my apartment was because Terry revealed to him my plans to be married. He was confused and baffled. “Terry thinks you’re making a big mistake, Stormie,” he said emphatically, “and so do I.”
“I know I’m making a mistake, but I can’t do anything about it. The whole thing is set in motion and I can’t stop it.” I swallowed hard to fight back tears.
I couldn’t tell him I was terrified to live alone, that I didn’t deserve anything better, and that if anyone were to find out what I was really like he wouldn’t want me. How could I share that I believed there were no good relationships, at least not for me?
I saw Michael every night for the ten nights before my wedding date. Rick never questioned where I was. One night Michael came to pick me up and Rick dropped by for a few minutes. I introduced them. Rick left immediately and never at any time asked for an explanation. The incident was indicative of our nebulous relationship.
It was obvious that Rick and I had no basis for a marriage. We barely saw each other for the two weeks before the wedding. It was insane. I knew Michael thought I would call it off, but my life was out of control. It was spiraling downward at a horrifying rate and I thought getting married would keep me from hitting rock bottom.
The night before the wedding, Michael and I saw each other to say goodbye. He picked me up at my apartment and we went for a drive. I was so depressed I could hardly speak because I knew we would not see each other again.
“What are you doing, Stormie?” Michael asked, his voice intense with frustration. “You’re marrying a man you don’t love. Everyone thinks you’re making a big mistake, and I
know
you’re making a big mistake. You can stop this now, so why won’t you call it off?”

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