I would drive back to Los Angeles, and during those lonely hours on the highway, my mind tried to figure out a plan to take the children with me permanently, but there was no easy solution. I couldn’t afford to keep them, and I didn’t want all of us to go on welfare. All I could do was stick to my plan.
In Los Angeles, work continued to flow in, and I got a job as a live-in cook for a Jewish couple in Hancock Park while still caring for my AIDS patients. The Richbergs were very good to me. They didn’t know about my secret, but they knew I practiced Buddhism and were not bothered by my chanting. And they knew that like most young women, so it seemed in Los Angeles, I wanted to be an actress. The wife, Gina, was a retired psychologist, and her husband was a movie executive with a major studio. They both encouraged me as I went on auditions and allowed for a flexible schedule for me to tend to my patients.
Living in Los Angeles agreed with me. It’s a city filled with kooks. It’s not unusual to see actors dressed as pirates or aliens in studio parking lots reciting lines over and over again, reminding me of some of the people at Oakcrest. But being an actor was more difficult than I had anticipated. Moreover, I didn’t have sufficient training, nor the time to get it. I auditioned often with little result. I thought I had a real chance with the sketch show In Living Color. I went to an open call and stood in line for five hours to audition for the casting director. When I finally got my turn, I was asked to do a comedic pantomime of my purse being snatched while at a bus stop. I ran around the room, punching and swinging at the air. I’m sure I looked crazy because I felt crazy. And I know crazy. Acting is a lot harder than it looks. I didn’t get that part, or any parts, except for a spot in the chorus of a local music production and as an extra for an experimental film. I wasn’t having much success as an actress, but I was keeping an even keel even though the marathon debates with Riley about our children were maddening. I wanted the children with me; he wanted them with him.
We weren’t exemplary parents back then, Riley and I, but we loved our children, and he knew that my children missed me as much as I missed them. Still, I was surprised when one night he called me while I was in my room at the Richbergs’, sounding sweet and nice again. So I suggested, “Why don’t you and the kids come for a weekend in L.A.? Let’s see if we can all get along.”
“Otherwise, what? You’re going to sue me for the kids?” a suspicious Riley demanded. I had already decided in my head that I wouldn’t use the courts to solve our problems. I would solve everything in my life through faith alone. I concentrated on having a wonderful weekend at Disneyland with Riley and the kids. It was like we were on a family vacation. We went to Disneyland, to the beach, and to the movies. The best times were when we just sat around the hotel room and laughed with each other. The laughter of children can be infectious. Whatever mistakes Riley and I had made, Shauna and Ryan were beautiful, seemingly happy children. Disneyland is a magical place.
Then it was time for them to leave. Riley offered me a chance to go home. But I couldn’t. They left. It was harder being without them after that. Depression began to set in, and each day it became a little bit worse. In the shadows of my mind, I could hear the faint calling of the voices who were squirming to get out again. To quiet them, I started drinking. The Richbergs are Orthodox Jews, and they drank sweet kosher wine. I’d sneak a little taste now and then to calm me, and if I had an audition. But now, in an effort to sedate myself, I found myself drinking their wine much too frequently.
One night, while Mrs. Richberg (Gina as she preferred me to call her) was soaking in her massive hot tub, she called for me and asked if I had been drinking her sweet wine. I had to confess. I’d been drinking it to stay normal. I began to tell her about my illness, my relationship with Riley, leaving and missing my children, and how that first episode led to the night at Oakcrest, and ensuing ones after that. I figured she would ask me to pack my bags and leave; instead, she asked to help. I couldn’t believe it. I thanked her profusely, and she offered to look at any records I had, evaluate them, and give me her professional opinion.
I had my records in the trunk of my car, where they’d been sitting for months. They made a thick file. I left it on her desk, thinking it might take her a day or two to get through it. But an hour later, she had an answer. “From what I’ve read in your file, I would say you suffer from being bipolar.” Bipolar. Finally, a name. Bipolar. She went on to explain the two “poles” of hyperenergized feelings, mania and its dark and deadening opposite, depression.
Gina was pretty sure, but like any good doctor, she suggested I get a second opinion. I saw another doctor, who agreed and wrote me a prescription for some drugs that would level me out. Knowing that there was a term for it, studies about it, even experts who’d written about it, gave me some relief, but it also made me curious to learn more. With further research, I discovered it is rooted both in nature (my DNA and the dysfunction of my brain) and nurture (what happens in your life, including traumas and chronic stress).
It may sound weird, but now, newly diagnosed, I felt a rush of optimism. My malady had a name, finally something recognizable that could be treated. I worked for people who understood and supported me, and I just knew I was on my way to being cured. All that was left was getting a job as an actress, then a nice place for me and my children. And as far as I was concerned, it was right around the corner. Unexpectedly, when everything seemed so clear, the mania was beginning, and at its peak something would happen to change my life forever.
If you audition enough in Hollywood, you become friends with the casting directors, associates, and basically anyone working for them. I had befriended a young casting intern who got me a chance to audition for an independent film. The director was a dashing Spaniard who was fast becoming the director of the moment. To protect the not so innocent, let’s call him Juan. He was as beautiful as Antonio Banderas, but younger and shorter, perfect for my tiny frame. From the moment I met him, I couldn’t stop daydreaming about this beautiful man. I asked my casting friend if he was married. She shook her head no. I have to have him, I thought. Then she remembered.
“Wait, he has a fiancée, and they’re going to have a baby.” That meant hands off, but I still couldn’t stop staring at him and wanting him. For the next couple of nights, I tossed and turned in my bed, imagining Juan lying next to me. Whether it was just loneliness or lust, I didn’t care. I called the casting office to find out if he’d chosen an actress for the part. He hadn’t picked anyone yet, she said, but then she made a wonderful suggestion: “How about I give you his number, and you can ask him if you’re still in the running?” I quickly wrote down the number. My hands shook as I dialed. I was half hoping he wouldn’t pick up. He answered on the first ring. “Hello, this is Sylvia Harris. The actress,” I said with my most professional voice.
He responded with a thick accent. “Miss Harris. I haven’t decided yet. But how are you? Are you enjoying this time in Los Angeles?” I was sweating at the sound of his voice, and then, suddenly, without thinking, I confessed to this stranger about how lonely I was in Los Angeles.
“What if we were to go to dinner? Could I give you a telephone call later, and we’ll make arrangements?” he asked with that thick, heavy accent with which I was falling in love.
My rational self was saying, You should not be seeing an engaged man whose fiancée is about to have a baby, when you have unfinished business in another part of the States and two kids. But my manic self purred, “I’d love to have dinner,” into the phone. He later had to cancel—problems with his other movie, he explained sweetly. Of course, I didn’t believe him and swore off men again for the rest of my life. But to my surprise he called again.
“There’s going to be a cast party for my last movie. Do you want to go with me? You can meet people. That way you don’t have to be so lonely.” Excited, I tried to play cool. “That would be wonderful.”
I hadn’t had a real date in years. Not since I first met Riley. I was excited. I reached into my war chest and got as cute as I could get with a short, flirty dress and the strappiest of strappy sandals. I got to the small romantic bistro on Melrose Avenue before him, positioned