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Authors: Stormie Omartian

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BOOK: Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing
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“I can‘t, Michael,” I pleaded, wishing he could understand. But no one understood, not even me. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I can’t stop it.” My fear and my intense emotional needs were making my decisions for me. The self-doubt was greater than my ability to do what was sensible.
Michael pulled to the side of the road, took my hand, and said, “You know I love you very much.”
“I love you too,” I said as I fell into his arms and began to cry. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anybody.”
“Then why won’t you call this whole thing off?” His voice betrayed anger.
“I can‘t,” I sobbed. “I just can’t.”
It must have confused him terribly. No normal person would have behaved that way. No one was forcing me to get married. I was choosing this myself.
Weeks earlier, when Michael had briefly tried to talk to me about Jesus, I had wanted no part of it. I had assumed it would mean intellectual suicide to identify with Christianity, and I just plain didn’t want to hear about it. Now I wished I had listened a little more, but it was too late. Even though I found it difficult to let go of the purity and cleanness of our relationship, I knew I had to forget Michael and get on with the problem of survival. We said goodbye and I went to bed and cried myself to sleep with the kind of tears that mourn a death.
The next morning I awoke with my usual depression and suicidal thoughts. The sense of futility was greater than ever. I was getting married. This was the only feasible alternative for my life, and it felt like I was headed for hell.
I worked through the morning depression by convincing myself that this marriage would be better than living alone. For a moment I thought of Michael. “Once he learned what I was really like, he would surely have rejected me,” I thought. That would have been devastating. I had to settle for some security and a reprieve from my intense loneliness and fear. I needed a place to belong, no matter what the conditions.
In an unimpassioned state, I went through the motions as Rick and I were married. My descent into hell began immediately.
CHAPTER THREE
THE EDGE OF BREAKDOWN
“Rick, would you please rinse the breakfast dishes for me? I’ll wash them when I get home tonight,” I yelled as I was about to leave for my eight A.M. appointment with the speech coach.
“That’s not my job,” Rick snapped.
“Well, what exactly is your job?” I insensitively retorted. “During the last year-and-a-half since we’ve been married you’ve worked exactly four days. At least you could stop watching TV for an hour or stay away from your mother’s house one evening and help me with some of this housework. I can’t do everything.”
From the beginning I knew that Rick was unnaturally devoted to his mother and loved her far more than he could ever love me. He wanted me to be like her, and I did my best to imitate her many good qualities. But I could never measure up. He used criticism to try to mold me into an acceptable human being. I didn’t respond well to it, however, and withdrew.
“The insurance on the cars is due today,” he admonished me, completely ignoring all that I had said about helping me with housework.
“Oh, no, that’s over 600 dollars! Can’t you pay half of it?” I pleaded.
“That’s not our agreement. I made the down payment for the house. You pay for everything else,” he boldly reminded me.
It didn’t take me long to see that our financial agreement was an unfair arrangement. But I
had
agreed to it and there was no turning back.
I went out and slammed the door. Through the window I could see Rick return to his TV where he would spend the rest of the day while the dirty dishes sat on the counter. “It’s obvious that this marriage arrangement is not working out as I’d planned,” I thought as I drove to my speech coach.
Living with a male roommate was definitely not what I’d expected. My loneliness had increased, and my fear and self-doubt had mounted. I began to feel that I was better off single. At least then I only had to support and clean up after one person. With my busy schedule and Rick doing nothing at home to help, I was constantly angry with him. There was no communication between us, and although we had a sexual relationship, there was no affection or tenderness outside of that. I needed more from him than he could give, and I resented him for not being able to give it. Silently I demanded that he love and adore me, but he couldn’t. He had his own problems, his own depression, and I was so steeped in mine that I couldn’t begin to understand his. I had no idea what he wanted out of our relationship, but I was sure he wasn’t finding it.
As I drove along Benedict Canyon I passed Cielo Drive, the street where Sharon Tate had lived and the house where she and her friends were murdered. I shuddered. Even in the daytime I was afraid to drive there, but my speech coach was just down the canyon, so this was the most direct route from my house.
“Hi, Gloria, sorry I’m late,” I mumbled as I walked past my speech coach into the warm, rustic living room typical of many canyon homes in Beverly Hills.
“You look very tired. And why are you mumbling?” She showed her displeasure.
“I
am
tired and I just had a fight with Rick.” I tried to speak slowly and remember all she had taught me.
For years I had studied with different voice therapists to try and overcome a speech impediment I’d had since childhood. Hours and hours of tedious, boring exercises resulted in only minimal improvement month after month. As a child I tried to hide the problem by either being quiet or carefully rehearsing what I had to say. That’s why acting appealed to me. I could practice lines over and over, work them out with my speech coach, then say them without shame. Gloria had helped me tremendously. Besides regular speech therapy two times a week, I sought her expertise with every acting part I received. On this particular morning she was going to help me learn to speak my lines correctly before I went to the studio at ten.
“Slow down—you’re talking too fast!” she said as I started. “You’re slurring your words.”
I tried again. “No! It’s too nasal,” she said. “Start over.”
A minute later she interrupted again. “You’re retaining too much tension in the throat. Practice these lines with a wine cork between your teeth.” I dutifully opened my mouth so she could place the cork. “Now speak from the diaphragm, not the throat.”
Over and over I rehearsed the lines. Changing incorrect speech habits had to be far more difficult than learning how to speak correctly in the first place. We worked for a solid hour, and by the end I was exhausted and starting to shake. I knew that the depression and growing bitterness toward Rick was taking its toll on my body. I was frequently ill and I felt ugly and old. I was dying inside. All the choices I had made for my life that I thought would save it were killing me. At times I felt like there were other beings living inside me and I wasn’t in control of them. Perhaps this was because of all the drugs I had taken over the years, or maybe the dabbling in out-of-body experiences.
As I paid Gloria and left, she looked at me with that same expression I had seen on so many people. It was an expression that seemed to say, “Stormie’s such a nice girl with so much potential. I wonder what her problem is.”
I drove to CBS eager for work but, as always, afraid of it at the same time. Because of my unhappiness at home, I threw myself into work more than ever. The Glen Campbell Show was just beginning another season and I had a great part on the very first segment. Besides that series I was doing every possible record session, commercial, or movie background date that I could fit into my schedule. As more acting parts came my way, I lived to do them. CBS felt more like home to me than my own house in Benedict Canyon.
That night I arrived home from the CBS studio earlier than usual. Rick was watching TV. “I’m exhausted,” I said and headed upstairs for a nap. “Wake me up at eight and I’ll fix us some dinner.”
I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over my face to shut out the daylight. The next thing I remember was Rick pulling the blanket off my face. My eyes were open and staring at the top of the wall. He called my name but I saw and heard nothing.
When he reached down and shook me, I was startled to consciousness in a fit of hysteria as I realized what had just happened. It was as if my spirit had left my body and had gone to a place of extreme torment. For a moment, I felt as if I had lost control over part of my being and might never get it back. It was frightening, and I sobbed uncontrollably.
Trying to calm me, Rick said, “Let me get you some water,” and began to walk away.
“No, no! Don’t leave me here alone!” I pleaded. “Please. I’ll come with you.”
He put his arm around my shoulder, helped me downstairs, and sat me on the two steps of the entryway leading into the sunken den. As I put my face in my hands and cried, I didn’t see him leave to go into the kitchen. When I heard the sound of footsteps down the hall, I looked up to see a dark form coming toward me. It looked like my mother carrying a knife and I feared she was going to kill me! “Help me! Someone help me!” I went out of control with hysterical screaming.
Sensing that I was hallucinating, Rick grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me hard. “Stormie, it’s me! Rick!” he yelled in my face.
I looked at him in total surprise. “Rick,” I sobbed. “Oh, Rick, I thought it was ... ” My voice stopped. Apparently the glass of water he was carrying must have reflected light in a way that made it look like a knife. But I couldn’t tell him...I had never told anyone about that. “ ... I don’t know what I thought it was,” I mumbled as I began to shake.
After that experience I was afraid to be alone even in the daytime. As for Rick, he never mentioned the incident again. Maybe he thought I was nuts, or perhaps he was too passive to take much notice. He never talked much about anything.
A few days later I began to develop painful sores in my mouth. I could hardly eat or swallow. When I finally consulted a doctor, he told me I had a severe vitamin B deficiency.
“I don’t know what your lifestyle is,” he said, “but you’re under way too much stress.”
“But I eat healthy food and I exercise,” I protested.
“Healthful food and exercise are good, but they won’t balance out against too much stress. You’d better see about resting more and working less. And get rid of whatever is causing you stress. You’re only 28—much too young to be having these problems. The older you get the more serious this will become. In the meantime, I’m going to give you shots of vitamin B three times a week until you’re better.”
That afternoon I went home and looked in the mirror. My face was deeply lined around the eyes, the mouth, and the forehead. My hair was dull and lifeless; it had been falling out for some time. My skin color was a yellowish gray. My body was chronically fatigued and my figure misshapen. The pain inside me was unbearable. I felt old and washed up, and as far as I knew it was a permanent condition that could never be repaired. I sank into a depression that overtook all depressions I had ever suffered before. Once again I thought seriously about suicide, and planned it out in detail in my mind.
I never talked with anyone concerning what was going on inside of me, but on a record date with my Christian friend, Terry, I shared about my out-of-body experience and how it frightened me. She advised me to speak the name of Jesus over and over when I got scared. “It will take the fear away,” she told me.
I thought it was an odd piece of advice; nevertheless, at the first sign of fear I did what she said and the feeling lifted. I was surprised.
The name of Jesus had no special meaning for me, but if it had some kind of special power, then why not use it? At least this time it helped.
My emotional affliction was severely affecting my work. I began losing concentration, and my voice failed because of tension in my throat. One evening a friend called to give me the name of a psychiatrist. “Why don’t you give him a call?” she suggested. “He has helped me a lot and I know he could do the same for you.”
“Is this a doctor who will
talk
to me?” I questioned, remembering all the money I’d wasted on doctors I felt needed help more than I did. “I don’t need any more psychiatrists who make me do all the talking and then sit there looking either bored or like they think I’m crazy.”
BOOK: Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing
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