Lorraine Bracco - On the Couch

NOVEMBER 1996

T he postman tried not to look at me as he handed me a large stack of envelopes. The letters were official-looking, and many were stamped with alarms that betrayed their contents: Extremely urgentSecond noticeLast chance.

My fan mail, I joked, but he didnt laugh. He looked embarrassed. Well, who wasnt?

Some fans, I mumbled to myself as I added the letters to the growing mountain on my desk. I hadnt opened a single one. Even then, I knew it was nuts. Look at me, the famous actress in her gorgeous riverfront home, living her fabulous life. Was this someones idea of a joke?

In their increasingly frequent correspondence, my current group of fans expressed hurt, disbelief, sadness, and regret. But it was still early in our relationship. They had yet to progress to anger, hostility, and retribution.

Dear Lorraine,

Im sure it has slipped your attention that your account balance of $36,590 is six months past due. I know how busy you are, but

Lorraine,

I hate to bring this up, but the law firm is after me about when they can expect another payment on your past due account, which now totals $1,422,872.23

Lorraine,

Your check for $940 for the hearing transcript bounced. Please send another check so I can process your request.

Lorraine,

Republic Bank will immediately commence foreclosure unless they receive a payment of $41,065

Lorraine,

I hate to be a pest, but

The phone rang. I considered letting the machine pick up, but on the fourth ring, I grabbed the receiver.

Lorraine? It was my manager, Heather. Her voice sounded strained. Have you read the script?

Huh? Umm, its around here somewhere, I said vaguely.

Its been two months, she pleaded. Theyre waiting to hear.

I know, I know. I looked around the room. Where had I put the damned script? Heather, I dont think I can handle another script about the mob. I mean, how many Mafia roles can a girl play? If thats all they think Im capable of, then shoot me now.

Heather was getting tired of me. Lorraine, will you do me a fucking favor? Will you read the script? The guys coming in Tuesday. He wants to meet you.

Fine, Ill read it, I shouted back at her. Youre a pain in my ass, Heather.

Thats why they pay me the big bucks, she said, and hung up.

Mafia television garbage, I muttered. Was my career in the toilet or what? I needed to make some real money here, and they were sending me television pilots about mobsters. Jeez. No wonder I was depressed.

I always figured there were two kinds of people in the worldthe cheerleaders and the grumps. I was a cheerleader. The pep talker. Always ready with the pom-poms, always up for anything. Im your girl. You need someone to take a carload of kids to a horse show? Call me. My energy knew no limits. I could sew a hundred sparkly beads on a costume for my daughter Margauxs school play, cohost a benefit with Bobby Kennedy for Riverkeeper, and still be on a set the next day, raring to go. But as 1996 drew to a close, my razzle-dazzle had definitely fizzled. The cheerleader had left the building, replaced by a listless, middle-aged woman who couldnt get out of her freaking pajamas until midafternoon.

I felt stagnant. Not calm and still like the Hudson River on a mild day, but stale, like a swamp, a place lacking a fresh infusion of life. When I first started feeling down, Id told myself that I was worn out, and who could blame me? Id just come through a six-year custody battle for my daughter Stella that was so horrible and so bruising I felt like Id been beaten up. Id won my daughter, which was a huge blessing, but lost everything else: my friends, my dignity, my reputation. Despite my work in movies like Goodfellas, I was a good two million bucks in debt, and on the verge of losing my house. I had my two beautiful daughters and a husband, yet I was as alone as Id ever been in my life. My marriage to Eddie Olmosonly a couple of years oldwas shaky at best, and it looked like I was going to be losing that, too. On my worst days, I imagined being penniless, having to pack up my daughters and move back in with my parents.

What the hell? I was an Academy Awardnominated actress. Famous, glamorous, living in the big house overlooking the Hudson River. I was the envy of the ladies in the local PTA. People stopped me in the produce aisle of the supermarket to ask for my autograph. If they could see me now. If only they knew.

When the court awarded me custody in September 1996, I didnt even have a chance to be elated. It should have been over, but of course it wasnt; there would be appeals and endless wrangling over child support, and the steady flow of bills, bills, bills. I just couldnt take it anymore. Eddie was working in Los Angeles, and our long-distance marriage wasnt working at all. I needed a shoulder to lean on, and it wasnt there. In the past, I might have felt sorry for myself and had a good cry. But at this point, I was too numb to cry.

At first I thought I just needed a few days to get my act together, a little time to recuperate. But a few days turned into a few weeks, then a few months. And I wasnt feeling better. I was feeling worse.

My days took on a blankness, one after the other, one day the same as the next. Thank God I wasnt a drinker, and I didnt do drugs; otherwise, Id have been a goner for sure. Thinking back on how vulnerable I was, I really feel for people with substance-abuse problems. But my days were devoid of such drama. After Margaux and Stella left for school in the morning, Id sit with my coffee, aimlessly paging through magazines or staring out at the river. Sometimes Id get a surge of energy and put a load of laundry in, then forget it until Margaux discovered her favorite shirt mildewing in the machine and screamed, Motherrrr! Id call my parents: How ya doing? Good. Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine. Love ya. I was a bad actor. I plodded along, forcing myself to go through the motions, trying to be the same old me everyone knew. But I was counting the hours until I could get back into bed and pull the covers up over my head. Sleep was my only relief.