Lessons from the Mountain Read online

  Everyone told her, “It was beautiful. You looked great.”

  Then she said, “But how did I do?”

  “Oh, it was so pretty. The costume looked great, and so did you.”

  And she asked yet again, “But how did it look? Was my toe pointed enough?”

  “You were beautiful.”

  Not what she was asking. I understood she really wanted to know how the routine was, not how pretty people thought she was. So I told her she did a really good job, and yes, that toe could have been more pointed, but it was a solid performance.

  She seemed relieved, and was so sweet and unassuming. Her mom seemed to trust me and we hung out all weekend. I understood her on the beauty vs. performance comparison. I realized I was not alone in wanting to perform well.

  After raising all of us, Glen went on to teach kids on other shows. He continued the newspaper when he moved over to tutor on Full House. Glen sent me a few editions of their papers. I was glad to see the tradition continue.

  PORCELAIN TEARS

  As I grew, my insecurities got the best of me. I wanted to be what everyone wanted me to be, so I did what I was told. If someone didn’t like me, I would work harder. I needed approval from everyone so desperately, I would mold myself, trying to fit what they expected me to be so I could feel accepted.

  I felt so much pressure, I wanted to escape. I wanted happy. I read Harlequin romances every day, wishing for romance and a happy ending. Unlike most of my friends, I didn’t have a boyfriend and had not been asked out. I sat at home on prom and homecoming nights and cried, wishing I were pretty so someone would like me.

  My brother Michael saw me slipping into myself and tried to get me to stop reading and just talk, but I would have none of it. I wanted to hide. He took my book away from me once. You would have thought he cut off my air supply. I panicked and scrambled desperately to get the book back.

  When I was thirteen, I developed a severe case of insomnia. I played the part of “Little Mary Sunshine” during the day, and when I was alone at night, I became depressed, hormonal, and stressed. I fell into a pattern of worry, fear, and sadness. Often I stayed up all night. I went to the bathroom and started the shower. I would lie in the tub and cry. Alone, I felt it was safe to let it all out. Over the years, I shed many tears onto the porcelain, hidden from the world, secret. Until one day, my body betrayed me and I developed a rash.

  It was a red, itchy rash on my scalp. I pretended nothing was wrong, but my parents took me to a local dermatologist, who diagnosed seborrhea dermatitis. He gave us a prescription, but he expressed curiosity about the possible underlying causes of this condition.

  He wondered if I was under any stress, and without even asking me, my parents answered, “No, nothing unusual.”

  Did I speak up? No.

  Did my parents really think my life was “usual”? No, they thought it was a dream come true. Did they think I was coping? I hid it well, I guess. Years later, a doctor described me as “stoic.” I was taken aback. I’m an emotional person, so I would never describe myself that way. I washed my feelings down the drain, thinking I had tricked them all.

  I find it ironic that I only developed the rash on my scalp, not on my face or arms or anywhere else. Outwardly, I was still perfect. Could I have somehow willed the rash not to be where it would be visible on camera or obvious to the world? I only allowed imperfection where it didn’t hold up production.

  I managed to keep the rash in place, but I couldn’t convince my body to fall into a peaceful sleep. So my father—God love his Irish ways—offered me gin gimlets at night. “Here, drink this,” he’d say. “It’ll help you sleep.”

  “Larry, you’re gonna make that girl an alcoholic,” I remember my mother saying.

  My brother Michael—God love his hippie ways—knocked on my window one night. He climbed in carrying a lovely cloisonné pipe filled with pot. He said, “Forget the gimlet, try this.”

  So I became a pot smoker, and finally started to sleep. I reveled in the blissful escape, the relaxation. I reconnected with myself. I was lucky. I had some kind of shut-off mechanism, and I could set boundaries on my smoking. It wasn’t a party drug for me. I was young, only in middle school.

  Michael and his friends would take me to a beautiful place outside to walk, hike, and enjoy nature. I really connected with the outdoors during that time, and I feel it grounded me and gave me the escape I needed. I could calm down, get out of my head, and—in a beautiful canyon—enjoy the trees, rocks, and mountains. I never worked stoned; I was too disciplined for that. I knew my responsibilities. I did, though, finish a few term papers in a smoky haze.

  My dad caught me once and we had a huge fight. By now, I was in the ninth grade. He grounded me and threatened to limit my time with friends and take away my privileges. I threatened to move out. We came to an impasse right in the middle of the Northridge Mall. I walked away in a dramatic huff and didn’t speak to him for days.

  While I was asserting my independence, the fight was still unsettling. I felt horribly guilty and knew I had hurt my father. I never told my dad, but I stopped smoking pot that day. He never asked or followed through on his threats, and we never spoke of it again. It’s unfinished business. There were so many things left unspoken between us before he died.

  I put so much pressure on myself to get it right, to be perfect for everyone. From my desire to be a good cheerleader and make it to every game so I wouldn’t let the team down, to being a good actress, to earning good grades and fulfilling all of my activities. I had to be the good daughter to get my parents’ approval; I didn’t have time to get sick, but I often did.

  I really wanted to be “normal,” but the show didn’t leave much room for that. Even though I was busy working all day, as I said before, I had tried out for the cheerleading squad for my high school and was busy with that in the evenings after work. My dad was so dedicated to my having that experience; he came to work and waited while I changed into my uniform, then drove me to the games.

  When we performed our “hello” cheer for the other team, I was often recognized, and it ruined the whole thing for me. I just wanted to be a regular girl. It was embarrassing when people called out my character’s name, or, even worse, my famous brother’s name. I wanted to fit in, but instead I felt like a sore thumb. So much for being “normal.”

  I yelled at the games and stressed my vocal cords, and I was also susceptible to colds. I remember I couldn’t breathe on the set once, so they called in the studio doctor and he gave me a shot of adrenaline to clear up my lungs. I finished the scene. Then I was sent home with a fever and another prescription. I would often work until I got so sick, I needed a few days off to recover. I would push myself and work until I dropped from exhaustion. When I was about fifteen, I started to have stomach issues. I kept it to myself, thinking it was because of nerves. I didn’t want to bring any attention to myself. I thought it would go away.

  TEEN BEAT

  There were some gigs I really enjoyed, though. It was the Tiger Beat magazine era and all the heartthrobs were in the articles and on the covers. We started to be in them as well. I started going to parties with Willie Aames, Vince Van Patten, Valerie Bertinelli, Melissa Gilbert, Lance Kerwin, and other kids who were on shows.

  I even went on an arranged “date” with Leif Garrett. I had never met him. Imagine my surprise when we got a call from his manager “asking” me out! We went to an awards show in a limo. It was wild. I wasn’t allowed to date yet, but I was allowed to get in a limo with Leif that night. Anything for publicity, I guess.

  The Tiger Beat parties were fun. It was like seeing all your TV friends. I met Jimmy Van Patten, Vince’s brother. He was a good guy and became my “date” for many public events. Because he was from a Hollywood family and knew the business, I could take him anywhere. He usually knew more people than I did. I took him to a CBS affiliate dinner, and when they whisked me away to do something, he was fine. Jimmy also satisfied the press’s cur
iosity about what boy I might be dating.

  Scott Baio was another kid magazines made into a heartthrob. I didn’t get to know him until we did Circus of the Stars together. Ours was an aerial act thirty feet up called “Pirates in the Sky.” It was a terribly disappointing experience for me.

  My inner daredevil and dance background made me crave doing Circus, as we all called it. Judy did Circus; everyone did. I wanted to as well. It was a great show and I was excited when Bob Stivers asked me to perform.

  The shows had great costumes, with sequins, feathers, and elaborate trimmings. My first wardrobe fitting was to take my measurements. I went to work dieting after that session. They made the costumes on a sewing dummy expanded to your measurements. When I returned for my next fitting, the costumer looked at the rather square dummy and said, “I hope you’ve lost weight.” Holding the skimpy costume up, it looked like a cube. More like Fred Flintstone than glamorous circus performer. Was my body that square? Someone said, “The body that would fill out this costume might not look so good in it.” My starvation had paid off, and when the costume had to be taken in inches, the costumer was relieved. To tell the truth, so was I, one hurdle down.

  I drove myself out to Bob Yerkes’s house in the Valley, where he had a training yard. Scott’s dad, Mario, was there checking out the rigging. Anyway, we started learning the act on the ground first. Two men who performed for the professional circus were there to train us. Mario looked at the rig and didn’t know if he wanted Scott doing it. He said, “Get the girl up there and let’s see how it goes.” So I got up on the rig and was fine. I am a natural monkey, as my mom used to tell me. I climbed the jungle gym in our backyard before I could walk, and I scared my mother half to death. This was not too tough for me. Mario still seemed unsure about Scott on the apparatus. The trepidation transferred to us all and it went downhill from there.

  I still don’t fully understand how something so fun could get so weird, but I do know Scott and I never connected. One of the reasons was because we each trained separately with our professionals; so when we were alone, it was scary and a little odd. I tried to be encouraging, but I think Scott felt really nervous and pressured. I tried to joke and tease him into relaxing, but he pulled away and the act suffered.

  During a rehearsal, he made a verbal call I was supposed to make. I wasn’t ready. So when he called for the rig to be moved, it hit me in the head, and the anchor rope pulled across my wrist, burning me. I was mad and hurt, and, of course, didn’t say anything. I felt unsafe with him as my partner and the act suffered, which can be dangerous thirty feet in the air. I made one last attempt to lighten things up and joke around when we got to Vegas, but Scott was into his own thing. I was disappointed but not surprised when it didn’t go well for the taping. I felt like Brooke did when she finished her act for Circus, but I knew better than to ask how it went. As a trained dancer, I knew I could do better and felt embarrassed at how it turned out. I was so used to a family atmosphere when I worked, I innocently expected all other sets to be the same. Lesson learned: not all actors are committed to the ensemble; found out more than once later on that was true.

  The fashion shoots, Tiger Beat photo sessions, and commercials were a mixture of fun and famished fatigue. I dieted to look good in the clothes. I loved to work away from the show, to do something different and wear modern clothes.

  One gig, a Sea Breeze ad, was so much fun I remember it well. The theme was “Clean is a Feeling,” and I was familiar with the product because our makeup man used it as a staple on the set. My guardian, Cori, and I went to Laguna Beach and stayed in the Surf and Sand Resort so we could be at the location early in the morning. The chilly morning air, the sea gulls, and the sand were so different from the normal days’ filming, and I was excited to be having an adventure, even if it was for just one day.

  I thought I’d left Erin behind for just a little while, but even on the Sea Breeze ad I couldn’t get away from Erin. They brought out a piece of my wardrobe from the show. Yuck, not that one! Clean is a feeling, not an old, dirty dress. They arranged it to look like I was on the Waltons’ set, and I wore the dress in the shoot. Very clever, I’ll give them that. I also sat in a chair with my name on it. That was nice since we kids didn’t have chairs with our names on them. (I am grateful Michael Learned changed that for us one Christmas a few years later.)

  I rode a horse through a freshly mown grass field, the salty ocean breezes blowing through my hair. Back and forth, take after take, the gelding’s legs cantered, I felt so free and was having a great time. I was a good rider. Besides all those hours riding Blue, the Waltons’ mule, on the backlot, my dad took us horseback riding a lot. Then my allergies kicked in. That grass and hay thing again. If it was just the horse, crew, and Cori, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. But still to come? I had to shoot a dinner scene with a male model playing my date in the ad. The glamour, the attention…the tissues.

  So with the grass and horse dander, and hard work, I got sick again. I remember Cori driving me back up to L.A. I was bundled up, shivering. I looked up, and all the windows on my side of the car were steamed up with the heat from my fever. I spent the next few days in bed.

  MILK, MAALOX, AND DONNATAL

  After I recovered from the allergies, a new crack began to open in my façade. I could no longer hide some stomach pains I’d begun having. Cori took good care of me and when the pain got worse, she noticed. Off to the doctor I went. It was right before the airing of one of my first expanded storylines for an episode.

  Diagnosis: I had the beginnings of an ulcer. The doctor prescribed Donnatal, and told me to drink milk and Maalox. He put me on a restricted diet so my stomach could heal.

  When I returned to the soundstage, I saw Claire Whitaker and Rod Peterson, our producers, approaching me with a carton of milk and a big box of crackers. Something was up. Claire handed me the box of saltines.

  “Here, Mary Beth, eat these,” she told me, watching my face.

  “What? Why?” I could see the worry in her face.

  “Your episode’s preempted, but only in California because of a political debate. The rest of the country will see it.”

  I didn’t get to see my special episode. I ate the saltines, instead. I should have known politics were in my future somehow.

  CAN YOU FIT IN…

  So here’s the truth. During this time, I started yo-yo dieting. In the episode where I was “the Jefferson County Cutie,” remember when Ben takes a picture of Erin in short shorts and a tie top with midriff showing and submits it to a newspaper contest? Knowing I was going to do that photo shoot for the picture, I starved myself. In a photograph of me at the time, I’m sucking in my stomach and looking a bit crazed in the eyes as I tried to look thin.

  Being called the “pretty one” had been part of my entire body image struggle. Early on, someone had whispered in my ear, “You know, you’re the pretty one, but don’t tell anyone I said that, because it would hurt the other girls’ feelings.” Why would anyone say that? Imagine a grown-up telling a kid that. I wanted to believe it was true, but why would it be a secret? I wasn’t able to separate the fact they were whispering something that sounded nice, but telling me not to repeat it to anyone, which made it bad. The only logical conclusion was that being “pretty” must be a bad thing, not a compliment. Yet, it was something people said to me. Can you say “mixed message”?

  Another body image rock I tripped over happened when I had gone in before a new season to get fitted. I was fourteen, and when I got the call for the fitting, the wardrobe woman asked, “So, can you still fit into last season’s clothes, or have you gained more weight?” I knew I wasn’t the same as I was at the end of the last season, so I started another diet.

  With that comment etched across my mind, the standard became: “Pretty equals thin.”

  This remark sent me into a panic. I couldn’t believe it. If she was wondering, then everyone else must be talking about me. They must think I was fat, too. I w
ondered, was this an inquiry sent from the producers down to the wardrobe department? Or worse, the network? Were they mad at me? Would they fire me? I went from panic to starving for perfection again.

  SARAN WRAP AND M&M’S

  I tried so many diets, I can’t remember them all. One season after we wrapped filming, I remember sitting in a hot car with Claire Reynolds, my neighbor, our bodies covered in Saran wrap. We’d seen the infomercial for fat suits that helped you sweat off the pounds. We made our own version. We rolled up the windows to heat the interior of the car and even put on our coats. Somewhere inside me, that safety valve that protected me from really harming myself opened, and while we sat there, puddles of sweat forming, we started to talk about one of my favorite things: warm M&M cookies right out of the oven, usually how I broke a diet.

  The more we talked, the more we realized we’d had enough. We went inside, made the cookies, and ate them all. My rebellious side was a saving grace at times. While not the most reliable, it did keep me in some kind of balance.

  I followed the Atkins diet for a long time. I was so strict on it, I would not eat anything not on the plan. In a lunch scene one day, our director asked me to take a big bite of an apple. I refused, because it wasn’t “allowed.” He argued that I had to, because it was lunchtime in the script and Erin would eat.

  “No,” I said. “Erin’s not eating the apple.”

  I was so angry that they had encouraged me to lose weight, and now they were pressuring me to blow my diet. It made no sense to me at all. I was only thinking of being thin, not of my character, or acting, or even what mattered to me the most: to be good on the show. I was stubborn and stood by the diet. Either they wanted me thin or fat. Somebody, somewhere, choose already!

  When my bullheadedness spurred me to extreme measures, my teenage resistance kicked in and I would diet—or not—depending on my mood. In the beauty contest episode, they put Erin in a pink crepe dress with lace. It was a period piece out of the wardrobe department, so it couldn’t be altered. I needed to fit into it.