From 
Del.icio.us
Digg
Reddit
Facebook
StumbleUpon
It was a circus, loud and boisterous and fun for us kids, but to my mother -- who'd won an Oscar at age 16 for The Miracle Worker, and had gone on to star in "The Patty Duke Show" -- those days were full of chaos and misery. Part of it was the stress of mixing work, travel and family. But the real problem, though she didn't know it, was that she suffered from bipolar disorder -- an illness that sent her on dizzying swings between depression and mania.
As children, we just called the episodes her "freak-outs." For a time, she'd be kind and cheerful, determined to keep an orderly home and teach us to say "please" and "thank you." Then something would set her off -- one of us sassing her, or an argument with my father, with whom she had a passionate but explosive relationship -- and she would rocket into hysteria. There would be shrieking and slapping; she'd throw dishes or break toys. Once she went after me with a wire coat hanger, Mommy Dearest-style. She would speed away in her car, then come back hours later and lock herself in her bedroom, where she'd stay for days in a state of overwhelming despair. And when the storm passed, she'd be so racked with guilt that she would shower us with gifts.
Ninety-nine percent of the time I had it good -- I realize now -- and the one percent that was painful made me appreciate the other 99 all the more. Mom would cook wonderful meals for us: Welsh rarebit, spaghetti carbonara, a roast that was so delicious I wish I were eating it tonight. She would read us the great children's classics, acting them out in a way that helped me focus; I did my best book reports after her performances. We had flag football games and friends running through the house. There was always an underpinning of love. And because my father taught me to put myself in the other guy's shoes, I understood that when my mother did lash out, it wasn't really directed at us.
Mom's own childhood had been a nightmare. She grew up poor in New York City, with a mother who was clinically depressed and given to violent rages. Her father was an alcoholic who left when my mother was six. At seven, Mom was discovered by a pair of theatrical managers, John and Ethel Ross, who saw her as a ticket to fame and fortune -- for themselves. They changed her name from Anna to Patty, and tried to control her, from the way she spoke and dressed to the very thoughts in her head. After she went to live with them in her teens, they never let her close her bedroom door; she says they fed her pills and molested her. By the time my mom got together with my father, she'd been married twice -- the second time for 13 days -- and had attempted suicide several times.
Yet she was terrifically strong-willed, and once she got away from the Rosses, nobody could push her around. She announced she would march in a gay rights parade when I was about 10. She went ahead in spite of death threats -- I remember security consultants coming to give us karate lessons and bulletproof vests, just in case -- saying nothing would stop her from supporting her friends. When I was 14, she became president of the Screen Actors Guild. After her bipolar disorder was diagnosed in 1982 and medication began to control her symptoms, she went on to become an outspoken advocate for the mentally ill. Instead of hiding her troubles, she used her experience to help others, writing a memoir, Call Me Anna, and a guide to manic-depressive illness titled A Brilliant Madness.
Most remarkably, perhaps, my mother managed to find happiness and peace. It wasn't with my father, I'm sorry to say, from whom she was divorced in 1985. But in 1986 she married her current husband, a military man, and moved with him to a farm in Idaho. They're still there, feeding the animals and watching the sunrises and sunsets. And her acting is still going strong.
Mom has come to understand that all the turmoil she endured has actually been her salvation. In her autobiography, she thanks the Rosses for turning her into a star. She knows that her pain has given her a unique perspective on the world. And while she tried to protect me from the hardships she suffered, I'm a beneficiary of her wisdom. When something bad happened to me, I used it to fuel something good. Watching her grow, I learned to grow. She passed on her love for acting, and planted the seeds of ambition by demanding the best of me. Her activism inspired my work as a literacy campaigner, which is as important to me as anything I've done on-screen. And by living her life as an open book, she taught me to do the same.
Advertisement 
Your Comments
See all
...