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Chapter Twenty
Disconnect

I TRY TO
make the best out of every situation, and I was looking for friends who did the same. I had assorted friends through my meetings and otherwise, but I didn't have the fully formed group of female friends that I wanted. Friendships have never come easily to me, especially friendships with women. When I'm in my bluest of blues, I think,
God, I have been alone my entire life.
My relationship with my mother instilled in me a sense of longing for connection followed immediately by mistrust. That pattern was replicated throughout my youth and is still at play today.

Kids pick up skills on the playground as they make their first friendships, and sort and re-sort themselves over the school years. I missed out on those valuable lessons, as I never really had the opportunity to be a child, much less a child who played with other children.

In 1972, when I arrived at boarding school after leaving my mother's ranch, it was the first time I'd really been exposed to other kids (unless you count the teenage delinquents my mother harbored, which I don't). I was an uncivilized little scalawag without any sense of how children were expected to look or act. My shoes, if I remembered to put them on, were invariably on the wrong feet. My hair stuck out in all directions. I had a weird, robotic affect when I spoke.

After
Paper Moon
was filmed, I went to a new school, the Ojai Valley School. I was a friendless urchin-freak there, just as I had been at Tree Haven. But when the movie hit theaters nationwide, my stardom suddenly outshone my social awkwardness and I found some friends. I was relieved to be accepted, but I wasn't an idiot. I knew they liked me only for my newfound fame. It was a sudden, obvious shift. I got that what they liked was my celebrity, not necessarily me.

My life with my father—starring in
Paper Moon
and all that followed—transformed me, but instead of becoming an everyday schoolgirl, I became a quiet, watchful girl-woman who, rather than make age-appropriate friends with my peers, set my sights on connecting with my father's girlfriends and other women in our shared world.

Once, when Ryan took me on a trip to Acapulco, I stole anything I could grab out of our hostess's bathroom. I was ten and years away from dropping the nasty stealing habit I'd picked up at boarding school. Ryan came up to me and said, “Tatum, where's all the stuff?”

I said, “The stuff? I didn't steal anything!” The truth was written all over my face. I was a ten-year-old, not a criminal.

Ryan said, “If you don't tell me . . .”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “It's under the bed.”

I had no idea at the time why I did it—what does a preteen want with perfume or makeup?—but now it's clear to me. I didn't want friends my own age. I wanted a mother, a female role model. I wanted Cher, Bianca Jagger, Ursula Andress, Anouk Aimée. I tried to pull these women closer. Stealing was a way to appropriate their stuff and habits. Looking back, it's a pretty funny assembly of female role models, but I tried on their shoes, I borrowed their clothes, I stole their perfume, I thought of them as friends. I was an unrepentant thief until I was fourteen, when I was shooting
International Velvet
in London and I almost got busted in an Yves Saint Laurent shop taking a shirt. I look back and laugh at myself now—I haven't stolen anything in thirty-three years.

My father and Anjelica Huston started dating when I was twelve. They were together for several years. She used to take me horseback riding when I was getting ready for the movie
International Velvet
. I loved and adored her, and, as always, was fixated on the elements of her femininity.

When Sean and I had gone to dinner with Anjelica over the summer, as I kissed her hello I asked, “Do you still wear Miss Dior?” Though we've seen each other many, many times over the years, I'm sure she was thinking,
Oh my God, Tatum is still obsessed with my perfume after all this time.

WHEN I WAS
a teenager, I discovered that some people, mostly women, befriended me to get to Ryan. That was an eye-opener, and I discovered that there was a safety in people who were already known or successful on their own terms. When I dated Andy Gibb and Michael Jackson, I knew they weren't going out with me because of who I was. They didn't need me. The same was true with John. He wasn't attracted by my fame. If anything, he wanted it to go away. He was too famous as it was.

When John and I got married, we traveled constantly to tennis tournaments around the world. I'd grown up surrounded by men, and on the tennis circuit, it was more of the same. I spent most of the time with John and his brothers, and then my first two babies were boys. It was fun being a guy's girl.

I didn't have much of a chance to establish real bonds with people in New York. Even if I'd had the opportunity to make friends, I'm not sure I really knew how. But at the time I didn't notice or mind the isolation—John and I were busy with his international career and our growing family.

With the divorce, whatever connections I'd formed in New York were pretty much severed. Those relationships, it turned out, were the kind that money or fame often attract. We were surrounded by people whose livelihoods benefited from friendship with us. These friendships can certainly be and often are genuine—a realtor, a home designer, an art dealer—but when it came to the divorce, those mutual friends and acquaintances unanimously sided with John.

Eventually, I did make a few real friends in New York—most notably, Kyle. When I go to New York, I always stay with Kyle. I love Kyle's energy. He is funny and ambitious and always upbeat. When we are together, we sing and dance and go to movies and the theater. And watch reality television. Above all, Kyle is loyal and dedicated in a way that's indescribable. In my whirlwind life I have met all sorts of people in all different walks of life, but in Kyle I found a soul mate. But now, Kyle was leading a very busy life in New York and I was in L.A.

Spending my childhood in the company of adults and being somewhat isolated in my marriage left me with a hollow feeling. When I published
A Paper Life,
I set free the garbage barge of damage that I had dragged behind me for so many years. Afterward, I felt lucky to have survived. I walked with a lighter step and a softer heart. I wasn't so watchful and protective, worried about what might happen next. I was finding that it worked better in the world to bring a smile to the table. It sounds cheesy, coming from a woman with tattoos and hard-core drugs in her past. But I was really trying to change. I wanted to make new choices, to find a better life. That meant trying to explore opportunities I'd missed, like having strong female friendships.

I had grown up in L.A., and I thought I was returning to a place where I had old, loyal friends. But years had passed. I had struggled and grown, and maybe the simple truth of the matter is that, during my years in New York, I had grown away from my old friends.

As I spent time with old and new friends, it was hard to know whom to trust. Did people like me, Tatum, or did they like “Tatum O'Neal”? I knew to watch out for people who were interested in me for fame's sake. This became all too apparent when I started working on the docudrama. Some friends were overexcited, to say the least. Nobody blatantly came up to me and said, “Hey, I want to be on TV! Can I be on TV with you? Huh? Can I?” Actually, I wouldn't have minded that. Especially if it might help their careers. I respect ambition. Instead, they insinuated themselves into my life, not-so-subtly reminding me how very close we'd
always
been.

IN AA THERE
were other complications that arose among my friendships. One of the hardest was when I noticed that I hadn't been hearing from my friend Tony. I was concerned. Tony struggled with his sobriety, but he'd been doing really well. He was very involved in AA, and he was feeling good about it. He had been sober for almost ninety days. But I had lent him some money, and when I didn't hear from him, I worried that he was spending the loan on drugs.

I started calling and texting him, telling him how worried I was and asking him to just let me know that he was all right.

When I didn't hear back, I finally called his boyfriend. He said, “Tony's fine. He's just sleeping.” But somehow I knew he was lying.

I said, “Put him on the phone,” but his boyfriend refused.

THE NEXT DAY,
I continued my campaign, texting our mutual friends to find out if they'd heard from Tony. Nobody had heard a single word. Finally, Tony shot me a short text: “I'm fine. Leave me alone. Stop bugging me Tatum.” Then I knew for certain something was wrong.

I texted Tony, saying, “Here's the thing, Tony. If you didn't use, which is what you're saying, then where are you? Usually we speak at least once a day. What's going on? Why did you just disappear? Something must have happened. As a friend, I'm curious.” No response.

I was devastated. Knowing that he was in danger and not hearing back from him was scary. Not only was I worried about Tony, but I also wondered about the friendship. It was hard enough for me to make friends. Why did I pick people who were unavailable? When I called Patty to talk about it, she wondered if God put Tony in my life to show me what it feels like when your loved ones use. Maybe it was a lesson for me:
See this? This is something you never want to make your children endure again.

Finally, Tony e-mailed to say, “I didn't tell you the truth—I did get high.” After this confession, Tony, caught up in the chaos and drama of his relapse, started texting me like crazy, asking what people were saying about him at meetings. I didn't want to gossip with him. I just said, “Whatever you're doing to stay sober isn't working. Is it your self-esteem? Your boyfriend? Your therapist? I don't know what you're planning to do differently, but something big has to change.” Unless he had an epiphany, he wouldn't be able to stay sober for any length of time.

My emotions surrounding Tony's relapse were split. While having a friend in jeopardy upset me, of course, the opportunity to support him made me feel proud and capable. That feeling inspired me to keep fighting in order to be strong for him—and any other friends who decided to come back to sobriety and wanted help doing so. If they wanted to jump on my lifeboat, I was right there, but I was not going down with them.

When I told Patty what was going on, she suggested that I take a thirty-day break from Tony until he got himself better. I needed to have clearly defined relationships. I didn't want to be sucked into the world of relapse, which is full of lies and deceit. But Patty's recommendation wasn't just for the sake of protecting me. It was important to show Tony that if he couldn't stay sober, he couldn't be part of my life. Tony was a successful businessman and a compelling guy. It was easy for him to convince me and everyone else around him that he was dedicated to his sobriety, but, as we all knew, he'd been relapsing every three to six months for the last five years. In a 12-step program, where there are people who have been sober for twenty to thirty years, there isn't much tolerance for people who continually take from the program without ever giving back to it. Someone who relapses chronically starts to feel like a burden. Maybe it would help Tony to see that if he continued to do this, he would eventually exhaust our support. He would lose all his friends. Tough love actually works sometimes. Much as we wanted to help him, at some point he had to commit. If he stayed with the program, he would have the love and safety of a group that was doing exactly what he was doing. Much as I wanted to be there for my friend, I listened to Patty, kept my distance, and prayed for Tony.

Boundaries aren't hard for me with friends—intimacy is. Even when it came to people I trusted, I wasn't used to having them in my life. I didn't have the ordinary habits of friendship that most people have. Much as I love Patty, I even struggle with calling and engaging with her as much as I could. I have trouble answering the simplest questions. If she asks how I am (and Patty isn't just being polite—she really means it when she asks), I'm not sure of the answer. It's difficult for me to know exactly how I feel. How am I? Am I good? I think I'm good. In the past, when I didn't feel good, my father insisted that I was fine. Maybe I should have been fine. But I know that life and friendships can grow and thrive in spite of such self-doubt and hesitation. I feel grateful to have Patty in my life and to know that I can turn to her, and most of the time, I do.

I wanted to connect with people who challenged themselves and always tried to move forward. I'd found wonderful support from friends at my meetings, but I still imagined myself surrounded by a pack of strong, awesome women, preferably women who had had children, women who wanted to work, women who were ambitious and funny, women who didn't feel sorry for themselves. I finally felt ready, and it was getting easier to connect, but I was busy with the show, and it was hard to make time. I had Emily, Patty, and a few other trusted and fun confidantes. For now, that was enough.

Chapter Twenty-One
The New Generation

WITH HIS FIRST
job behind him, Sean turned all his energy back to his true goal: acting. When Sean was in high school, I took him to plays like
Doubt,
Pillow Man,
and
Glengarry Glen Ross.
Seeing those plays, Sean connected to the actors. He started reading about Montgomery Clift, Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Henry Fonda, William Holden, and James Dean, as well as the director Elia Kazan; he watched every one of their films more than once. These were his heroes, and he wanted to follow in their footsteps. Sean had been bitten by the acting bug.

Sean's dedication is really quite extraordinary—more focused and serious than mine ever was. For me, acting was a way to escape school. Beyond that, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I didn't know that every director wouldn't be like Peter Bogdanovich, saying, “Hey, Tatesky, when you look at that guy, look at him like
this
.” I came to grips with that on my second movie,
Bad News Bears,
when the director didn't act out the scenes for me. As I matured, it dawned on me that acting was a vocation, not just a get-out-of-school-free card. Could I do it? Did I want to? Eventually, I went to New York to figure out if I wanted to be an actor as an adult. But Sean made an informed decision after completing high school and college. He chose acting as a young man. He would have a very different experience, and I looked forward to that for him.

Being a twenty-three-year-old would-be actor in Los Angeles is not the most straightforward career choice in the world. So, at the same time as I tried to support Sean's efforts, I urged him to get a job in order to support himself. I tried to let him know that the day might come when I would stop helping him pay the bills.

I heard about all the details of Sean's efforts to break into the industry, but so far no work had materialized. I myself had never broken into the industry the hard way, so all I could do was place my hope alongside Sean's and try to come up with ideas where I could.

One day I came home after a day of writing, working on the show, and going to the gym. I was in desperate need of a nap. Just as I was drifting off, I heard Sean's key in the door. He sat down on my bed and said, “Mom, I had a fender bender.” I sat up. He looked fine and quickly reassured me that nobody was hurt
.

The woman had taken a picture of the license plate with her cell phone. The car was registered to me. I envisioned the cops coming to the door at any moment. As I sat there trying to wrap my head around that, Sean's phone rang. It was his manager. He had an audition for
Law & Order
.

This was good news, but Sean was dumbfounded by the combination of good and bad events. When he hung up the phone, his face turned bright red. He was heading for what he calls a Level Ten Tantrum. It's not easy to be John McEnroe's son and Ryan O'Neal's grandson. Sean inherited some of his father's perfectionist tendencies and his inability to lose at anything. He has a tendency to blow up before thinking a situation through. And then there's what Sean gets from me. I am no shrinking violet, and I have a temper. So Sean, from the get-go, had TNT in his DNA. If undirected and undisciplined, that can lead to total disaster. But, in our family at least, success has gone hand in hand with force of personality. If channeled correctly, it can lead to total greatness.

The first part I ever auditioned for was in
Urban Cowboy
. I was auditioning for the part Debra Winger would play, and at fifteen I was young for it. At the time, I was living in a house on Beverly Grove, up above Beverly Hills, with Ryan and Griffin. I wasn't going to high school. I had asked my father if I could drop out, because everyone else was doing drugs. He said, “Okay.” Instead, I stayed home, reading the books that my father and Peter Bogdanovich gave me:
Great Expectations,
Wuthering Heights,
The Catcher in the Rye,
From Here to Eternity
.

Sue Mengers had been my agent ever since
Paper Moon,
but she had married Jean-Claude Tramont and was moving to Paris, so nobody was paying much attention to my career. The night before the audition, somebody (probably my father) said, “Tatum, tomorrow you're going to an audition.” A messenger delivered the pages from the script, but I had no idea what to do with them, so they just sat in their envelope in the front hall, like any old piece of mail. The next morning, I put on high heels that I'd gotten at Theodore's and a cotton skirt. John Travolta had just done
Saturday Night Fever
. Because I knew Travolta was going to be in the movie, and I wanted to get the part, I abstained from smoking pot that morning. At the time, I thought that counted as an effort at professionalism. I drove myself to the audition, tried to do what they asked of me, and drove myself back home. Needless to say, I didn't get the part.

As Sean's stage mother I tried not to get overly involved, but I wanted to be there for him. I might give him a hint here or there, but I didn't usually give him line readings. I trusted his instincts as they were and his ability to develop them further. Really, if I thought he'd be disappointed in what acting had to offer, that it might not make him happy, or that he wasn't cut out for it, I would tell him. For better or worse, I'm relentlessly honest. Kevin thinks a white lie is appropriate if you don't like someone's haircut, but I can't do it. I don't know how else to be.

I ran lines with him, made us dinner, and then ran lines with him some more until he knew his part by heart. The next morning, I sent him a text saying, “You did great last night. I'm really proud of you.” Later I sent another: “Good luck today. Let me know how it goes.” I meant what I said sincerely, and at the same time I was aware that these were simple phrases, the obvious words of support that a parent feeds a child. It crossed my mind that I would have loved to hear words like that growing up. I would have loved to have someone I could go to with my fears. Someone who would support me and give me encouragement.

Sean would pay for the fender bender with money he had saved from his modeling days, but, sadly, he wouldn't get the
Law & Order
part. Regardless, it felt good to correct the course with my son. Sean's self-esteem and confidence were intact. That would serve him well as an actor. I was glad he wouldn't go into his auditions with the doubt I knew so well.

That night, when he finally felt good about the lines he'd practiced, Sean went home; I walked Pickle and went to sleep. Although he went home to his own apartment, it was like Sean and I were back in another phase of life, with me taking care of him, helping him with his homework, and seeing him through the mistakes a kid makes as he's figuring it all out. I minded, because my own life was tiring enough, and yet I didn't mind one little bit.