eBook30th Anniversary, Digital Original (30th Anniversary, Digital Original)
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Overview
At publication the world as I knew it blew up in my face.
Christina Crawford’s Mommie Dearest cast a spotlight on the unspoken horrors of family violence and exorcised the demons of her childhood. But in the years following the controversial bestseller’s publication, the author’s resilience was tested in ways she never expected.
Crawford was forced to brave a stunning backlash intended to shame her, a film adaptation that bastardized her story and compounded the trauma, a descent into alcoholism, a divorce that ruined her financially, and a massive stroke that left her paralyzed. Staying true to her fighting spirit, she made a remarkable comeback.
More than a personal memoir of triumph over tragedy, Survivor—now with a new preface for its 30th anniversary—is an enlightening spiritual roadmap to recovery for anyone who has suffered the ordeals of physical and emotional abuse, devastating illness, or seemingly insurmountable despair. Crawford’s story is not just about the will to survive; it is about the unparalleled joy of coming out on the other side, finding calm, and celebrating a fulfilling life.
“The author of Mommie Dearest . . . hits her stride with this strong account of her simultaneous tragedies. . . . One closes this fine, moving read with great respect for Christina Crawford.” —Kirkus Reviews
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504049078 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 11/21/2017 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 268 |
| File size: | 31 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Since then, Crawford has worked in corporate public relations, was a partner in a winery, owned and operated a country inn, and spent eight years booking concert entertainment for a North Idaho casino. One of the first people appointed to the Los Angeles County Commission for Children’s Services, she also served one term as county commissioner in Idaho. Her regional TV show Northwest Entertainment has won three Telly Awards for excellence.
Crawford has been a lifelong advocate of issues for social justice, from the early days of child abuse prevention and family violence intervention to issues of the rights of women across the world. She lives in Idaho, where she continues to write and pursue creative projects.
Follow Christina on her Facebook fan page: https://www.facebook.com/ChristinaCrawfordAuthor
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
TRUTH — THE CATALYST
There is about the truth an atmosphere of excitement, a pervasive public interest that is not created by publicity and will not subside when the press leaves. It is a groundswell that touches every corner of ordinary life. The truth is also controversial. It creates heated arguments. It tests people's belief systems. Sometimes it temporarily polarizes factions of society.
The truth is exposé; a fundamental reexamination of something that has been taken for granted over a long period of time. Suddenly, people face-to-face with truth look at life with a different perspective. Things that were formally hidden now become glaringly apparent.
Truth is a point of demarcation. As with a major national event or disaster, human emotions are forced to the surface to combat the probability of uncertainty and even chaos.
Over the long run, truth is a catalyst. Though the understanding of truth may come as a lightning flash, the full realization of it over time changes many elements in the intricate fabric of our lives and connects events that previously seemed unrelated.
My truth became a book, an autobiography titled Mommie Dearest.
It is hard to remember that there was a time when the word "dearest" after someone's name didn't carry a negative double meaning, when ordinary hangers made of wire were not synonymous with anything other than the dry cleaners, when the connotation of the term "Mommie Dearest" had not been incorporated into everyday American language, and when child abuse was a hidden family tragedy not discussed in public, not recognized as a national issue. But that was before my book was published early in November 1978.
Looking back to early summer, 1977, when I began writing Mommie Dearest, Los Angeles was already in the midst of a severe drought. Temperatures over 105 degrees every day were no longer unusual. Water was rationed through meter reading and stiff penalties were imposed on violators.
The front yard at our small house on Beckford Avenue was brown. The lawn died in June. The asphalt driveway was dusty. We had two window air conditioners. One was in the bedroom and the other in the living room, but they both faded by mid-afternoon when the wind-driven Santa Ana heat blasted across the San Fernando Valley.
Every day I sat in the living room typing page after page on my old gray Royal standard. I aimed for ten pages a day, but sometimes the output was twenty or more. The days of past and present fused into one another as I delved further and further into those terrifying years. Entire memories suddenly appeared unannounced, jolting me into insights I hadn't anticipated.
Many, many days there were tears streaming down my face for hours. I lost count of the times I cried. It didn't matter. What surprised me was only that I thought I had cried those tears before. I thought that they had ended with the past.
As the days proceeded, so did the number of pages. So did my personal journey into a tangled nightmare from which I'd never completely recovered. Early in the pages I decided to recollect how it felt as a child experiencing the confusion, the lack of information, the events which seemed to have no beginning and no end, but just to have a middle in which I was eternally caught. I concentrated on remembering the feelings when someone important to my life disappeared. It shocked me to realize that as a child, I had lost almost everyone I loved.
Slowly most of the pieces of my life went together even when I still didn't understand why or how. That dual sense of discovery and helplessness was the very element that I was trying to elicit in the pages of my writing.
It was a painful process. It made me feel little and vulnerable. I wanted to hide. There were many days when I felt as though I had no skin to cover me. Those were very new and scary days. I felt too vulnerable to leave the safety of my home even to venture out to the supermarket.
Magically, I had been transported into the past. The past hurt. I was often immobilized by reliving the shame and sense of worthlessness I had experienced as a child. Once again I saw the night terrors and felt the choking hands, the clawing cold. As through a mysterious two-way mirror, I witnessed the few rays of hope sparkle and grow only to be dashed by ridicule or punishment.
I felt a renewed sense of frustration and anger about the raw injustice and incompetence which had surrounded my early life. As I wrote, it became clear that when I was a child there was no way out for me. I was locked into the struggle. What I had been forced to learn about life was only the struggle, never the reward. All I knew was a gut reaction to survive.
What emerged was an awful truth: the battle of my relationship with my mother was forever, because it was still inside me. But even before the publication of my book I realized as an adult that in order to save my own life and my soul, I had to leave her — and find myself. That process almost killed me.
CHAPTER 2
CHAOS
In San Luis Obispo, California, it was August 2, 1981.
This Sunday morning was going to be hot. At nine o'clock the temperature was already nearing eighty-five degrees when my husband and I reached the riding instructor's small farm. I was excited by the progress of my riding lessons. David watched outside the corral, awaiting his turn.
We were both trying to find ways of stepping out of the whirlwind of the book's publicity tours, of preparing for the release of the film Mommie Dearest — and getting back to life as we had understood it. And, in order to bring some humanity back into our marriage instead of just maintaining it as a business partnership between two workaholics, we were also trying to make room for entertainment and fun. We had decided that one way of achieving this goal would be the shared experience of riding lessons.
Our instructor, Janice, coached my moves in concert with the horse. It was one those rare moments when everything timed out right — the animal and rider in synchronized communication. We went from trot to canter on command. As the bay gelding surged forward, I felt a rush of freedom, of perfection. The warm sun bathed my face with tiny pin-pricks of perspiration. I felt my long blond hair begin to stick to the back of my neck. As I turned the far corner of the riding ring, I glanced directly at my husband. I realized I must be grinning like a kid yelling "look at me" because that is how he smiled happily back as we passed.
I wanted this morning to last forever. My childhood fantasy was coming true. In just a few more weeks David and I were going to be able to ride horseback together on our ranch, free as two birds, exploring the hidden trails and the wilderness in confidence.
With the pride normally attributed to a parent watching her kids winning a competition, I traded places and watched my husband complete his lesson. We'd been through so much together, worked so hard — it was wonderful to see him enjoying himself.
As I stood beside this wooden corral dressed in my jeans and boots it was a mark of progress for me to quietly remember how very different life had been in the past.
From 1958 until 1972 I was an actress in theater and television. But even before starting my own acting career, I had been a celebrity all my life, growing up in the camera lens of my mother's studio publicity photos. Being on display was not foreign to me nor did it seem special. It had been so much a part of my world from the very beginning as Joan Crawford's adopted daughter that it was just a given factor in life's equation of stardom and the power of money.
In a world where money is not just a single value, but often the only value, the money itself takes on human characteristics.
Clean or dirty, productive or unproductive, new or old, gross or class. These anthropomorphized money terms denoting personal traits are qualities we also apply to ourselves as human beings.
It is harder still to separate money from our feelings with regard to it. Loss of money equals grief, gain of money equals happiness, management of money equals mixed feelings of being trapped by it or not wanting to be responsible for it. Making money is fantasized as bringing success. "More is better" — but often equals only compulsive behavior loaded with high stress.
When money is the only value, we do things, behave in a way never imagined in other circumstances.
If you have money — or are perceived by others to have money — it appears that you are not entitled to have any serious problems. Or if you persist in having problems, you are not entitled to compassion from others, because the value of having money should compensate you well enough and provide you with adequate means of solving the difficulty.
Before Mommie Dearest was published, I was still caught up in that thought pattern about money.
Since childhood, my life revolved around what money could do, what money could buy, who could be influenced, and how money could bend the rules by which people without money were supposed to live, if not suspend those rules entirely.
I learned about the personalities of the men and women who could be bought, saw the power and sexual attraction of not just the money itself, but the ensuing power that money people assumed as an inherent right.
Money, the amount of it and the power surrounding it, was the social order, the driving force through which my young world operated. I was taught the rigid rules of gentility; how to eat properly, how to speak correctly, how to smile appropriately, when to exit, when, even, to flirt. Somewhere between princess and courtesan, my training progressed until it became evident that this training was not just for my benefit. I, too, had been bought with the power of money. My life was an adjunct, an amenity, a human prop in a much larger performance.
When that realization became intolerable for me to live with, I left home, with nothing to guide me except this elaborate training appropriate only to the world of money and power.
I had never felt safe in my whole life. I had never known whom to trust. I had never known what it was like to feel cared for or nurtured. And whenever I had cried, I had cried by myself, alone. I never remember being held gently in loving arms while I was in tears or trying to work out a problem either as a child or as a young adult.
My childhood home was not a safe place. Not even my own bedroom had been safe. Adults were not safe — they dealt in treachery. Friends were not safe — they could not keep secrets.
On my own, finding myself on the streets of New York City, armed only with eighteen years of life experience, it is a miracle I survived at all. None of my skills were geared toward making money and since there was no provision for either income or trust fund from my family, it was crucial for me to learn rapidly how to earn a living.
But, even at the depth of my personal despair and in the midst of very real fears about becoming a teenage bag lady, I carried with me some of the instincts of breeding that were undeniable. Sometimes it worked against me; I'd look for work only to be confronted with lots of questions about being a movie star's daughter. I'd ask for help and not be believed. Sometimes other people thought I must be "slumming" — a term used in the late fifties indicating the behavior of upper-class people who wanted to see what "real" life was like and traveled to Harlem to hear jazz music and Greenwich Village for coffee and poetry with the beatniks.
I, however, was actually living among the jazz musicians, the numbers runners, drunks in tenement hallways and acute poverty.
My mother rode in black limousines and lived in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue, less than ten blocks away. I collected neighborhood beer bottles, turning them in for the nickel refund in order to pay the fifteen-cent bus fare each day and buy cigarettes.
Life inevitably got better for me, but it was a slow and painful lesson. However, that act of sheer survival became the basis of my tenuous self-esteem.
There were so many things I didn't know how to ask questions about. So many things about the world that were not a part of my experience.
My knowledge contained a bizarre mixture of life at the very top and survival at the very bottom — nothing in between — nothing ordinary, nothing immediately useful.
Southern California, Laurel Canyon, in the early sixties was a little safer. I guess I was a hippie long before the media coined such a name for the emergence of a counterculture based on ideas of community instead of separateness. Almost everyone grew marijuana on the hillsides of Laurel Canyon. Most people planted it camouflaged in the middle of tomato bushes, which apparently worked well because no one ever seemed to get caught. And, "grass" was the drug of choice. Unlike New York, there weren't as many hard drugs, street drugs, killer drugs until LSD came around. The original movement grew out of economic disenfranchisement. We were thrown together, black and white, male and female, because the establishment locked us out of jobs, out of power, out of the money mainstream. The drug culture and Viet Nam came later, six or eight years later. In the beginning we were poor, discontented and invisible. It was later that we were radical and marched publicly in the streets.
So, for the ten years between 1960 and 1970 I wandered back and forth across this country. LA/NY–NY/LA like a migrant worker — an actress, a gypsy, a lost soul; looking for work, looking for love, searching for a place to belong, maybe someday even finding a sense of safety.
Along the way, a lot of people passed by me. With some I tried work, with others friendship. One of my fellow travelers even tried a brief two-year marriage with me.
Deep inside there was a part of me that remained closed despite the laughter, the progress, the earning of money, the accomplishments of my life. Out of a childhood of isolation and terror I had built an adult life of competence and responsibility.
The sadness I felt about all of my success was just a dominant color that permeated my life; There was not a real feeling about it. I was not yet in touch with the terror that motivated me.
I couldn't possibly face the sadness yet. I was still too angry about the past and too scared about the future to recognize my own grief, my sadness or loss.
And so, I relied heavily on my competence and sense of responsibility, on my ability to "take care" of things, people, family. I knew how to shoulder burdens. I knew how to work. I knew how to tolerate pain. I had to survive and endure. I drew people to me through instinctively guessing what they needed and then providing it for them, as though I were feeding their addiction.
I was driven to survive to get closer to where I had been, to succeed so that the suffocating sense of loss, humiliation, grief about the present course of my life would subside. It was not all right with me. I was scared every moment during my years out on the streets, longing to be protected and cared about, to feel secure and special. But there was no one to ask and no one from whom to receive. So I decided against needing, against caring, against trusting, against being nurtured and went forward with the business of survival.
When my efforts to make money through my acting career began to succeed, my desire was always to hold onto it for dear life. It was the one source of comfort, of safety, of peace and warmth. I hadn't yet learned about the value of money as a means of freedom. All I knew about money was in terms of right now, in terms of primitive security. I could breathe when there was money. My eyes could see, ears could hear. Without it, all systems shut down to concentrate only on survival.
Money sends out vibrations like blood attracting sharks. Substantial amounts of money spark the people-sharks into a feeding frenzy, exhibiting characteristics of sexual excitement, greed and pure treachery.
David and I first met in Los Angeles in 1971 when he was a commercial producer for a large Detroit advertising agency and I was still an actress.
Late one afternoon I got an urgent call to audition for a Chevrolet commercial, but only if I could be at the studio in half an hour. It was the fall season and I was hunting for antique furniture, specifically a dining room table, to complete my spacious 1920's-era Hollywood Hills apartment. There was no time to wash my long blond hair or even take a shower. So I put on a little makeup, wrapped a scarf around my hair, changed jeans and shirt and dashed out the door.
David and the director were sitting behind a table facing me in the audition room. They both looked exhausted. David wore dark glasses but I saw deep shadows under his eyes. Since there were only two lines of dialogue to read, I was puzzled as to why they were having difficulty casting.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Survivor"
by .
Copyright © 1988 Christina Crawford.
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
- Contents
- 30th Anniversary Preface
- Dreams
- Maps and Transitions
- Part One
- Phantasma
- Truth—the Catalyst
- Chaos
- Mommie Dearest
- Changing
- Shaping the Future
- Hollywood Deals
- Images
- Raging Controversy
- Tour of Duty
- Phantasmagoria
- Part Two
- Lost is a Place, Too
- Lone Soldier
- Child’s Play
- Sunday Laughter
- Coming Home
- Two Christinas
- Progress
- Wilderness Walk
- Waking Up
- Earth Mother
- Journey into the Ruins
- The Initiate
- A Gift Forever
- The Keys are in the Garbage
- Honoring The Daughter
- The Spirits Of Place
- Mapmaker
- A Moment in Time
- Image Gallery
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author