SMOTHERED

The two years I lived in L.A. felt like a series of failures to me, a demoralizing period when I discovered how straight-jacketed by my emotional problems I really was. I’d waited so many years to develop my creative abilities, only to find myself hamstrung by fears and insecurities so deeply rooted I didn’t know how to even begin to address them.

All I could think to do was try to work around them. I was so overcome with “performance fright” at my lessons with Charlie, for example, that my hands shook and I couldn’t play the assigned piece. So instead I had him show me how to do the fingering of my assignment for the following week—and went home and learned it without any further guidance.

When I tried to sell my dress designs, I was told I needed samples to show, so I borrowed a dress form from Arlen on a visit to the Bay Area, found an outlet that sold suede—lamb skins—in bright colors, bought a sewing machine that could handle lightweight leathers, and made up several vests and boleros with fanciful suede-on-suede appliques, the advantage of leather being that it didn’t ravel. But this, too, I found harrowing because I couldn’t afford to make mistakes—if I had to take out a seam, the punctures from the needle remained.

For a while, I had high hopes of earning a modest living as a substitute teacher at the elementary level—in Orange County you could get a provisional credential that didn’t require a fifth year of college—but then I found I couldn’t control the kids. My parents had disciplined me by intimidation and shaming, as I’ve said, methods I wasn’t willing to use, but, because I had no other models, I didn’t have any other tools at my disposal.

All these experiences weighed heavily on me, and once again I began to slide into depression. I seemed unable to take care of myself in certain ways; for one thing, I couldn’t manage to keep my gas tank filled and so would run out of gas and wind up stranded all over the place.

At the same time, I became zealous about my physical health and put myself on a strict health food diet, hoping that better nutrition would improve my emotional well-being too. Working my way towards becoming a vegetarian, I bought organic fruits and vegetables exclusively and ate only small amounts of poultry or fish. I wouldn’t even take an aspirin for a headache because I thought medication impaired the body’s natural functioning.

The only bright spots in my life were my visits with Ella. Some Saturdays I’d drive up to Santa Monica, where she shared an apartment with two roommates, and spend the weekend. My depression would lift spontaneously then, and I’d start feeling like a human being again. Ella was the one person in my life who reflected back to me a positive image of myself, who allowed me to see myself as attractive, smart, even funny. In her company I’d feel so normal that I couldn’t imagine ever becoming depressed again. But within an hour or two of my arrival back home, I’d feel a darkness descending over my spirit like a smothering blanket.

Above and below are two of the suede tops I made, the first without sleeves, and the second with a simpler border.