Dr. Marmer was a large, earnest man, with silver-gray hair and probing, blue eyes.
"Mr. Sheldon, what can I do for you?"
I thought of how I had run away from the meeting with the psychologist at Northwestern University.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
"Why did you come to see me?"
"I have a problem and I don't know what it is. I have a job I like at MGM. I'm making a lot of money. I won an Oscar a few days ago and - " I shrugged. "I'm just not happy. I'm depressed. I fought hard to get there, and I succeeded and . . . there's no 'there.'"
"I see. Do you get depressed often?"
"Sometimes," I said, "but everyone does. I'm probably wasting your time."
"I have plenty of time. Tell me about some of the things that have depressed you in the past."
I thought about all the times when I should have felt happy, and instead felt miserable, and all the times when I should have been depressed and was happy.
"Well, when I was in New York, a songwriter named Max Rich . . ." I talked and he listened.
"Have you ever felt suicidal?"
The sleeping pills from Afremow's drugstore . . . You can't stop me, because if you stop me now I'll do it tomorrow . . .
"Yes."
"Do you feel a loss of self-esteem?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a feeling of worthlessness?"
"Yes."
"Do you feel that you don't deserve your success?"
He was reading my mind. "Yes."
"Do you have feelings of inadequacy and guilt?"
"Yes."
"Excuse me." He leaned forward and pressed a button on the intercom. "Miss Cooper, tell my next patient that there will be a delay."
I felt a cold chill.
Dr. Marmer turned to look at me. "Mr. Sheldon, you're suffering from manic depression."
I hated the sound of it. "What exactly does that mean?"
"It's a brain deviation that involves episodes of serious mania and depression, where moods swing from euphoria to despair. It feels as though there's a thin screen between you and the world. So, in a sense, you're an outsider looking in."
My mouth was dry. "How serious is it?" I asked.
"Manic-depressive illness can have a devastating effect on people. At least two million Americans suffer from it, one in ten families. For some reason, it seems to strike artistic people. Vincent Van Gogh had it, Herman Melville, Edgar Allan Poe, Virginia Woolf, to name a few."
That made me feel no better. That was their problem.
"How long will it take to cure it?" I asked.
There was a long pause. "There is no cure."
I started to panic. "What?"
"The best we can do is to try to control it with drugs." He hesitated. "The problem is that sometimes there are bad side effects. Approximately one in five people who are manic-depressive eventually commit suicide. Twenty to fifty percent attempt suicide at least once. It's a major contributing factor in thirty thousand suicides a year."
I sat there, listening, feeling suddenly sick.
"There will be times when, with no warning, you will lose control of your words and your actions."
I was finding it hard to breathe.
Dr. Marmer continued. "There are various forms of the disorder. Some people can go weeks, months, or years with no extreme ups and downs. They have periods of normal moods. That type is classified as 'euthymia.' I believe that's the form you have. Unfortunately, as I said, there is no cure."
Now at least what was happening to me had a name. He gave me a prescription and I left his office, shaken. And then I thought, He doesn't know what he's talking about. I'm fine. I'm fine.
Chapter 19
Myths and rumors surround Oscar. If you win him, you'll never want again. If you win him, you'll never work again.
A week after I received my Oscar, Sam Weisbord stopped by my office.
"Congratulations, again. Where are you going to keep it?"
"I want to be modest about it. What would you think about the roof of my house with half a dozen spotlights on it?"
He laughed. "Spectacular!"
"I have to tell you, Sammy, winning it was a complete shock to me."
"I know," he said, dryly. "I heard your speech." He sat down and added casually, "By the way, I've just come from Benny Thau's office." Thau was Metro's deal-maker. "You have a seven-year contract here. They gave us everything we asked for."
I couldn't believe it. "That's wonderful." The power of the Oscar.
"One of the things they caved in on was your request to take three months a year off anytime you want to."
"Great." I wanted to be free to do other things.
I had moved into a small carriage house in Westwood. The house consisted of a small bedroom, a small den, a small living room, a small kitchen, and two small bathrooms. There was a garage attached that was bigger than the house. Tony Curtis and the beautiful Janet Leigh, both extremely talented actors, lived in an apartment a few doors away. They had a car, but no place to park it.
At a dinner party one night, Tony said, "We're having a problem parking on the street. I wonder if we could rent your garage."
"You can't rent it," I said, "but you can use it," and from then on their car was parked in my garage.
My house was much too small to give parties in, but I didn't know that, so I gave a lot of parties. I had been lucky enough to find a terrific Filipino cook, who also bartended and cleaned the house. Since I started at MGM, I had met a lot of interesting people. Ira Gershwin came to dinner with his wife, Lee. Kirk Douglas, Sid Caesar, and Steve Allen also came, along with their significant others. It was a long and wonderful guest list. More than once, Jules Stein, head of MCA, the most powerful talent agency in Hollywood, came to dinner with his wife, Doris. We often sat on the floor because there were not enough chairs, but no one seemed to mind.