‘On the Couch’ with ‘The Sopranos’ psychiatrist

You may know psychiatrist Jennifer Melfi on HBO's hit series, “The Sopranos,” but there's a lot you may not know about the actress who plays her, Lorraine Bracco. In her revealing and sometimes shocking memoir, it's Lorraine herself who's “On the Couch.” Here's an excerpt:

One
Doctor, Heal Thyself

Hope comes in many forms.
— Dr. Jennifer Melfi

The postman tried not to look at me as he handed me a large stack of envelopes. The letters were official-looking, and many were stamped with alarms that betrayed their contents: “Extremely urgent” ... “Second notice” ... “Last chance.”

“My fan mail,” I joked, but he didn’t laugh. He looked embarrassed.

Well, who wasn’t?

“Some fans,” I mumbled to myself as I added the letters to the growing mountain on my desk. I hadn’t opened a single one. Even then, I knew it was nuts. Look at me, the famous actress in her gorgeous riverfront home, living her fabulous life. Was this someone’s idea of a joke?

In their increasingly frequent correspondence, my current group of “fans” expressed hurt, disbelief, sadness, and regret. But it was still early in our relationship. They had yet to progress to anger, hostility, and retribution.

Dear Lorraine,
I’m sure it has slipped your attention that your account balance of $36,590 is six months past due. I know how busy you are, but ...

Lorraine,
I hate to bring this up, but the law firm is after me about when they can expect another payment on your past due account, which now totals $1,422,872.23 ...

Lorraine,
Your check for $940 for the hearing transcript bounced. Please send another check so I can process your request.

Lorraine,
Republic Bank will immediately commence foreclosure unless they receive a payment of $41,065 ...

Lorraine,
I hate to be a pest, but ...

Penguin

The phone rang. I considered letting the machine pick up, but on the fourth ring, I grabbed the receiver.

“Lorraine?” It was my manager, Heather. Her voice sounded strained. “Have you read the script?”

“Huh? Umm, it’s around here somewhere,” I said vaguely.

“It’s been two months,” she pleaded. “They’re waiting to hear.”

“I know, I know.” I looked around the room. Where had I put the damned script? “Heather, I don’t think I can handle another script about the mob. I mean, how many Mafia roles can a girl play? If that’s all they think I’m capable of, then shoot me now.”

Heather was getting tired of me. “Lorraine, will you do me a fucking favor? Will you read the script? The guy’s coming in Tuesday. He wants to meet you.”

“Fine, I’ll read it,” I shouted back at her. “You’re a pain in my ass, Heather.”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she said, and hung up.

“Mafia television garbage,” I muttered. Was my career in the toilet or what? I needed to make some real money here, and they were sending me television pilots about mobsters. Jeez. No wonder I was depressed.

I always figured there were two kinds of people in the world — the cheerleaders and the grumps. I was a cheerleader. The pep talker. Always ready with the pom-poms, always up for anything. I’m your girl. You need someone to take a carload of kids to a horse show? Call me. My energy knew no limits. I could sew a hundred sparkly beads on a costume for my daughter Margaux’s school play, cohost a benefit with Bobby Kennedy for Riverkeeper, and still be on a set the next day, raring to go. But as 1996 drew to a close, my razzledazzle had definitely fizzled. The cheerleader had left the building, replaced by a listless, middle-aged woman who couldn’t get out of her freaking pajamas until midafternoon.

I felt stagnant. Not calm and still like the Hudson River on a mild day, but stale, like a swamp, a place lacking a fresh infusion of life. When I first started feeling down, I’d told myself that I was worn out, and who could blame me? I’d just come through a six-year custody battle for my daughter Stella that was so horrible and so bruising I felt like I’d been beaten up. I’d won my daughter, which was a huge blessing, but lost everything else: my friends, my dignity, my reputation. Despite my work in movies like Goodfellas, I was a good two million bucks in debt, and on the verge of losing my house. I had my two beautiful daughters and a husband, yet I was as alone as I’d ever been in my life. My marriage to Eddie Olmos — only a couple of years old — was shaky at best, and it looked like I was going to be losing that, too. On my worst days, I imagined being penniless, having to pack up my daughters and move back in with my parents.

What the hell? I was an Academy Award–nominated actress. Famous, glamorous, living in the big house overlooking the Hudson River. I was the envy of the ladies in the local PTA. People stopped me in the produce aisle of the supermarket to ask for my autograph. If they could see me now. If only they knew.

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