‘On the Couch’ with ‘The Sopranos’ psychiatrist

When the court awarded me custody in September 1996, I didn’t even have a chance to be elated. It should have been over, but of course it wasn’t; there would be appeals and endless wrangling over child support, and the steady flow of bills, bills, bills. I just couldn’t take it anymore. Eddie was working in Los Angeles, and our long distance marriage wasn’t working at all. I needed a shoulder to lean on, and it wasn’t there. In the past, I might have felt sorry for myself and had a good cry. But at this point, I was too numb to cry. At first I thought I just needed a few days to get my act together, a little time to recuperate. But a few days turned into a few weeks, then a few months. And I wasn’t feeling better. I was feeling worse.

My days took on a blankness, one after the other, one day the same as the next. Thank God I wasn’t a drinker, and I didn’t do drugs; otherwise, I’d have been a goner for sure. Thinking back on how vulnerable I was, I really feel for people with substance-abuse problems. But my days were devoid of such drama. After Margaux and Stella left for school in the morning, I’d sit with my coffee, aimlessly paging through magazines or staring out at the river.

Sometimes I’d get a surge of energy and put a load of laundry in, then forget it until Margaux discovered her favorite shirt mildewing in the machine and screamed, “Motherrrr!” I’d call my parents: “How ya doing? Good. Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine. Love ya.” I was a bad actor. I plodded along, forcing myself to go through the motions, trying to be the same old me everyone knew. But I was counting the hours until I could get back into bed and pull the covers up over my head. Sleep was my only relief.

It wasn’t until later that I’d be able to put a name on what I was experiencing: depression. It’s a clinical condition that afflicts thirty four million Americans at some time in their lives, which means that there were — and are — a hell of a lot of others out there feeling painfully empty and lifeless, just like me. But it took me more than a year to reach that realization. In the meantime, I didn’t know what was wrong with me, and I definitely didn’t know what to do about it.

Many people think depression is a big, dramatic black hole that swallows you up. But it doesn’t have to be. It’s not necessarily finding yourself thinking about suicide, which I never did, even on my worst days. It’s something much worse, if you ask me. I’m an actress, so drama I can do. But this was the antithesis of drama. It was as though I were floating in a great thick bog of stillness, and it was that dullness I couldn’t stand. The damping down of all my feelings. The absolute, complete joylessness.

Joyless or not, I knew it was extremely important to keep up appearances, so I wasted a lot of energy that I didn’t really have pretending to have a sunny disposition, pasting a big, fat fake smile on my face. I had to show the world that I was okay and could be trusted. I had to prove that I could work, raise my kids, run my household, appear at charity benefits — do all the things I’d always done. At the time, I thought the worst thing in the world would be if anyone discovered how I was feeling. I mean anyone. No one could know — not my mother, not my sister, Lizzie, not my friends, or the people I worked with. So I hid in my house. I avoided talking to my friends. If anyone mentioned that I looked beat, I’d say, “Yeah, I’m tired. It’s been a rough year.” Everyone pretty much took me at face value and let me off the hook. People don’t want to know, they really don’t. Not because they don’t care, but because they don’t know what to do. Basically, they’re afraid.

Hiding my feelings was really just a symptom of my disease. The shame you feel when you’re depressed is phenomenal. You think you’re weak, and nobody wants to seem weak. Nobody wants to look mental, especially in show business. As it is, if you’re a forty-two-year-old woman, you’re hanging on by a thread most of the time anyway. If there’s a difficulty, a problem, you can just forget it. God forbid a rumor should start. A few juicy tabloid mentions and you’re toast. It’s no wonder it takes so long for people to get help.

MORE FROM TODAY BOOKS: BIOGRAPHY/MEMOIRS

Brother West: ‘Being true to the funk of living’

Brother West: ‘Being true to the funk of living’ Andre Agassi: I have the body of an old man Former Miss California: I was smeared How dog poop led to love for Paula Deen After having 15 abortions, motherhood saved her Book excerpt: Testimony of an abortion addict Alan Thicke on raising kids who won’t hate you ‘Full House’ star writes about meth, coke binges Parents share diary of child’s cancer battle How America can get 'Smart on Crime'   Add Today Books: Biography/Memoirs headlines to your news reader: