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EARL HOLLIMAN
(Continued from page 46)
live on while he picked and chose his next roles — perhaps did a Broadway play — became one thing only: A ticket to somewhere . . . anywhere he could hide from the cruelty he felt around him, from the shame he felt in himself.
He had been to Europe before, and decided to go back there. He sold everything he owned, in an effort to break all ties. "Hedda Hopper wrote that I was about to tour Europe in a Jaguar and really get to know the people. She didn't see the humor in it — trying to be anonymous in a fabulous car — but I did. I bought the car, anyway."
As it turned out, he needed it. For his private demons chased him from country to country, across borders, in and out of cities — always avoiding the English-speaking people who might have seen his films, fleeing the sudden glint of recognition in the eyes of a new-found friend, the stranger who might ask, "Say — aren't you Earl Holliman?"
In Paris, he slept in a tiny room (toilet one floor up, bath one floor down) ; in St. Tropez, in a tent; in Strassburg, in a bathtub (with a pillow and blanket supplied by an overcrowded inn) ; in Greece, in the parlor of a friendly family. Many nights, he simply slept in his car.
By refusing to associate with anyone who spoke English, by lying outright when necessary, he attempted to conceal the fact that he was Earl Holliman. a well-known Hollywood actor. He told himself it was the only way he could truly find himself. "I was like a deep-sea diver. Hollywood had given me 'the bends,' and Europe was my decompression chamber."
But, on an island off the coast of Greece, he learned that the cure had failed to take.
He fell in love there. The girl was French, a few years older than he, once married and now bringing up an elevenyear-old son. To Earl, she was a miracle of a woman — confident, lovely, full of life and daring and warmth. The island setting was romantic: they made muleback trips to ancient monasteries, swam and walked along the shore, talked for hours under the moon, fell deeply in love.
Now the dark world was lit by sun, and Earl saw revelations of kindness, truth and hope . . . but, to his horror, the darkness within him did not disappear! Even now, loved and loving, feeling — as he put it — "like an adult man for the first time in my life," he was still so unsure of himself, so fearful of the future, that the very thought of marriage terrified him. He could not even bring himself to suggest it.
Flight from reality
And so Earl Holliman came to understand that he had not been fleeing the world, but himself. Now he would have to explore something more hazardous than the mountains and valleys of
Europe. He would have to plumb the depths of his own soul.
He left Europe, and the girl, behind. He went home — and, shortly after, into psychoanalysis.
The concept of analysis wasn't strange to Earl. At fifteen, he'd become interested in the subject and read up on it. But he wasn't prepared for his own reactions. The first three sessions were conducted with Earl sitting in a chair in the analyst's office . . . and, to his surprise, he discovered that his eyes kept straying over to the couch! "I had the feeling that there were three of us in the room — me, the doctor, and the couch. I was dying to get on it. But those first hours were only exploratory . . . the analyst wanted to make sure we were right for each other. It's practically like getting married!"
Finally, the analyst agreed to accept Earl as a patient. At last. Earl lay down on the couch — and, this time, his reaction was typical: He simply told the doctor everything bad he could think of about himself! "It gave me a feeling of relief. I figured, 'Now it's his problem!'"
But, of course, it wasn't. "Most of my difficulties turned out to be just symptoms of my real problem." Gradually, the real problem began to emerge: Earl's exaggerated sensitivity to other people's opinions, to any form of rejection or failure, to phoniness and injustice. He reacted to these the way another man would to physical pain . . . and. as a consequence, he lived in constant torment, unable to work, to accept friendship, to undertake new commitments without paralyzing fears and doubts.
Analysis, he knew, would probe his childhood for the roots of his trouble — but Earl didn't see how that would help. His adoptive parents had loved him, cared for him, built their lives around him. Wasn't that all that mattered?
Analysis, he discovered, was designed specifically to dig out other memories: The repressed, painful ones, deliberately obliterated by the conscious mind. Dragging them to the surface was no easy task. In daily sessions with his doctor, Earl began to realize that his agony was not new at all . . . despite his parents' affection, he had been a lonely, frightened child, unsure of his place in the world, always afraid of being spurned.
"They didn't want me"
"I began to understand that even though, as a little boy, I thought I was proud of being adopted, deep down I must have felt rejected by my original parents. I began to remember incidents — like when I was three, there was a little girl I used to play with. She was older than I and I idolized her. She'd let me play with her as long as there was no one else around . . . but as soon as she had company, she'd send me away, and I'd run home crying. Later on, I kept trying to make friends with kids older than I was — who, naturally enough, didn't want me ... I was always the outsider, always looking in.
"For some reason, I had to keep bat
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