Scared of living with intimacy
Ruthie Henshall turned to the Hoffman Process to help her to understand
the pattern of her relationships
April 23, 2003 | The Times of London | By Catherine O'Brien
I WILL never forget the night I contemplated killing myself. It
was the summer of 2000 and I was playing Velma Kelly in Chicago
on Broadway. One night, about halfway through my six-month run,
I was making my grand entrance when I found myself thinking: “Should
I try painkillers or can I con a doctor into giving me some sleeping
tablets?” It was as if I was outside my body looking in. I
was aware of how bizarre it all was, but I also knew that my feelings
were real. My professional peak had coincided with my personal rock
bottom.
How could I, someone who has always wanted to suck life dry, ever
reach the point where I felt so hopeless? I was the girl for whom
everything had been achievable. For a decade I had dominated the
West End stage in musicals. I had won awards. I was fulfilling a
lifelong dream by conquering Broadway. So what was it that was making
me feel suicidal?
In truth, I think I am too much of a coward to have gone through
with it. Seconds later, as the band struck up, I did what any professional
would do and switched into my opening number All That Jazz. But
even in the fog of my depression, I recognised that night as a turning
point. I would have to get some help.
I confided in a friend. She suggested a therapy course called
the Hoffman Process. I had tried counselling before, but never stuck
at it. I always hated the way therapists asked me to be angry with
my parents. To me, my parents belong on a pedestal. Like psychotherapy,
the Hoffman technique concentrates on “early childhood conditioning”.
But, said my friend, a therapy veteran, it was the one approach
that had helped her to deal with her demons. A ten-day course was
starting just as my run in Chicago was due to end. I booked it there
and then.
I was sent a heap of homework to complete before enrolment day
— questions with tick boxes defining my personality traits
and probing my background. Fundamental to the process is learning
to recognise patterns of behaviour adopted from our parents. We
are the way we are because of the way they were. These patterns
have labels such as “perfectionist”, “blamer”,
“worrier” and “workaholic”. We might adopt
such patterns because we are mimicking our parents’ behaviour,
or are rebelling against them. Having recognised the patterns, the
process teaches you how to let them go.
It was obvious as soon as I arrived that I was far from an extreme
case. There were people who shared my course whose relationships
with their parents were so acrimonious that they had not spoken
to them for years. It has never been that way for me. But I cannot
pretend that I had a white-picket-fence upbringing.
Our family is close, but for as far back as I can remember, it
was dominated by my parents’ volatile relationship. Each of
them is incredibly passionate. I do not mean phwoar passion, but
conviction passion. Dad was a journalist who voted Tory. Mum was
a left-leaning drama teacher and neither was prepared to budge their
beliefs. She would save money; he would spend it. She was the disciplinarian;
“wait till your father gets home” was no threat. They
argued loudly and often and, when alcohol was thrown into the mix,
they could become quite nasty. Much of the time we were walking
on eggshells.
As the youngest, I took on the role of people pleaser. I wanted
to rescue my mother and make her happy. Her escape route was drama
and, in a way, it became mine. But I also wanted my father’s
approval. So I became a workaholic, like him, and goody-goody. I
could not influence what was going on between them and I was permanently
convinced that one of them would leave. My mother said several times
that she would. The fear of waking up and finding one of them gone
hung over us, but rather than voice my anxieties, I suppressed them
— putting up emotional barriers to give the impression of
being in control.
There was something else that happened, something that I still
find hard to talk about, that involved me being mistreated by someone
outside our family. It happened three times between the ages of
four and nine and contributed to much of the self-loathing that
has followed me through my life. I did not know this at the time,
of course. I had no idea how angry I was until I went through the
physical exercises on the Hoffman course that bring the rage pouring
out. This makes it sound crazy but, actually, it is the most amazing
experience. You do a lot of baseball bat stuff — thrashing
the hell out of cushions. By the end of those sessions I had blisters
on my hand.
Understanding my relationship with my parents helped me to understand
the pattern of all my relationships. I was a worrier and a pleaser,
but also a manipulator. Relationships were about making me feel
good. If you were feeling down or unsure, I didn’t want to
know. I acted compassionate, but actually I was a fixer. I would
provide an arm around the shoulder, I would pay for what needed
paying for, I would have all the answers, but I didn’t really
listen. And I had a huge fear of intimacy. Whenever I asked any
of my boyfriends, “Do I show you enough affection?”
the answer was no.
As far as I was concerned relationships were not something I had
to work at — I was the fairytale princess. I wanted the brightest
and the best, and when I fell in love with Prince Edward, he was
mine, too. We dated not for seven weeks as reported, but for two
years.
When I moved to New York, I was engaged to the actor John Gordon
Sinclair. We had been together for six years and I was convinced
that we would be together for ever. Yet I barely discussed my departure
with him. My mind was made up, and if he had said he was not happy
about it, I don’t believe it would have stopped me. I was
that selfish. Being the generous man that he is, he claimed that
he completely understood. He came to see me but, inevitably, within
a few months our lives were going in different directions. I can
see now that going to New York was not just about furthering my
career; it was about running away from my fear of commitment. Having
lived through my parents’ difficult marriage, I did not want
to create one of my own. In fact, I was blindly running away from
everything — working hard and playing hard and drinking way
too much. If I was not going out after a show, I would come home
and work my way through a bottle of wine until four or five o’clock
in the morning.
I became reckless. I would get myself to the shows, but otherwise
I could not get myself out of bed. Thankfully I had the sense, after
one particularly bad hangover, to knock the drinking on the head.
And that was when my depression overwhelmed me. With no alcohol
to numb the pain, no Gordy to lean on, I sank very low — to
the point where I felt suicidal.
I have no doubt that the Hoffman Process was my salvation. I have
not come out of it a perfect person, but I do understand now what
makes me tick. It was too late to repair my relationship with Gordy,
but I did apologise and we remain great friends. For the past two
years I have been with Tim Howar, my co-star from Peggy Sue
Got Married. Unusually for me, I did not rush headlong into
our affair. I decided I wanted to really get to know him before
jumping in.
For the first time in a relationship, I feel like a grown-up.
I don’t always like it because it means taking responsibility
for myself and making allowances for him, which I was never prepared
to do before. But I am incredibly content.
We have moved to the Essex/Suffolk borders to be near my family.
My parents have just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.
Amazingly they are fine together. I have learnt to forgive them,
and they know how much I love them. Two months ago, at the age of
35, I gave birth to Lily. Tim and I both want her to be a child
of married parents. He has proposed and I have said yes, but I am
not rushing to arrange the wedding. It is nothing to do with him;
it is the residue of my fears about commitment. I am honest enough
now to be able to admit that.
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