Marriage made me an actor

My divorce, while relatively gentle and humane, still left me broken, tired, and distrustful. Throughout our 12 years of marriage, I felt like I was playing the role of a Hollywood upperclass wife and mother, and I no longer knew who I really was.

The combination of a domineering stepfather (who cared too much about propriety) and my experience as the only black girl in every school I attended had stifled the true me; all I ever wanted to do was fit in and hide any qualities that rubbed people the wrong way. In my marriage, I presented to my husband what I imagined was the most acceptable version of me, a version that I hoped he would not find boring or disappointing.

This claim, however, was costly. By the time I filed for divorce, not only had I lost touch with myself, but I had also developed a nasty addiction to sleeping pills, from taking an Ambien a night to constantly consuming them, often washed down with alcohol. I was the 43-year-old president of the PTA and a mother of two. Former publicist, former would-be author and now ex-wife. Once I made the painful decision to seek treatment, I invited my best friend over to discuss everything.

The only positive thing, I told him after crying on his shoulder, is that I can finally stop pretending to be something I'm not.

How do you mean?

I mean I'm bad at relationships, I said. And I pretended to be good at them. Divorce might be a relief.

As soon as I arrived at the Arizona Rehabilitation Center, the walls began to close in on me. During orientation, in a small room with six other new patients, I began to hyperventilate. Mortified, I jumped up and left.

Outside, another patient, Scott, chased me with the sweatshirt I had left behind. I knew he was breaking the rules; we were not allowed to interact in any way outside of our group work. I slowed down and whispered, Thank you, but he continued walking with me.

My memory of our short walk together is hazy, but my first impression of him is clear: he was white, smiling, with blond hair, blue eyes and a Hawaiian shirt. He talked about his two daughters, his drinks of choice (tequila and beer which he took for alcoholism) and how hot it was in Arizona compared to Utah, where he was originally from.

I didn't want to joke about his kids or the weather. I just wanted him to leave me alone.

After that, wherever I went, Scott found me with his eyes and his smile. At first, I turned away from these meetings; his stare was too personal and intimate. But as the days went by, I found myself seeking him out too, hoping to get his attention, sitting next to him whenever it was allowed.

There were countless reasons why he and I could never be together, mainly the fact that he was white. Before meeting my husband, I had never dated outside of my race. And it weighed on me, the feeling that I was betraying my race by falling in love with him. If I were to fall in love with Scott, I risked doubling down on that betrayal and cementing my reputation as a black girl who loved white men.

On top of that, I was a lover of adults inside, luxury travel and all things hip-hop. Scott was a true outdoorsman, skier, mountain biker and climber who made his living from camping and the Dave Matthews Band. He had lived in Utah for 20 years; I lived in Los Angeles. He is an only child; I have five brothers. And until we met in rehab, we had no experience or desire to live in other people's worlds.

During our second week (we were there for a month), I was missing my kids at breakfast and was tearfully pushing my runny eggs onto my plate when Scott sat nearby and caught my attention.

Good eggs? he said.

I laughed.

Our connection during those days seemed so clean and innocent. Because it couldn't go anywhere, I felt no obligation to entertain or impress him. During our last week, I no longer understood how much I loved being around him. But the acid wash of my painful divorce still burned my skin every time I thought about what it might be like to be in a relationship again.

I expected those first months at home to be a time of adjusting to the new divorce and sobriety. What I hadn't anticipated was the tender longing I felt every time I thought of Scott. Every evening we talked on the phone about our time in Arizona and our daily life at home. I was surprised at how much I looked forward to these calls and how comforting it was to hear his voice. In the light of day, I would blame myself for being so weak-minded.

We had spent 30 days together in an artificial and isolated environment. In the real world, our differences would spell disaster. We made no sense as a couple. Except, of course, we couldn't stand being away from each other.

My therapist, Marguerita, said to me: What if the reason you thought you were bad at relationships was because you weren't yourself while you were in them? She placed a new box of tissues on the table and I gently blew my nose. Normally, if I cry, I never do it in front of other people. But after leaving treatment, I cried all the time.

That's the problem, I said. I feel like I deserve an Oscar for my performance over the years as the best supporter of a wife, mother or school volunteer. But I've been playing these roles for so long that I don't know who I am anymore. I went to the store yesterday to buy some things for dinner and I burst into tears because I picked up a carton of milk. I hate milk. My children don't drink milk. I bought it out of habit because I think a good mother is supposed to have milk in her fridge. But if someone had asked me at that moment what I wanted instead, I wouldn't have been able to answer it. I forgot how to be myself.

But this man you met in Arizona, you said you felt like yourself when you were with him.

Marguerita looked at her notes. You said you didn't have to pretend with him.

Yes, but that was because I was never going to see him again.

But you were yourself.

I looked up and found Marguerita looking at me over her glasses. Perhaps, she said, this is a good place to begin our search for the real Laura.

Scott arrived at Hollywood Burbank Airport on a Tuesday.

It hadn't been difficult to convince him to come visit her. Our late-night conversations, while once deliberately platonic, now had an unmistakable romantic tone. I had taken an improv class once when I was 14, where the instructor gave us half an hour to be what you're afraid to be when other people are watching.

I will never forget how unconstrained I felt for those next 30 minutes. Talking to Scott was like that. I never needed to think before I spoke or check myself before saying something stupid.

I miss you, I'll tell him every night.

I miss you so much too, he said. I can not wait to see you.

The first thing I noticed when he got in the car was how embarrassing I was, my words slipping out, barely giving him time to respond. The second was the gravitational pull that pulled me toward the passenger seat the second he closed the car door.

In recovery, I've heard that you shouldn't get involved with anyone during the first year of sobriety. I thought Scott and I could just be friends.

This notion was false.

Over time, Scott and I discovered that we had even more differences. He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, while I need hours to relax at night. I walk with purpose when we take the dog out. It meanders, stopping to admire each rosebush and jacaranda. But I discovered that it didn't matter if we walked at the same pace or went to bed at the same time. What mattered was that I never felt the need to pretend with him.

Marguerita was right. I've never been terrible at relationships. I was just horrible at pretending to be someone I wasn't.