that just five percent of Aussie performers bank the average annual wage of $82,500 (as of 2018). While many actors supplement their acting income with non industry related jobs – everything from waitressing, gigs in retail, hospitality, aged care, and tele-sales to name but a few – I had been fortunate enough to create not one but two businesses over the years, which generally allowed me to pursue my passion.
My two business partnerships during my marriage provided entertainment for corporate and special events. We wrote, produced, and performed mini (30-40 minute ) musical comedy productions to entertain and reward those who had been dulled by the standard conference offerings of a speaker followed by a presentation followed by death by PowerPoint. I loved the creative combination of writing, producing, and performing shows, as well as the control it afforded me over when, where, and how I worked. Not to mention the glamour factor: With Sydney’s top drag queens designing our costumes and wigs, it was sequins, corsets, and false lashes at 50 paces (and until the global financial crisis had hit in 2008, the money and the travel hadn’t been bad, either).
Our shows were the showbiz cherry on top of the cake for corporate events. Exquisitely costumed, fully scripted and choreographed, extravagant and lavish, with acts like ‘The Super Supremes’, ‘Le Bond Femme – Shaken Not Stirred’, and ‘Queens of Country Dolly Parton, Shania Twain, and Kasey Chambers’.
They were a slick blend of musical tribute, comedy, and parody – part Vegas and part Broadway with a little bit of Saturday Night Live sprinkled on top – and we had at one time enjoyed ten years of being the darlings of the special events industry, delighting corporate audiences throughout Australia and Asia.
Sadly, in the push for austerity measures that followed the GFC, we were now seen as a ‘nice to have’, not a ‘need to have’, and as with many non-essentials at the time, demand for our full-scale productions began to wane in favour of cheaper entertainment offerings… bands, DJ’s, and the odd Australia’s Got Talent runner-up. We fared better than many, but by the time of my separation from Andy, business was struggling and my regular income stream had slowed to little more than a trickle.
I tried for as long as I could to ignore the fact that my meagre, post-separation financial resources were running out. But things were grim (and not in the fairy tale sense of the word). I’d never noticed the part on the bill that says “If you are experiencing financial difficulties, please call this number to make payment arrangements.” Even as a thespian, I’d always been a pay-thebills-on-time kinda gal, and now I was having to make that call to the power service providers in order to beg for a payment plan just to keep the lights on. It was humiliating… and, quite frankly, not part of the plan.
Detachment – Stage 3 (eau De Nial)
As I mentioned before, I do have a habit of ignoring warning signs, and this financial crisis of mine was no exception, so I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I took a holiday.
To a destination called ‘Denial’.
The perfect place for a sabbatical when your life goes to shit. It was a great place to hang out. It’s 24/7 indulgence in Denial.
I was not responsible for anything. I could shop for hours on end and easily justify every purchase. I needed those handbags, shoes, sunglasses, and clothes. There were no bills to pay. There were loads of like-minded people to play and party with (it’s a popular destination, but there’s always room for more to join in the fun). You could stay in bed all day if you like – hey, it’s even encouraged in Denial! Food is calorie-free in Denial, too. Did I mention that? Chocolate and ice cream are practically salad there!
Even when the bills (and the extra kilos) turned up, somehow, I didn’t get around to dealing with them. But no matter; I was blameless. My terrible ex-husband was entirely responsible for all the ills that befell me. But me? Utterly guilt free… in Denial.
It was a blissful, decadent, and self-indulgent place. I loved it.
I was pain free in Denial.
And, once there, I got used to it.
And I needed it! I deserved it. After all, I’d been through a pretty shitty time. Right? (Yeah, right!)
In the months immediately after Andy and I separated, my best friend and her family moved away from Sydney, and my business partner of 7 years bowed out of our (financially struggling) relationship and relocated her family to Melbourne. I knew my fiscal landscape wasn’t looking pretty, but my personal landscape looked bleak, too. Not only had I lost my marriage and my husband, but I’d lost my business and my two best friends.
2011 seemed to be the year of endings. I’d lost so much. Boohoo, poor me.
I was broke (and broken), lonely and alone, and simply didn’t have the emotional resilience to think clearly or rationally about my predicament.
I languished in bed in the mornings. With cups of tea (with fresh milk) and my laptop, I’d set myself up with a little ‘tea and toast picnic’ and go shopping. Online shopping – buying handbags and shoes and trinkets. ‘My Habit’ was my favourite site, and it kept me busy most mornings between 6 & 7 a.m. (I must drop Mr. Amazon a thank-you note one day for buying it and incorporating it into the Amazon site – that change definitely helped me lose interest since it lost its flair afterward!)
After dropping Leo at school in the mornings, I would then head to the gym for a (not too heavy) workout. In Denial, after all, even the lightest of exercise will deliver great results! Coupled with a bit of flirting with the personal trainers at Fitness First, that made for a great start to my busy day in Denial.
On the way home, I’d stop for a barista-tastic coffee. I deserved it. When friends invited me to dinner or lunch or away for weekends, I always said yes. How could I not? I desperately wanted my life to be normal. Or at least for it to seem normal. How could I tell this friend or that friend that I couldn’t afford a teensy little lunch or dinner out? On one hand, it was irresponsible, but on the other, it kept me sane (in an insane kind of way). I just kept putting my immediate need for comfort and distraction before all else in a futile attempt to drown out the clanging bells of disaster that were ringing ever louder in my head.
My various freelance performing jobs were generating some income, to be sure, but it was sporadic at best. I was truly living on a knife’s edge. A very sharp and uncomfortable imbalance of cash (where I could earn it) and credit… well, credit pretty much everywhere else.
A few months passed in this haze of magical, mystical, artificial euphoria. Until one day my visa expired (or exploded) – literally and metaphorically – and I was unceremoniously dumped back into the steaming pile of poo that was my real life.
I have read that one in five newly separated women struggle to pay for basic needs for their kids, such as school supplies and clothes.
I was about to find out what it was like to become a statistic.
The return journey from Denial wasn’t quite so sweet. It was a bit like coming down off a 3-day bender, and it hit me hard. The cold, harsh light of reality pierced my retinas with the force of an EpiPen being driven into a chest cavity, and yet the pain of seeing clearly for the first time in months was only just beginning.
The smoke-and-mirrors part of this production was well and truly over. Next up on the programme, cruel facts: the unpaid bills, the bad financial habits, the unfinished tasks, the painful conversations, and all the rest of the harsh truths. Like bullies, but bigger, stronger, and meaner than they were at school. There was nowhere to run and hide. I had no choice but to stand up and face them.
The question was, how?
Detachment – Stage 4
With little possibility of my overnight becoming the other ‘Cate Blanchett’ that everyone had somehow overlooked for 20 years, I toyed with the idea of teaching. Nearly thirty
years after my mother had gently suggested that ‘perhaps teaching drama might be more reliable than acting’, I belatedly