Page 105 of If the Stars Align
I’m excited.
I navigate to Northwestern’s graduate admissions page and find the link for their MFA program. I need a writing sample in the genre of popular fiction for my application—and I haven’t written anything unrelated to law in years. But as soon as my fingers hit the keyboard, I’m in my zone.
I know exactly what story I want to tell. It’s about a boy and a girl who meet when they’re young, and later fall in love.
Five hours later, I have a rough draft. And I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.
When the Oscar nominations were announced last month, I didn’t think I stood a chance, considering the seasoned actors I was up against. Hell, it’s been less than three years since my first movie came out, which makes me a relative newbie in this industry. But in the weeks leading up to tonight, all the media outlets have called me a shoo-in for this award. They say I’ve got it in the bag.
Still—when Helen Mirren herself opens the envelope for Best Actor, and with a beaming smile, says, “Dex Oliver,” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I look at my beautiful mother first—after all, she’s my date for the evening—and she bursts into tears. When I hug her, she whispers in my ear.
“I’ve been proud of youeverysingle step of the way,” she says.
Everyone in the Kodak Theatre is on their feet, cheering, and clapping, and reaching out to pat me on the back or shake my hand as I make my way to the stage. It’s not until I’m actually up there with the statue in my hand, expressing my gratitude asthunderous applause fills the room, that I’m overcome with joy.
And it’s not because I won. I honestly couldn’t care less about that.
It’s because here, on this stage, the entire world is my audience. And there’s something very important I want to get off my chest.
When the noise dies down, I begin.
“The day we wrapped this movie, I had a panic attack. It wasn’t my first. Not even my tenth. Probably not my hundredth, either. I was only five years old the first time it happened. My parents took me to see a psychologist, and I felt better for a while. But when I was in middle school, I was bullied. And the panic attacks started again.
“I was too embarrassed to ask for help. Too ashamed. I felt like there was something wrong with me. That I was broken. Or worse—crazy. So I suffered alone for years. In all honesty, I hated myself. I was desperate to beanyoneelse, so I chose a career where I could do exactly that.
“But what I learned is that there’s no outrunning anxiety. It’ll catch up to you at some point. And on the day we wrapped this movie, it caught up to me. I had the worst panic attack of my life, and I couldn’t snap out of it. I was alone and terrified, and convinced I was going to die. Finally, I called my mom crying. And I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I told her I needed help.”
I pause to look around the theater. I know I’m probably over the allotted time for my acceptance speech, but they haven’t started playing the exit music yet. It’s so quiet, you could hear a pindrop. Every pair of eyes is fixed on me, waiting for me to continue.
“I went home to Beachwood, Ohio, and I let my parents take care of me. A twenty-seven year-old man who makes a living playing the hero, could barely brush his own teeth. I was a wreck. I had to delay my next project. I told my agent and the director that I was dealing with a family emergency, and that’s when I received inpatient treatment. I spent weeks talking to a therapist daily. I worked with a psychiatrist and started medication. It didn’t help much at first, so after a month, we tweaked the dose.
“But finally—finally—I found relief. I haven’t had a panic attack since the meds began working. This is the best I’ve felt in my life. And now that my anxiety’s under control, I’m not ashamed of it anymore. That’s why I’m sharing my story with you today.
“If you’ve ever woken up in the middle of the night sweating, and shaking, and gasping for air—your heart hammering so hard you’re convinced you’re going to die—I want you to know that I’ve been there. You’re not broken. You’re not crazy. You’re not alone. You’re human. Just like me. And there is help. All you have to do is ask.
“Thank you.”
Now the crowd is on their feet again. But this time, they have tears in their eyes and tissues in their hands, some biting their quivering lips, others nodding slowly.Knowingly.
When my gaze meets my mom’s, she winks at me. I rehearsed the speech in front of her and my dad probably a hundred timesthis week. I wasn’t scared, so much as eager—because this message is so deeply important to me. I wanted to make sure I delivered it effectively. Well, the moment I see my mom’s face, I know.
I nailed it.
The reaction to my confession is staggering. Not only in the Kodak Theatre, but around the world. My speech makes news everywhere—and it’s not the negative press I lived in fear of for so long. Instead, the headlines look like this: “How Dex Oliver is Boldly Breaking the Stigma of Mental Illness,” and, “Just Like Us! Superstar Dex Oliver Tells Anxiety Sufferers, ‘You Are Not Alone.’”
I get countless letters from fans—some of whom are barely old enough to write—telling me how brave I am to share my story; how much it means to hear a celebrity speak openly about mental illness; how grateful they are that I’m raising awareness for this important cause. Many say I inspired them to finally seek treatment.
I’ve always thought of my anxiety as a curse. But today, I consider it a gift. Because knowing that my experience can help someone else who’s suffering?
That makes it all worth it.
The following weekend, Jenna comes over to spend the night.It’s hard to believe we’ve been hanging out for almost a year now—minus the time I spent in treatment for my anxiety. When I got back to LA, I told her the real reason I’d been in Beachwood. She’s one of the few people I admitted the truth to right away. And just like I expected, she was supportive, and kind, and made me promise to let her know if I started having symptoms again.
She and I have become close friends. I keep wondering how long we can maintain this friendship, while also sleeping together, before things start getting complicated. But so far, they haven’t been complicated at all. Quite the contrary, it’s been easy.
What hasn’t been so easy is processing my feelings about Sunny in therapy. When I first started sessions, I wondered if my undying love for her was actually a product of my anxiety—a defense mechanism to keep me from getting close to anyone else, for fear they’d find out about my panic disorder and reject me.
But now I know that’s not true. My anxiety’s well-managed, and I love Sunny as much as I ever have. If not more. I don’tneedher to be the antidote to my anxiety.
