Dodd looked to me for support but I was weak myself. I wanted to be a child, and my mother was only too willing to take care of me. We lived in separate homes, but she spent virtually the whole day with me. She'd get jealous when her friends wanted to spend time with me. After a while I got to the point where I was suffocating. I loved my mother, but it was hell to be her child.

To combat my misery, I drank. Wine and scotch. By myself. I had panic attacks . I couldn't eat . I should have gotten help , but my mother wouldn't let me. She lived in fear of people discovering the truth. No one ever did. In public I never drank more than a glass of wine. But when I was alone, it was a different story. Only my mother and my son ever saw me drunk.

One night I couldn't control the pressure anymore. My mother and I were at home with a few of her close friends, and she started eulogizing my stepfather. I was slowly getting more and more irate. Finally I said "Mom, shut up. A saint he wasn't." My mother started defending him, and I said, "Well, guess what your saint did to me? He had sex with me."

My mother was shocked, then angry. I knew I hurt her. I wanted to. I had so much anger toward her for not doing something to help me. But she ignored me, and the subject never came up again. I realize now my mother erased the abuse from her own mind. It didn't exist, so she didn't have to feel guilty.

In December 1988 my mother died of lung cancer. I died too. I couldn't function. I didn't know how to write a check. I didn't know where the phone company was. I'd been sheltered beyond belief. All the people I loved now were gone. I was mad, angry and most of all, sad. I missed her. So I drank. I could put away a quart and a half a day easy.

My mother had asked to cremated. During her service, I was at home, drinking. I didn't go outside for nearly four months and lived off my savings. I subsisted on soup, crackers and scotch. My weight dropped to 80 lbs. I couldn't walk. I was afraid to get out of bed. My mind was completely fragmented. Dodd pleaded with me to get help. When I started throwing up blood , he got a doctor who forced me to go to the hospital. I stayed a week. The only reason they let me out was that I promised to see a psychiatrist. I've been going ever since.

I haven't had a drink in a year now. I've wanted to, but the urge gets less and less. My kid calls me every morning. He lives in LA and owns an educational book publishing company. He's a nice boy. I couldn't have made it without him. I'm feeling better. My therapist has been the key. When I faced him, it was the first time in my life I said anything to a stranger about the abuse. I was sober. I felt relief.

Learning to live again These days I live like a nun. I work out. I still weigh only 88 pounds; I'm trying to put on 12 more. I'm also learning how to get along on my own. For three years I barely left my house. Now I have a checklist of things I want to do. I haven't been out to dinner for three years. I'd love to do that. But I'm still scared of what will happen if drinks are offered.

I also want to do a television series. Why ? Because I want a family. I can have that if I'm part of a show. In real life, I have my mothers sister, Aunt Olga, and my Uncle Peter , that's it. I'd never told them my story, but I knew I would have to before I went public. So a couple of weeks ago I called them. After I told them what I was going to say, Aunt Olga said , "Sandy, you haven't done anything wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Hold your head up high." For the first time, I realized she was right. I'm no longer living for the studio, my mother, Bobby. Not even for Dodd. I respect myself now. And I no longer have to be frightened of what other people are going to think of me.



For much more information about Sandra Dee, please read :
Dream Lovers : The Magnificent Shattered Lives of Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee
By Dodd Darin.


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