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In this story from August 1963, the singer, dancer and actress explains how God is still at work on her imperfections.
Not too long ago I made the most astonishing discovery of my life–that God created us as incomplete persons in an imperfect world, and He had good reasons for doing just that. When I had my first real look at this Master Design recently, many things that have happened in my past became clear to me.
When other little girls were playing with mudpies and dolls I was in vaudeville. This was at age four. I was a movie actress at five and at eight a veteran singer, dancer and actress.
I did not understand much of what was going on around me, except that I had to be on time for activities I didn’t particularly enjoy. I was being asked to compete in an adult world, and all I wanted was simply to be a child.
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Almost from the start, my life was haunted by incompleteness. My parents were divorced before I was ten years old, and so our family was incomplete. My mother loved the entertainment world and was determined that I should become a part of it. And so my childhood also was incomplete.
Did my mother mean harm? Certainly not. Her love for me was expressed in trying to make me a star. She was thoroughly convinced I deserved it. And eager to win her love and to please her, I did anything she wanted.
One result was that I lived mostly in a make-believe world. Now it’s a strange thing, but the world of make-believe does have a kind of artificial completeness. All the loose ends are neatly tied together. All the problems are solved.
I clung to this unreal world because in it I was complete too. But the more you live in the perfect world of make-believe, the harder it is to face the imperfect world of reality.
The sense of incompleteness that haunted me was heightened by a physical handicap. For a long time, nobody knew that I was partially deaf. I didn’t realize it myself. I thought everybody heard just the way I did. When I discovered they didn’t, it made me feel even more incomplete, even more apart.
As I grew up, this sense of not being a whole person filled me with fears that resulted in a paralyzing form of indecision. It reached the point where I just couldn’t make up my mind about anything.
If I was asked to approve a few scripts I’d say they were all fine. I developed the feeling that I had no mind of my own. The thought came to me that perhaps I was too dependent on my mother. And so, when I was 20, I decided to go to New York where it is so easy to be alone.
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And I was alone, terribly alone. Oh, there was success. I had star roles in hit shows like Bloomer Girl and High Button Shoes, and the critics were kind. But when we went on tour with Bloomer Girl we played in a theater in one city where the orchestra was under a sort of shell and I could only see the conductor.
He gave me a nod to start, and I began singing but heard no music at all. Between acts I asked him,“Where’s the music? Why isn’t the orchestra playing?” He looked at me strangely and said,“They are playing.”
An ear doctor told me that in five years I would be totally deaf. It was like a sentence of death. Every night from then on I went to bed tormented by the thought that this physical incompleteness was going to destroy my career.
I was terrified about going into a new show, Arms and the Girl, but I went ahead and somehow survived the run. Then the excitement of making a movie, The Band Wagon, kept me going for a while.
But after that the simplest task just overwhelmed me. I couldn’t order dinner or make up a laundry list. I began to develop stomach pains and muscle aches. Finally I couldn’t even memorize lines.
When I spent four weeks trying to learn a lyric that ordinarily should have taken me four minutes, I folded up. I decided to quit work, go to the country for a rest and stay under the care of a doctor.