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Revealing The
Professionals That
Keep My Hotness Hot!

Everybody Dies But Not
Everybody Lives

Elaine Stritch -- My New York
Mom & Best Friend Forever

Nevertheless, feeling sorry for myself wasn't an option and beggars can't be choosers, so I took it, moving in that weekend, unpacking one suitcase and piling the rest of my luggage up against the wall, resigning myself to the fact that shoe closets and walk in wardrobes were sadly now out of the equation. My focus was on survival -- I was totally broke, with no financial safety net. Gone were the days when family would bail me out -- they were all on the other side, and relying on wealthy pals wasn't an option -- the moment I went belly up they'd melted away like snow in June.
I was on my own, and as I slipped into bed that night I suddenly realized that for the first time in years, maybe ever, I had no plans - nothing on the horizon -- no cash to afford me to travel -- shop -- dine out. Everything I'd taken for granted had gone and there was nothing to distract or numb the pain. The whole shebang had been stripped away, and it suddenly dawned on me that even my creativity had deserted me. When was the last time a song or idea had dropped into my head? With growing horror I realized that I couldn't remember, my gift had dissipated and I suddenly appreciated the measure of the word "gift," and how God gives, but also takes away.
Why? Why was I being tortured?
Why, no matter how hard I worked did my dreams never come true?
Why was success always snatched away at the penultimate moment?
Why was life one hurdle after another?
Why God?
Why?
Death was preferable to this.
Yes -- suicide was the only way out.
I would throw myself off Beachy Head.
But what if I survived, mangled and maimed, or ended up in another dimension in even worse circumstances?
Maybe I already had killed myself and was now in limbo?
Was suicide an escape, or entry into an even darker world?
What was life?
What was it all about?
Why?
Why God?
Why?
So many questions -- no answers.
However, as I’d now come to the conclusion that throwing myself off a cliff wasn't an option it was time to pull out all the stops and generate much needed income.
Good - the Daily Mail were buying my hard luck story for a healthy sum.
Two days later they changed their mind.
Ok -- onwards and upwards.
But there was no upwards -- every deal I made fell through the cracks.
I was jinxed. Doomed to rot in my tiny prison. There was no way out.
I wasn't in charge.
Had never been in charge.

I called my good friend and spiritual adviser Sandra, sobbing. "I can't move forward. Doors open and then slam shut. There's no point to my existence. No point."
"Rubbish," she'd replied. "Your plays -- your work -- they're important."
"But I'm blocked. No one will touch me with a barge pole because of my divorce."
"They will."
But I couldn't see how -- I'd had a vicious break-up from the most powerful man in theatre and was now persona non grata.
I was finished -- done.
"It will be fine," Sandra said. "Just put one foot in front of the other and keep going."
One foot in front of another...
I recalled my mother saying the exact same thing when I asked how her generation had survived the war.
"We just put one foot in front of the other," she'd replied. "We had to. We had no choice."
And I had no choice but to walk the dark night. After all, didn't Buddha teach that the soul has to experience everything to become a master? I may have lost money and "things", but I hadn't lost faith.
God was with me -- my rod -- my staff.
Life, and people might let me down, but God never would.
I needed to let go -- trust.
On that note I fell to my knees and surrendered.

In retrospect I now think of my dark night as an incubation period -- a safe harbor away from the hyperactivity that was my life -- a womb where I could process the past, release every unshed tear, and begin to understand the complexities of my psyche, such as my reaction to my father's death when I was twelve.
He was a military man so my family and I traveled the world with him. We were stationed at a base in Germany when he passed.

The memory of that day is seared on my mind.
It was 6.05 a.m. Sunday the 28 July, when the doorbell rang.
Moments later my younger brother Kevin, came rushing into my bedroom.
"Tricia -- dad's dead!"
I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, where my mother sat sobbing on the sofa, whilst our Catholic priest and Tom, my dad's best friend sat either side of her searching for words.
It was surreal -- as were the days leading up to the funeral.
Two of my uncle's had arrived from England and every night they would sit in the kitchen, voices hushed as they chain smoked Rothmans cigarettes, unaware that I was sitting at the top of the stairs, listening in.
"Tricia hasn't cried." I heard my Uncle Frank say more than once. "It's unhealthy."
He was right -- it was unhealthy, and I remained dry eyed for over forty years, encapsulating the heartache of my father's death in the deepest recesses of my mind. It was only as I languished in the dark night's murky bowels that I finally released the pain.
It had been just another day of enforced retreat and I was reeling off my usual nighttime prayer for my dad:
Eternal rest give unto my dear father James Joseph Walsh, oh Lord, May perpetual light shine upon him.
May he res...
I never finished.
All of a sudden I was transported back to that dreadful morning when the doorbell rang and Kevin rushed into my room yelling, "Tricia -- dad's dead!"
The time capsule burst and the tears flowed, hot and heavy.
It was as though he'd died that very day, bringing me not just blessed release, but also clarity. Now I comprehended the strange journey that I was on, as up until this point my suffering had felt purportless. However, now I could see the reason behind it -- I needed respite as I was damaged -- badly damaged from the loss of my father at such a young age, and two horrendous divorces -- the last one a public crucifixion that had been hard to get my head around. After all, I'd been part of a family for thirteen years, and was suddenly and quite brutally tossed out like yesterdays trash, my humiliation magnified by the media gleefully twisting the knife even further.
Follow that with a fraudster plundering the little wealth I had left, and well, yeah -- it had been one helluva a ride.
Even warriors have to take a breather at some point.

A few weeks later my creativity returned. I awoke with the threads of a song for Island Maid, a musical about Hawaii's Princess Kaiulani. I hadn't looked at it for over four years, so it hadn't been on my mind.
Weird.
I called Simon (my composer).
"I woke up this morning with a song for the Kaiulani musical. It's called "Dream Myself Home."
"That's great news."
"I think I'll write it now."
"Good idea."
Two hours later I sent him the song.
His reply came within minutes.
"You're back! And how!"
By the end of that week I'd written eight new songs for Island Maid.
Yes -- I was back.

The return of my creative gifts was a blessing, although I was still in the steely grip of the dark night. Helping me through was the twelve-step alcohol recovery program I'd been attending since December 1994. I threw myself into service -- running meetings and sponsoring newcomers, something I'd always been too busy to do in the past. Helping other recovering alcoholics and listening to their problems took the emphasis off mine.
However, surviving on a pittance was taking its toll -- my finances were so dire that I couldn't even afford a cup of coffee in Starbucks, so when a veneer on one of my teeth cracked I was hysterical. Each tooth had cost $1500 a pop in New York. How was I going to afford a new one?
I wouldn't be able to -- so I prayed to God, telling him that I had no money but needed my tooth fixed, so could He please work something out and send me to the right dentist.
The next day I went to a surgery that I'd found on the Internet around the corner from me.
The prognosis wasn't good. "It will be £500," the pretty Indian dentist said.
"I can't afford it" I sighed, before explaining how I'd been conned out of my cash.
"Oh, you've been through enough" she gasped. "I'll do it for you privately and for free."
Wow -- thanks God!
Ask and you shall receive. From that moment on I never forgot to ask the Big Guy for help, and He always came up trumps.
Always.

A year passed -- I was still in the tiny studio, and still stony broke.
Desperate to make some cash, I took out a fantasy novel set in Heaven and Earth, that I'd written way back, intending to send it to Japan as they had regularly licensed my videos.
The opening chapters weren't up to par, so I decided to rewrite, ending up reworking the entire novel apart from the basic storyline.
In the new version a four-year old scamp, Bobby Rich was introduced.

He lived in Heaven with his grandmother, former Broadway, now Gawdway diva, Marlene Rich, and was supposed to be in for one chapter, his sole purpose to ask God why He invented flies.
But Bobby Rich had other ideas.
He commandeered the whole book, simultaneously bringing me unbelievable cheer, his antics always a revelation. I had no idea what the little scallywag would get up to next and would giggle hysterically as I typed his shenanigans into my laptop.
It was incredible -- I was flat broke, living in a tiny pod with nothing opportune on the horizon, but my heart was full of joy. The raw emotion I felt for Bobby was palpable – he’d rescued me from the dark night and I thanked God every day for the happiness that the cheeky little chappy brought me.

That Christmas as my finances had taken an upturn, I booked a trip to Guernsey and Bobby came with.

He loved the ferry, flitting in and out - I could see him in my minds eye, hanging upside down from the roof and waving at me through the windows, whilst intermittently heading back inside to filch mince pies from the coffee bar and check inside his suitcase to ensure that his dog-eared old teddy was safe.