You Only Get One Life (17 page)

M
ark came from a dependable, religious family. I got on well with them, particularly his sister, though I didn’t like the way Mark and his father would get drunk and go into Phoenix and sometimes get into fights. They could become like a pair of football hooligans when they would leave me and his sister to go off on their adventures – they had a kind of blood lust as some men just do. Whenever they returned I would try not to imagine what shape their opponents were in. Mark’s father wasn’t quite the same size as him but he was pretty well-built.

It was a disturbing side of Mark I also saw when he fell out with his neighbour in New Jersey. He battered at their party wall until he actually broke through. The neighbour called the police but no charges were brought. My brother Jan got the full experience when he came to visit and we shared a limo with Mark, who started messing around in the back. Before long he took the whole vehicle apart, from
the carpet via the plush seats to the upholstery on the ceiling. Everything went out of the window. Jan and the chauffeur glanced nervously at one another when their eyes weren’t glued to Mark ricocheting around the passenger seats like a massive pinball, first wrenching out the mini-bar and gradually working his way up to the television.

When we arrived at the restaurant, Mark calmly stepped out of the car and told the chauffeur not to worry and to send him the bill. We finished our meal to be met by a brand new limo delivered discreetly by the hire company and, surreally, the evening continued as if nothing had happened.

The reason for Mark’s increasingly unpredictable behaviour lay in his use of steroids. I should have realised early on when he asked me to pick up what he called his ‘vitamins’. I guess I decided not to see what was going on, but I don’t know why. I didn’t want to accept it until it was too late.

I went for a smear test in New York and it came back that something had shown up. In the follow-up appointment I was told that I had cancer of the uterus. They told me I had to be operated on immediately. I was numb with terror. It had never occurred to me that I might get cancer – I had always been so healthy. How could that happen to me? I was shocked into doing exactly what the doctors said. There was no time to waste. They knew if they didn’t act immediately I didn’t have a chance and there was no time to respect feelings.

I’d long been seen as indestructible. My reputation as the irrepressible ex-wife of Sylvester Stallone didn’t fit with the weakness I felt in radiotherapy. Looking back, I think I
probably became depressed – I was always so upset and everything seemed to be going too quickly. My mum was a tremendous source of support. Despite the nine-hour time difference we spoke a lot on the phone, often into what was late night for me. It didn’t matter – whenever I needed it, she was there to talk me through the hard times.

Mark asked me to come along to a meeting with his football team boss. This was quite unusual. As a player you weren’t expected to bring partners along to discuss work and the management were clearly waiting for an explanation. ‘Brigitte has cancer,’ Mark said. ‘I’m going to have to give up football to look after her back in Arizona. She’s going into a clinic and I want to be by her side.’ His words made me embarrassed – I had no idea that he was going to end his career for me but it was also uncomfortable to have my illness discussed so publicly. I looked at him. He was doing that for me? This was a real man – he would walk away from everything for me. It made me cry, though there was also something a little strange about it all. Here I was in the man’s club and it didn’t quite add up when they just agreed straight away. Wouldn’t they fight for him? But of course I pushed away any disloyal thoughts and allowed myself to be lost in the romantic gesture.

It was only years later that I discovered the real reason for that meeting. Mark had just been pulled up for the third time in relation to the misuse of steroids – and that meant he wouldn’t be able to play for the next three years. At his age it spelled the end of his career.

Without the steadying routine of training and playing Mark’s behaviour worsened. What I thought of as his crazy
moments were beginning to join up together, though they were still softened by the small, sweet things he would do for me. I knew he had a good heart. He could be very serious and I wasn’t so interested in his muscle-bound exterior – it was what was deep inside that I loved: the good, fair guy who was as happy in nature as I was. This was the personality that steroids were working hard to destroy. When he was in their grip, he became an entirely different person.

He had raised his voice at me before and a couple of times he cuffed me with his hand, but I was used to that and it was okay. When he was no longer a professional footballer but still using steroids he became more irrational and actively dangerous. He would shake me and growl, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you…’ There was always that undercurrent of violence from him but I told myself that it would get better – that’s how I kept going.

I got a part in a HBO movie called – ironically, as it turned out –
Murder by Moonlight
. Shooting took place in England, which involved relocating temporarily to London. Mark accompanied me and his jealousy and anxiety meant the crew didn’t want him around on set: he was so unpredictable. It was up to me to pass the news on to him and I knew that a bomb was going to go off at some point. The fuse had been lit and it was now just a question of waiting for the inevitable. I couldn’t think how to deal with the danger and at the same time keep going with the heavy demands of the job. The detonation came when I least expected it.

In a break from filming I had returned to our room, and
that was when Mark seemed to lose control of his senses. He held me under the water in the bathtub. The water was ice-cold and I could find nothing to grab. Not that it mattered – he was easily strong enough to hold me under the freezing surface. I fought for five or ten seconds, but then I gave up. It was clear that his rational brain had completely switched off – he was blinded by anger and all that remained was that awesome strength. Silently, I gave thanks for my life and hoped that I would be remembered. I hoped Julian would remember me and grow into a good and happy man… I swallowed mouthfuls of choking water so cold I thought its temperature alone would make me pass out. Briefly, Mark pulled me up, perhaps regretting his temper like a small boy caught out, but then he seemed to think better of it and down I went again, so I gave up. I felt a calm, accepting warmth; I felt comfortable, the fear had gone. And then he lifted me out of the water.

For such a violent man, he had a sweet, kind side and I guess that’s what I clung to; that was the scariest thing. I forgave him but deep, deep inside I knew I had become more frightened of him than I had been of any human being.

I continued cancer treatment and it was eventually pronounced successful. I’d been told that it reduced the chances of becoming pregnant and so I was completely startled when that’s exactly what happened. It must have been something that was meant to be – even my father laughed that I was designed to have children. He would joke that it was enough that someone looked at me to make me pregnant, but it seemed like he wasn’t far wrong. I was so happy to have proved the doctors wrong, though I don’t
know what it was that made me keep the baby and stay with Mark. I knew that the relationship probably couldn’t survive and I was feeling yet more sensitive with a child inside me but I still knew that I could never have an abortion.

I believed that Mark did love me, even though steroids had by now totally overwhelmed him. The pills still only rarely showed their face to me but they were there and part of him. And now it wasn’t just me that I had to consider, but the baby too. Could I really have a safe and secure relationship with Mark or would I have to think about leaving again? I decided to stay until the child was born and I would be strong enough to make any necessary move. It was a fatal decision.

Baby clothes became my priority when we got to the eighth month and I spent ages in a shop discussing the options with the assistant. Mark was with me the whole time. By the time we got home he was in a black mood. ‘Why were you that nice to the guy in the shop?’ he shouted. I don’t know what he thought he saw but it was only steroids whispering to him. He couldn’t really think that a woman just a few weeks away from giving birth would be flirting with someone selling baby gear. But there it was. The row continued as I went on with changing in the walk-in cupboard off the main bedroom.

Nevertheless, on 15 December 1989 I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy boy and just nine weeks later, I made my escape from the desert of Arizona with baby Killian in my arms. My mother, who had come out to visit me earlier with Julian, was completely behind my decision. All she wished for was my happiness – she just wanted me to be strong
again. I waited until Mark was out of the house, just as I had done with Sylvester, took a few important items for the baby, gently placed him in his car seat and drove to Los Angeles without a break. All the while I cried helplessly – into the evening and through the night on Highway 10. The sun came up as I was leaving Arizona and I could see it stretching away behind me. It was beautiful and I knew I would never return.

I spent the next three weeks at the Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles in terror waiting for Mark to show up. Would he be angry? Would he try and take my son from me? He didn’t and apart from one short conversation on the phone a year later, we haven’t spoken or seen one another again.

W
hen you come off your bike you always feel embarrassed. Someone rushes over to help but you brush yourself down and insist you aren’t hurt, not really. You wave them away but the reality is you’re biting your tongue not to cry and you can feel exactly where you’ve cut yourself under your clothes and you think you’re bleeding. You just hope it doesn’t soak through because you don’t want anyone you know to see that you’ve actually been injured. You reckon you look a bit stupid, you’re trying to retain your cool, but this is not okay. You’re determined to deal with it yourself.

That was what it was like to be in a relationship with a violent man. I felt shame and also a sense of injured pride. I needed to fix things on my own. I’d failed, just as if I’d fallen off my bike in front of everyone. Now I needed to get on with it. But what if having that tumble off your bike gave you concussion? Or internal bleeding? Do you ask for help then?

I never did, but now I know that my determination to deal with Mark on my own meant that with every blow I was saying I was ready to accept another. I lost the ability to distinguish between right and wrong, and my self-respect was ebbing away. I packed my bags countless times in my head but went on taking the abusive behaviour. It became easier, if anything. Now I tell you that I know there is nothing heroic – absolutely nothing – about staying in an abusive relationship. There is nothing to fight for. Not only will it not get better, but it’s going to get worse each time you allow it to happen. It’s easier for you to sacrifice
your
body and
your
self; it’s a very strange pattern. That’s what I say when I’m asked why I didn’t leave.

Everything has a beginning. There has to be a first punch or kick and that’s when you call the police – the first time. No matter who it is, you just have to do it. Or if you can, you have to get in a trusted family member, but if for any reason that’s not possible then it has to be the police, straight away. Then you have to get out of that relationship – find a solution. But find it that first time: it will be too exhausting otherwise. You can’t stay in a situation that you know, deep down, will only get worse. You may not be able to see the exit clearly, but it will only get harder to find with time. The lightest smack is not okay.

I accepted bullying when I was at school and even though I thought I had left it behind, I was still letting it happen when I was with Mark. It would take another crisis, much worse, before I was finally able to change things for real.

In the immediate aftermath of the split I patched myself up as well as I could. I licked my wounds as you do and I put it
all behind me – the desert life, the trips between London and Arizona, the B-movies, C-movies and the parties. The only thing I was sure of now was Killian, my beautiful son.

Killian didn’t get to see his father until he was 20. There had never been a birthday card or letter until then – Mark didn’t see him grow up and he didn’t know that as he became a handsome young man in his own right he kept his father’s name (his middle name is Marcus) and that he carried a picture of Mark around in his wallet wherever he went. Like his father, Killian was afflicted with psoriasis – a skin disorder – all over his body. It was tough for Killian but I always tried to speak well of Mark in front of him – it was the least I could do for my son when he was young. His dream was to meet his father one day and I wanted to keep that alive for him. It was only at Christmas last year that I made that happen. And Killian’s better for it.

Mark’s own life continued to be marked by conflict and violence: he’s now in jail for trying to burn a girlfriend. He was still well known in the US as a sporting legend – his record 22 sacks, or tackles, in a single season stood for 17 years and he even tried to make a comeback as a footballer. He’s now a born-again Christian. I ended up meeting his ex-wife, Lisa, when she got a reality show called
The Gastineau Girls
and Brittny, the daughter she had with Mark, was also on the programme. I remembered how I sometimes used to look after her when I lived with Mark and saw how she has since grown into a beautiful girl.

I seemed to live most of my life on a plane after leaving Mark, flitting between London, Los Angeles, Italy and
Denmark but I really wanted to settle down and to be closer to my son and the rest of my family. I toured Europe to support my second album
I’m the One… Nobody Else
. This was another WEA album recorded in Los Angeles which did about as well as my debut; not a huge success, but it wasn’t a disaster.