The Road to Reality

Learn to get in touch with silence within yourself, and know that everything in this life has a purpose. There are no mistakes, no coincidences. All events are blessings given to us to learn from.
—Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

“OKAY, NOW, SPIN HARDER,” the instructor yelled out. “One, two, three, press your arms, one, two, three, one more set, one, two, three, let’s go!” In my mind, I was in Tuscany riding my bike past silvery olive groves, stone castles, and vineyards. In reality, I was atop a stationary bike at a Malibu gym’s spinning class.

That was fitting: my life was spinning—my days were proceeding frenetically, with my every waking moment scheduled with an activity, followed immediately by another. Everybody has their means of coping with emotional pain: some drink, some turn to drugs, some eat, some stop eating entirely. My outlet was becoming a perpetual motion machine. After Mark moved to his beach house, I steered my reality back onto its axis with sheer “busyness.” I jammed new activities and roles into my calendar—and whirled through the days at a lightning pace so that I never had a free moment to reflect.

I jumped back into acting classes with a passion, hoping it would fill the void that Mark no longer did. I launched my own theater productions. I volunteered even more at my kids’ schools—I was the mother who drove the children on field trips, who served as lunch monitor, and who helped out in art classes. I took up tennis, and I threw pots on the wheel in ceramics classes. I delved into charity work, and auctioned off Survivor props to help causes.

I even started remodeling the house—basically, I did anything to avoid thinking about what was happening to my marriage, and the implications this held for my life. I was desperately trying to stay clear of that constellation of emotions that accompany breaking up: “I love him, hate him, need him, wish I’d never met him, we should get back together, I never want to see him again, it was his fault, it was my fault, I should have gotten a boob job, I love him, hate him …”

I never let on to my emotional state, though. I had kids to raise, and I took the role of mother even more seriously now that Mark and I were “sharing” our kids and dividing their free time.

“You’re taking it all so well,” commented friends at their dinner parties, where I hid in the bathroom, sobbing, as I thought of my failed marriage. And although I’d grown accustomed to attending dinner parties solo even when Mark and I were together, I still wasn’t comfortable as the officially-separated wife surrounded by couples.

I continued to cycle through the Tuscan countryside in my mind. I’d just read Under the Tuscan Sun—and fantasized that I was the heroine moving to Italy and starting all over again.

“Hit it harder, one, two, three.” With sandy-brown hair and hazel eyes, the instructor was sort of cute. Sometimes in my mind, I was biking through Tuscany with him. Before long, in real life, we struck up a casual friendship. I liked to go out to dinner with him on the nights that the kids were at The Burnett Boys’ clubhouse on the beach with Mark.

In the deepest recesses of my mind, however, I continued to loudly crank the theme song from “The Mark and Dianne Show.” I still believed that Mark and I would get back together and revive our marriage. My thinking about that changed when I journeyed to Asia in June 2002 for Survivor Thailand, the fifth season of the world’s most talked-about reality show. I was no longer living with Mark, and I knew there had been other people in his life. But I still found him the most attractive man on the planet; romantic that I am, I still believed he was my soul mate. So I continued to push on, hoping that things would change.

As I traveled with the two kids to Bangkok, for the first time I began to seriously think about life without Mark, wondering how I would cope with such a scenario. When the boys and I landed in Bangkok, Mark wasn’t there to greet us, and he wasn’t waiting at our hotel suite. “Amanda, where is he?” I asked, calling his assistant upon my arrival to an empty room. My husband was in Phuket for some R & R, I was told—only later hearing that he was vacationing there with Mount Twenty-something.

Happily, Mark was all cheery smiles and bright eyes when he showed up in Bangkok on the second day. We jaunted off for family outings—taking in everything from the golden Buddhist temples to jungle elephant treks. And then we flew off to a tiny island in the south, Ko Tarutao, where Survivor Thailand was taping. It was lovely, dripping with orchids, and the monsoon rains made it lush, but what I recall most of that month with “The Burnett Boys” was the end of the trip.

As the taping of Survivor Thailand wrapped up, Mark announced another change in plans: he was taking the boys to Scotland for two weeks. To smooth my ruffled feathers, my husband arranged for me to spend another two weeks relaxing in the land once known as Siam. In fact, he flew in a traveling companion: no sooner had I hugged the boys goodbye at the airport, when my spinning instructor from the gym arrived. Mark financed our two-week vacation to tropical isle Krabi, the moated city of Chang Mai, and beachfront Phuket.

My husband playing Cupid for me appeared to be a sign that our marriage was beyond the point of return. On the other hand, it was sweet traveling around a dazzling country of glistening mountain-top temples, romantic islands, and lush mountains with a good-looking man who liked me and continually showered me with respect, attention, and affection. I was deeply conflicted.

August 25, 2002

Well, huh. My life has become a question mark. Why in the world would Mark pay for my vacation with my gym instructor? Does Mark really want me to be happy? Or miserable? Is Mark trying to say “Everyone fools around,” or “Di, we’re seriously done”? Is he saying, “Let’s have our separate flings, then get back together,” or “Let’s go our separate ways, forever”?

Is this a reflection of the sudden changes in our lives with the success of Survivor or it a reflection on the state of marriage in the 21^st century? Can I love two men at the same time?

Well, I know the answer to one of those questions at least. No, I can’t love two men. I only love one. His name is Mark. And I fear with every cell of my body that he’s gone, gone, gone, and that I can never reel him back in. And I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing. But it sure feels like a bad thing to my heart.

And now that I have these quandaries out of my system, I’ll slip into another sexy dress and put on my famous smile, and go out to another fabulous dinner with my spinning instructor, whom I silently refer to as “The Replacement,” and try to figure this out when I get back home. I get to be an actress after all, this time in the story of my life.

Despite my reservations, I took Stephen Stills’s advice—“Love the one you’re with.” My friendship with The Replacement evolved into a romance, and it continued when we returned to Malibu.

Maybe it was because I was no longer “available”—thanks to Mark’s match-making—or maybe my husband had descended Mount Twenty-Something. A few months later, Mark suggested that we start dating again. I wasn’t sure. Was a reunion the right thing for our family or for our kids? Was it a wise course of action for me? I wasn’t sure if being with Mark gave me room to grow. Complicating the situation further, now I was involved with The Replacement.

I realized how much I’d changed over the previous fifteen years, and how I was no longer the woman who Mark had married. Back then, I was a sharp-dressing career woman, financially independent, and I had my own aspirations and identity. When I moved in with Mark at age 23, and then married him, I gave up the “I” to partake in “us” and adopted Mark’s dreams as my own. I’d transformed from individual to partner, bouncing board for ideas, his speech coach who helped him with pitch, a solicitor for event sponsors, a support system, cheerleader, loving mother and devoted wife—all roles that I cherished. But it was time to make some adjustments—and merge my past with my present and future. I wanted my own identity again.

I wanted to perform solo in “The Dianne Show”—starring, written, and directed by me. I viewed life as a self-made movie, with each person casting themselves in their own roles. I needed to recast myself in a new part and jump into new arenas. I needed to sell myself to the world. I needed to announce that I existed.

As I started to list accomplishments for my bio, I faced a problem well known to full-time mothers. Much of my experience—such as my Warranty Salesperson of the Month awards—dated back two decades. I had been vice president of Eco-Challenge—and had business cards with that title, but now Mark was downplaying my role. I had also been president of our production company, DJB, Inc.—the name was derived from my initials—but Mark had me sign off on that just before we were separated. I’d never demanded a production credit on Eco-Challenge or Survivor, although I’d made contributions to both—not the least of which was coming up with the name of the series—but I was disappointed that Mark hadn’t given me an official credit on either. Now, my reticence about asking for credit was hurting my résumé.

“Dianne, you’re too old,” some said when I announced my renewed interest in theater. “You can’t just launch an acting career at your age!” They didn’t say that again after I produced a play and cast myself in the lead: Christopher Durang’s Beyond Therapy played for two weeks at the Santa Monica Playhouse. I put the whole thing together from top to bottom. Holding auditions at my house, I brought in a number of actors from my Film Actor’s Workshop to begin the casting, and hired everyone from the director to stagehands.

During rehearsals for the play, Mark wanted to start dating me again. I found it ironic that he wanted to rekindle the relationship when he saw me go out into the world and make things happen.

For our opening-night performance, the original Broadway director of the play came to see us. The curtain went up, and the electricity cut off. On the up side, at least most of the stage lighting worked. On the down side, there was no air conditioning or fan, and it felt like a sauna; halfway through the leading man got “dry mouth.” Yet, the show went on.

On the second weekend of the play’s performance, Mark was in the audience. On that night, the leading man had a conflicting engagement. The Replacement, who is also an actor, filled in that night. In the play, there’s a steamy scene between my character, Prudence, and the character played that night by The Replacement.

“I love you,” I said onstage to The Replacement. “I want you …” And then I recalled Mark was in the audience.

Around then, I saw a poster that called to me. It was an advertisement for the L.A. Marathon, to be held in three weeks. That poster seemed to present me with a dare: “Can you do it, Dianne? Can you?”

Never mind that I wasn’t a runner, and that I had only three weeks to train. I bit.

I even delved into the history of the event, learning about Phidippides, the finest Greek runner back in 490 b.c. Following a Greek victory over the Persians in the town of Marathon, Greece, Phidippides was tasked with delivering news of the victory to the rulers in Athens. He took his job seriously, running 26.2 miles up and down hills, along coasts and through forests, and finally into the great city of Athens. Making his way up to the Acropolis, running all the while, Phidippides burst in, and yelled only “Niki!”—“victory” —then collapsed and died.

The modern marathon commemorates the final run of a man who pushed himself to the ultimate limit. His single-minded purpose, first captured in a legend, spawned the event known as the marathon, now run in 82 countries around the globe, with 1,000 individual events held every year.

To this day, finishing a marathon is applauded as a major personal milestone. Completing a 26.2-mile run is a symbol of overcoming hardship and persevering through adversity. For those who have been told, “No, you can’t,” finishing a marathon is a way of saying, “Yes, I can!”

When I told Mark I planned to run the L.A. Marathon, he rolled his eyes. “Dianne, you’re not a runner,” he said. “You can’t finish a long-distance race!”

The day of the marathon, my sons, my brother Nico, and The Replacement were at the starting line to cheer me. A friend, who is an experienced runner, ran alongside me, giving me words of support. I started off feeling strong. All the way through mile 7, I was still neck-and-neck with my friend … then mile 10, then mile 15 … By then, the endorphins had kicked in, and I felt high. This wasn’t hard, it was thrilling; why hadn’t I run a marathon before?

Then mile 17 came long. My feet were blistered, my legs hurt, and with 5.2 miles to go to the finish line, I wasn’t sure I could make it. But then I thought of Phidippides, the determined messenger. I thought of my kids. I thought of Mark, telling me that I’d never finish. And I got my third wind. And I kept going, visualizing the finish line in my head.

When I got home, I took off my running shoes and let out a satisfied sigh, so happy that I succeeded in meeting such a rigorous challenge with little preparation. It underscored that if we really put our minds to something, nothing can deter us. I was on a high that lasted for days. Mark came over and congratulated me, but his kind words couldn’t compete with the message that was blasting in my head: I DID IT!

For the sake of my own self-esteem, I also finished something I’d started long before. For years, I’d put off taking the test for my real-estate license—but not because I dragged my feet. When I was in the Topanga house, I took evening real-estate classes. However, every time I would set an appointment to take the test, all of a sudden Mark would uproot the family to go on location with Eco-Challenge. Although I scheduled test dates three times, I had to cancel every single one because of the trips.

Now I didn’t have an excuse. I ordered all the books and study guides covering the complex accounting rules, land-use regulations, and thousands of other obscure details. I studied like crazy. A month later, I went to downtown L.A. to take the test, and passed! After all the years of being thwarted, getting my license allowed me to get listings on properties in Malibu, Aspen, and Mammoth, and make multimillion-dollar deals. It was very rewarding, in many ways. My confidence returned, as did my sense of personal power.

The reemergence of me, Dianne Burnett the individual, helped me through what would have otherwise been a very tough time.

Breakups are always painful. But they turn surreal when your ex is the hottest ticket in town. Every time I opened up a newspaper, I was bombarded with stories about Survivor. Every time I switched on the TV, there was an interview with executive producer Mark Burnett, who was dubbed the “King of Reality TV.”

And by then Mark was launching a new show—The Apprentice, hosted by Donald Trump. I was happy for Mark, but that series only increased the already-high visibility of my ex. Even my sons rated write-ups in celebrity magazines after the Donald took wife number three.

One afternoon in 2004, not long after The Apprentice premiered, Mark invited the boys and me to a Lakers game. During a lull in the action, he took James and Cameron to meet Donald Trump. When Mark returned, he was alone. He said that Donald’s fiancée, Melania Knauss, adored our sons.

In January 2005, Melania asked Cameron to be ring-bearer in the much-publicized Trump wedding. A private plane whisked my kids and Mark off to Palm Beach, Florida—destination: the Trumps’ Mar-a-Lago estate.

Nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains, the ashram—frequented by the likes of Oprah and Julia Roberts—was thankfully TV-free and devoid of newspapers. Accommodations were sparse, and the workout was tough: we woke up at 5:30, practiced yoga for an hour, then ate a thimble-sized portion of granola with an almond on top. Then we hiked for five hours up steep mountain trails, ate lunch, and had a massage … followed by water aerobics, weight lifting, and meditation until evening. A light dinner followed our meditation, and then we partook in group activities designed to increase personal awareness.

One evening, an analyst deciphered our handwriting—and everyone was supposed to guess who the person was by the description. When she looked at my writing sample, she noted that it indicated a caring person with an abundance of creativity. “This person’s handwriting shows she is family oriented and has a lot of compassion,” she said. Nobody guessed that the writing was mine.

She then led us on another self-exploration exercise—this one called “picture completion.” Handing out pieces of paper with dots marked on them, she told us to let our imagination run free as we connected the dots to form our own images. I drew a tornado, followed by a sharp-toothed piranha.

Afterward, the woman collected all the drawings, commenting on the images. She held up one picture of an island. “This one shows great inner peace,” she noted. “And here,” she said, looking at another, “we see courage in the face of adversity.” My drawing was next in the stack. “And this drawing …” She held it up and looked at it. A strange expression crossed her face, and she shoved it back in the stack without further mention.

The ashram helped exorcise my demons. I lost ten pounds, and when I left, I felt stronger, more centered, and altogether rejuvenated. More than ever, I realized I had to reinvent myself—and figure out what new role I wanted to play in the movie of my life. I decided “Dianne Burnett, Producer,” had a very nice ring.

That was Step One: deciding what I wanted. Step Two was figuring out how to do it. Step Three was actually doing it.

Shortly thereafter, I started a production company, becoming executive producer of my first feature-length indie film. Called Jam, it featured a brilliant ensemble cast, including Jeffrey Dean Morgan. The plot revolved around five families whose lives change as a result of a traffic jam on a back-country road. I liked overseeing it as a hands-on producer and making key decisions; I liked being awarded respect. Jam won the Best Narrative Feature at the Santa Fe Film Festival, and was a symbolic victory for me. I was getting back on track, making progress in the entertainment arena that had called to me since I was a little kid.

I began pitching ideas for new TV shows. I hooked up with billionaire John Paul DeJoria—who co-founded John Paul Mitchell Systems—along with his wife Eloise and executive producer Phil Gurin, and we developed a concept for a reality show to be called The Salon about a beauty shop where the hair stylist also serves as a therapist. There were nibbles, but it didn’t fly.

We developed another reality show, to be called Changing Fortunes: a philanthropist would travel the country helping struggling businesses devise new strategies to emerge from their financial woes. What better person than John Paul—a man who’d once lived in his car but was now worth $4 billion—to host it? We pitched Changing Fortunes to ABC, CBS, and NBC. Everybody seemed to love it, but no one picked it up.

My friend Brian MacGregor and I tinkered with a show that offered pragmatic financial advice. I pitched it to David Eilenberg, Mark’s president of development, and he loved the idea. But in the end, it went nowhere.

With every meeting, I learned more—from the art of the pitch to the need for an agent to help guard against ideas being lifted. Most important, I was back in the game. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that if you want something, keep going up to bat, and even if you don’t get a hit, keep trying. I recalled that when Mark and I were trying to get Eco-Challenge off the ground, the idea was initially greeted with laughter; even Survivor was nixed by all five networks before getting the green light in a second round.

I’m still pitching, and getting bites on a new reality show … about a psychic who heals people over the phone.

In 2006, Mark and I divorced—four years after Howard Stern had warned me what was coming down the pike. I brought the maroon crocodile purse to court, subtly underscoring better times and the romance that had lured me to the West Coast. I did not pursue alimony. Even though I’d helped my husband during his climb, I didn’t demand that Mark share half of his earnings, as Howard Stern had predicted years before would be the case.

In April 2007, Mark married Roma Downey, the star of Touched by an Angel. This time, Della Reese—Roma’s co-star and an ordained minister—officiated at the ceremony held in the backyard of their Malibu home. This time, Archie wore a kilt to the wedding. This time, the news was cried out in everything from People to The Star.

The next month, I married The Replacement. This time, I had the big Long Island wedding I’d always wanted, with my parents, all my siblings, nieces, and nephews gathered around. This time, top-notch photographers shot us throughout, and videographers conducted interviews; this time, we had an elegant reception at a private club in the Hamptons, where a string quartet played during the cocktail hour, the dinner was gourmet, and afterward we danced to a 14-piece band. This time, everything was “designer”—from the Monique Lhuillier wedding dress to the Sylvia Weinstock wedding cake.

“Could you repeat the part about for richer or poorer?” I asked the officiant, my verbal stumbling causing my family to break into laughter. On the other side of the aisle, they weren’t amused. “Oh no,” whispered my soon-to-be mother-in-law, “this is not a good sign.”

This time, when we walked down the aisle as husband and wife, my mother subtly leaned in as if to give my new hubby a celebratory kiss, but instead whispered in his ear. “Hurt my daughter,” she warned, “and I’ll kill ya.”

James and Cameron, best man and ring bearer at their father’s wedding in April, and best man and ring bearer at their mother’s wedding in May, took it in stride. They just wanted us both to be happy.