Memoir: Perfect Peter: Prologue- Installment 9; Fame & Foreclosure
2009. 39 years old, on TV, wanting to believe, Now I’ll be happy.
One reason I’m sharing my memoir is because I have realized as a health coach, often, when we are struggling, like when trying to be healthier, our childhood may be holding us back. Until we address our past, our present and future may be affected.
Another reason is, when I shared it with friends, many said, “I feel the same. Can we talk?”
And, the most important reason; Right now, somewhere, an adult is harming a child. They may not know they’re doing it.
If what you read affects you, please reach out to me via email or phone, or leave a comment. My hope is to connect authentically with you, so we can support each other.
Caution, Dear Reader - Some of the content is graphic, and I have been told, disturbing at times. My goal is not to upset, but to share honestly. Only reflection and honesty have helped me glimpse what has eluded me for 50 years-happiness. Please read at your discretion.
*Most names have been changed.
Click here to read my memoir from the beginning.
Click here to read installment 8.
Excerpt:
I thought being rich and famous would make me happy, and all my problems would go away, so that’s what I set out to be. The problem was, I didn’t really know what my problems were. While faking my way through pseudo success, I’d never get a grasp on what was wrong with me, or what I really wanted. I always felt like something was missing, and with everything I accomplished, I actually felt worse. What others saw as success, I perceived as failure. Why? Because I felt like a phony through all of it, thinking, I hope they don’t realize I’m not special.
Installment 9
As I continue to share more stories with Bella, she stops me, “Dad, how has your childhood not affected you more?” I don’t know how to answer her, because, until now, I thought it hadn’t.
As a little boy, I figured out a way to escape, long before the fire. I imagined being famous, singing on stage, like Elvis, adored by millions, but mostly pretty girls, and a handful of envious boys. It felt special, taking me to large arenas with screaming fans and huge spotlights. Years later, I’ll learn this is a salvation fantasy; a way to dissociate from pain. The reality was, besides trying to start a band in our basement, my brother on drums (he was good), me on guitar, (I was not), and my mother telling me my voice sounded like Elvis’ when I was a prepubescent in the 70’s, I didn’t have any musical abilities. But I continued to fantasize about fame, and if I could attain it, I would be special. Then, something would happen that I didn’t understand. Whenever I got the attention I craved, I’d want it to stop. 33 years later, I’ll understand why.
I know now, I didn’t really want to be a musician, or famous. I wanted to be noticed. I had rarely felt noticed. If you met me you might challenge me on that admission, like those closest to me do. They ask, “Pete, you’re serious?” Once, while boarding an airplane, I overheard a woman in first class whisper to the flight attendant, “Oh my God, that’s George Clooney.” When I kept walking toward coach, she must’ve realized her error. During a lunch break one summer, while working on a construction site on Madison Ave in NYC, covered in dust and wearing filthy work clothes and a torn baseball cap, an older woman with a Brooklyn accent stopped me and asked, “Are ya someone famus or sumthin?”
Over the years, whether due to look, or comportment, I’d often be mistaken for someone important. I assume people reacted to me, mostly positively, based on my stature, confident demeanor, and what my mother in law refers to as, “pleasant looks.” I liked the attention, but was uncomfortable with it, like when my coworker said, “You’re the best person I know.” What I didn’t know was, my external persona has always been in direct conflict with my internal perception. That conflict has been the crux of my existence.
Recently, because I was posting excerpts of this writing, I received an unexpected text from a grammar school friend who’d read them, “Pete, hey it’s ____. Was wondering if you’d be available for lunch. Would love to catch up. Let me know?” Because I’m skeptical of people’s motives, a result of my childhood, and hadn’t seen him since we graduated high school 30 years ago, I responded, “Sure, but can you give me an idea of what you want to meet about?”
“I’m interested in a lot you have to say, similar experiences with fathers.”
“Absolutely!” I responded.
When we met, he revealed, “Pete, I always admired you and thought you were a good guy; confident, kind, friendly, and a great athlete. When you got the scholarship, I wished that was me.” Reading your memoir, I was confused. Was this the same Pete from growing up?” Knowing me then, and seeing me on Facebook now, he imagined the life I had lived- “You grew up with loving parents in a big home with wonderful, abundant family meals and fun vacations to exotic locations.” Everything he didn’t have. Then I got a scholarship and my life got even better. In essence, I was having the perfect life, the one he would have preferred to his own childhood, including his father being in prison and dying of a heroine overdose, something I never knew. Understandably, his imagination about my life got everything wrong, except for one thing, the scholarship, and that, like everything else I experienced, was tainted. As we sat across from each other in a Starbucks, he went on to tell me, though he had a good job, was married and loved his wife and daughter, he felt like a phony, never good enough, but couldn’t tell anyone, especially the women he had dated or work colleagues, lest the women look down on him, and he get fired from his job for incompetence. His brave confession brought unexpected tears of admiration to my eyes that I wondered if he saw, and made the skin on my arms stand. Though we grew up in different homes, had different parents, especially fathers, he had described exactly how I felt much of my life, like a loser. I thanked him sincerely for his courage reaching out to me and how impressed I was with how well he tuned out considering his childhood, but I knew he’d doubt it, because, like me, he had a hard time accepting compliments. He did smile, and in his eyes I saw the kindness he had projected onto me. Before we hugged and said goodbye, I confessed, “Though I may appear “famous” on social media, I struggle, just like you.” Driving away I thought, I’ve known ______ for over 40 years, but I just met him today.
_______________________________
My becoming almost famous started soon after an obscure toddler-hood. I’d first appear in the papers for hitting home runs in little league. Next, because of my father’s public death. Then, when I got a scholarship, and again years later when I appeared on TV and various print and online media through sheer will, and when I’m being judgemental, in lieu of talent.
I didn’t become a rock star, but worked up to being introduced as a health guru, as one human resources director introduced me; “He’s the Tony Robbins of health.” I spoke passionately about nutrition, exercise, and motivation to employees at Goldman Sachs, the largest financial institution in the world, was flown and broadcast internationally by the 3rd biggest law firm on the planet, and was in talks to speak at Lehman Brothers the month they financially imploded in the crash of 2008, ironically, to motivate their employees. I willed myself to get on QVC, the largest TV shopping channel in the world, selling a fitness product I had manufactured in China. By rough estimate, I had the adoration of not millions, but handfuls of nice folks in at least 25 out of the 50 states in the US, including Alaska, with smatterings in Europe and Asia. I had manifested my fantasy of being on stage.
Unfulfilled, I’ll realize later, fame wasn’t the type of noticed I needed; it had less to do with stardom, and more to do with fatherdom. Because something still alluded me, even having achieved a modicum of celebrity, and the appearance of wealth, after speaking to a large crowd in NYC or LA, I’d go back to my hotel room, sometimes at the Four Seasons, order room service, eat copious amounts of mediocre food, and pass out watching crappy TV, because I was depressed, not chemically, but spiritually. And because I am being honest, before going to bed I might participate in more soul depleting activities.
I thought being rich and famous would make me happy, and all my problems would go away, so that’s what I set out to be. The problem was, I didn’t really know what my problems were. While faking my way through pseudo success, I’d never get a grasp on what was wrong with me, or what I really wanted. I always felt like something was missing, and with everything I accomplished, I actually felt worse. What others saw as success, I perceived as failure. Why? Because I felt like a phony through all of it, thinking, I hope they don’t realize I’m not special. And, I never felt like I fit in, anywhere.
My wife often asked, “Why do you like such depressing music?” Attracted by melancholy, certain artists spoke my language. Florence and the Machine, a kindred spirit, wrote my revelation, “But I must confess, I did it all for myself. I gathered you here to hide from some vast unnameable fear. But the loneliness never left me. I always took it with me.” Yes.
Lana Del Rey wrote; “It takes getting everything you ever wanted, and losing it all, to know what true freedom is.” I can’t say I got everything I ever wanted; I did achieve a fringe fame, made enough money over a couple of years to situate my children in an upper middle class suburb, (though I struggled financially through every year of it), paid off one large school loan in a lump sum, and would be recognized as a quasi celebrity while out a couple of times a year; “Aren’t you Peter K? You spoke at my company last year.”
Then, it all collapsed; my business, my marriage, my life. I still had three wonderful kids, and they had a good mother, but I was lost. “The economy’s changed and companies aren’t paying for health and wellness anymore,” I’d say, initially blaming it on the 2008 stock market crash (there was some truth in that). Then there was the hurtful lawsuit by, “That fucking cunt,” as my friend from physical therapy school referred to her. He was talking about a lawyer in California, already receiving disability checks, who sued me claiming she became disabled and couldn’t ever work again because a piece of plastic from an exercise band I had manufactured in China cut her knuckles while she was exercising. The attorney hired by my insurance company said, “Don’t worry. This is a ridiculous case and will be thrown out. She’s a nut.” She won 1.8 million dollars in damages. My attorney shrugged, “That’s the way the system works.” During the deposition the plaintiff’s attorney turned to me and asked, “Why would you sell my client a product that you knew might hurt her?” Afterwards he said, “No hard feelings. It’s not personal, just business. By the way, I love your website and what you do as a health coach. Can I email sometime with health questions.” I said to him, astounded, “Are you serious?” He looked confused.
Because I lost part of my income, I fell behind on my bills, my credit rating dropped below 500, and my house was in pre-foreclosure. I was disillusioned and despondent, thinking, Why do I fail at everything I try? And, Why is everyone having a better life than me? What I didn’t understand then was, what happened to me was inevitable. Finally, after years of struggling, while not knowing why, my childhood caught up with me.
There is a line in Jane Eyre, when Edward says to Jane, “You must be tenacious of life” for having endured years in an oppressive orphanage. I was living that sentiment. Feeling emotionally fatigued, I fatefully fell into what 12-step programs call, “A bottom”. Hopeless, and often angry and resentful, I found a therapist, and though I wasn’t an alcoholic, he referred me to a 12-step program for children of alcoholics. He and the program saved my life. He was the first person to help me understand, “Peter, your father was a sick man.” Up until then, I thought I was the problem. Unfortunately, often, I still do.
More to come…