Very early I learned, if I was “perfect” people would like me. That’s not a boast. My perfectionism has done more harm than good, even if it has kept me fit. I wrote a memoir about the perfectionism, and where it came from. I called it Perfect Peter (and why I hated him), then changed the name to Waking From The Fire. I share part of it here. If it resonates with you please let me know. I want to connect authentically with others, perhaps you, who may be struggling, and together, we can help each other.
Background: For 48 years I appeared to be fine by pretending to be perfect. That was a mistake. Everyone thought I was happy- Successful speaking career, wife, kids, house, cars, gym membership, and so on. But there was always something floating nearby reminding me, “Be worried.” I discovered what it was; childhood trauma. So I wrote about it, and it helped.
Thanks for listening,
Peter
P.S. As a Health Coach, for over 20 years I have observed that when people are struggling to eat healthier and exercise, often there is a psychological component holding them back. I refuse to believe most of us who can’t lose weight are lazy or weak willed. That just doesn’t make sense to me. To be an authentic health coach, I feel obligated to help make them aware of what may be holding them back; it’s not about finding the perfect diet or workout, or berating yourself to try harder. That’s part of the reason for sharing my memoir. My sabotaging behavior showed up in my professional career. Where someone else can sabotage their efforts by eating a pizza for emotional reasons, I could do it by not believing in myself. I’m happy to report, the writing has helped me heal my childhood wounds. If you read it, and it resonates with you, please leave a comment or contact me directly. I welcome authentic discussions about what’s really going on inside of us. I am here to listen. Sending love and support…
An Inspirational Memoir
Peter Theodore Kofitsas
Since the fire, something’s wrong. Truthfully, something’s always been wrong. Strangely, I didn’t connect it to my childhood, or the fire, as though it never happened. I thought the problem was me. Some inherent flaw. A shortcoming.
What I recall is, I don’t matter. Growing up, I feel I don’t belong, that I’m bad, wrong. People don’t really like me. Not that anyone says those words exactly. I just sense it. So I’m surprised when my coworker writes on my 50th birthday card, “You’re one of the best people I know.” Uncomfortable, I say, “We have the best employees anywhere,” which I believe, deflecting attention from myself, though I crave it.
I act caring and confident with my clients, patients, audience, and friends, then judge myself for doing it so they like me, rather than wanting to help them. I hide from my boss, and other authority figures, behind a confident smile and 6 foot 4 inch, former scholarship athlete physique, but make sure he hears me when I win over a patient with praise. I want him to think I’m special. Secretly, I’m worried he’ll fire me because I’m not as good as I said I was in the interview. I experience this self doubt in every area of my life, except in the bedroom. I don’t know why.
Never thinking about the past, because society tells me there’s no benefit in it, years after my father’s fire, while getting my masters degree in physical therapy, as I deftly slice away the skin of a corpse in gross anatomy lab, I remember. I’ve seen those tissues before, only then, they were charred. Standing there, scalpel in hand, my father’s burnt body appears on the table in front of me, resurrected from the grave, bringing with it everything I had placed in the coffin with him. That sends a jolt of lightning down my right arm to my wrist, a tightening in my gut that allows short, shallow breaths. That happens more as I near 50, the age my father decided, as my therapist puts it, “to give his final ‘Fuck You’ to the world.”
More and more, I’m worried I’m doomed to suffer the same fate as my perfectionistic exterior, created to survive what I’d convinced myself hadn’t affected me, starts to crumble. I had built a successful speaking career working with companies around the world like Goldman Sachs, appeared on TV, wrote books, created the “perfect” family, then lost it all. When my children beg “Daddy, we know about the fire. Please, just tell us what happened,” I have to leave the room, shut my bedroom door, and at the edge of my bed, head in my hands, beg, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Exhausted, I can’t take trying to fill this hole anymore- A hole I don’t know exists. When I confide in my wife, she says, “Maybe you should look for another therapist.” When I do, he suggests a 12 step program, and in therapy and group meetings, I learn what happened. During childhood, I believed one person’s words and actions. That creates an inner conflict that starts in childhood, follows me into adulthood, and will soon bring me to the edge of my bed. The confounding part? I have no idea. Then, I learn unexpressed grief can masquerade as depression, making one feel alone in a crowded room, and hopeless. That feels familiar. When I confess this to Frank, my new therapist, he’ll be the first person to tell me, “Peter, what your mother, brother, sister, and you experienced was not normal. When I stare at him, he leans closer, “Your father had to die, so that you all could live.”
Halfway through my life, paralyzed by self doubt, I’m faced with the choice; repeat my family's generational dysfunction, destroying myself, while hurting my children, like my father did, or allow myself to be the person I’ve always wanted to be, the person my children love.
Unexpectedly, writing gives me a great gift- A look back into the rooms at the exact moments my father kindles within me what’s been burning inside of him since his own childhood, inextricably fusing his past to my future, making two, one. Now, as I place myself back into each room, alone again with him, I realize, as I desperately, slowly, try to extinguish the flames that have bound us, this time, only one of us can leave.
Then, a problem appears during my writing that makes me want to delete it all. Enmeshed within what Frank calls my father’s terrorizing behavior, is a fiercely loving man. The man I remember as a child, sitting safely on his lap. Writing about that side of him reminds me it wasn’t, like my older brother said, all bad. Initially, I resist including his good qualities because I think that will weaken the case I’m building against him, leaving me exposed as a depressed, pathetic, 50 year old failure trying to blame it all on his dead dad.
But I realize, I have to be honest. Only telling part of the story will end up hurting me, and my three children, the most important people in my life. So I include what made my father human, making him an even more tragic figure, because, in those moments, he becomes vulnerable. I loved my father then, and feel guilty for writing about him now.
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