Tired? Anxious? Not Sure What's Wrong? Try Hitting Bottom, Like This: Podcast- Waking From The Fire, Ep 8
Dear Friend,
Work can be stressful. Family can be stressful. Your health can be stressful. Yet, you fight on. Well, what if you didn’t have to fight all the time? What if you could let it all go and in the end not only rejuvenate, but actually save your life? Watch/Listen as Peter shares the wisdom of letting yourself hit a bottom, then grow beyond your expectations. It might just be what's missing from you life.
“Four years ago I hit a bottom. I couldn’t do “it",” any more. I didn’t even know what “it,” was. When I finally let go and asked for help, my life changed forever. Below is a excerpt from my upcoming memoir, Waking From The Fire,” where I share what it felt like to hit bottom, then how, with the help of others, I picked myself up.
Watch/Listen to the podcast, then read below, and leave me a message or comment. I love hearing from you.”
Here are some steps and resources that may help you.
Find a good therapist (They’re not all created equal. If there’s been family trauma/dysfunction in your life, ask if they have expertise in that area. Frank was my 5th, and best therapist)
Look for a 12-step program if that makes sense for you. I joined Adult Children of Alcoholics & Dysfunctional Families. It saved my life.
Ask like minded family & friends for help. Not the friends & family that will judge, but the ones who understand what it is to struggle
Never give up. I was ready to. Thank God I didn’t. My relationships, especially with my children, have never been stronger.
Thanks for reading/listening/watching. If what you heard/read resonated with you, send me an email or leave a comment. I love hearing from you.
Peter
Memoir Excerpt
Waking From the Fire
Names, Flames, & A Desire For Fame- An Inspirational Memoir
Chapter 21 Hitting bottom
As I share more memories with Bella, she stops me, shaking her head, “Dad, how has your childhood not affected you more?” That confuses me. I don’t know how to answer, because, until now, I thought it hadn’t.
After four years of what could be tormenting work, for the first time, I see what Bella sees. Now, as I write for my 5 year old self, it’s plain as day- As a little boy I figured out a way to escape long before the fire. Besides hiding from my father in plain sight, head down, never looking him in the eyes, tip toeing out of the room when he walked into it, as I lied awake in my bunk bed at night, I imagined being famous on stage, like Elvis, adored by millions, but mostly pretty girls, and a handful of envious boys. It made me feel special, like I rarely did, 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 a situation you want to escape from, but can’t.
There was one problem with my fantasy- 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, people would love me. Then, something would happen that I didn’t understand. Whenever I got the attention I craved, I’d want it to stop. Thirty-three years later, I’ll understand why- Being seen in a dysfunctional family could get you hurt. And, though I craved admiration and acceptance, I didn’t believe I deserved it.
My becoming almost famous started 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 the scholarship, and again years later when I appeared on TV and in 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. But, I learned, it came with a price.
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 eluded 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’m being honest, before going to bed, I would participate in more soul depleting activities.
Lying in my childhood bed at night, all those years ago, I thought being rich and famous would make me happy, and all of 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 what I secretly believed was 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. Because of this work, I’ll learn that’s called, “Imposter Syndrome.”
The singer-songwriter 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, ashamed, initially blaming it on the 2008 stock market crash (Frank, my therapist, helps me accept there’s 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 assured me, “Don’t worry, Peter. This is a ridiculous case and will be thrown out. She’s a nut.” When 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?” That stabbed my heart. 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.” Shaking my head, I asked, “Are you serious?” He looked confused.
Because I lost my income, I fell behind on my bills. My credit rating dropped to 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, the childhood I thought hadn’t affected me, finally caught up with me.
There’s 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.” Until then, I thought I was the problem. Unfortunately, often, I still do.
When I look back to my childhood, it will be easy to point the finger at my father, but what surprises me is, my kind, quiet, overprotective mother will be accountable as well. It won't be about blame, but understanding what happened to my parents in Greece, that they passed down to their children in America, that I hoped I didn’t pass down to mine.
Therapy and group meetings helped me make sense of what I could never figure out on my own- First, that there was a hole. And second, why I couldn’t fill it. Then, on the verge of turning 50, the age my father decided he couldn't live anymore, I’d be lying awake in bed at 3 am, anxious about something, when a narrative started writing in my head. I was remembering my childhood. Visions of knives, beatings, and a deadly fire appeared, oddly, through the eyes of a frightened three year old. I soon learned why I had to change the narrator's age, otherwise the nightmares would never stop.
I was compelled to sit down one day and type my thoughts, and haven’t stopped since. Truthfully, I couldn’t stop. The voices in my head spoke all the time; during pushups at the gym, while treating my patients, driving with my kids. I couldn’t ignore them, though I tried, because, often, an overwhelming sadness consumed me, making me want to stay in bed, skip work, and avoid people. I learned I was experiencing unexpressed grief from childhood (often misdiagnosed as depression and treated unsuccessfully with medical interventions). I’d learn the only way out, was through.
Driving down the parkway, suddenly a scene from my father’s funeral would play in my head. I’d try to wordsmith the perfect sentence in my mind as I missed exits, then quickly pulled over, opened my laptop, and wrote, before the sentences disappeared. Soon it became evident, getting the entire story out with as much honesty and detail as possible would be the only way I could someday climb out from the hole I was stuck in.
Suddenly, emotions I didn’t know I had kept down started fighting to come out. One of them was anger. Not the healthy, expressive kind, but the destructive kind, if unleashed, I didn’t think I could control. Sometimes, I felt like I wanted to kill someone, with my hands, leading to visions of going to prison for murder. It scared me. But the more I wrote, the more I realized, there was only one person I wanted to hurt, my father. I knew getting the anger out was a necessary part of healing, but I was angry that I was angry. I hated the feeling in me and the confusion it created. It frustrated and worried me, leading me to think I might never feel better.
Trying desperately to be happy, I’d often feel anger and sadness from the grieving process, something I’m told I must let myself experience to recover. When well meaning people told me to, “Let it go,” I thought, For 48 years years I believed there was something wrong with me. It’s only been several years of trying to change that belief. You can’t let go of something you don’t know you’re holding. My program says, regarding the time it takes to heal, “It takes what it takes,” Thankfully, the anger started shifting to the healing, motivational kind, fueling my determination not to pass this dysfunction onto my children.
Surprisingly, though it hurt, I often looked forward to the work because it helped me make sense of why I felt and did the things I did. But, sometimes, the writing didn’t feel right. Slowly, through many edits, I went back and removed superfluous language and dramatic renditions because I realized, often, I was writing for you, the reader, to try and impress you by magnifying my trauma to justify my problems. When I did that, it interfered with the healing. So I would go back and replace words like “devastated” with “sad”, using the words my 5 year old self would understand, to tell my story authentically.
I also learned through therapy and my program to keep the focus on myself. Blaming or judging anyone else, including my father, would only hurt me. And it became evident that it was essential to report what happened as accurately as possible, without emotion, as a child would. Like a good reporter, they state the facts, then let them speak for themselves. Doing that released the emotions naturally, like I was reading about some other child being hurt, making me feel the pain for someone else that I was never allowed, or able to feel for myself. Then, my instincts as a parent allowed me to experience healthy anger, making me feel compelled to protect that child, that child being me. I knew my writing was authentic when I shared excerpts with friends and strangers, and they wrote back, “Though I’m not a violent person, I want to hurt your father.”
Then, something else interfered with my progress. When I shared my writing, some friends would say, “You’re being too hard on yourself.” That made me doubt myself again, a learned trait I can hate about myself. I soon realized my self-doubt was a deeply ingrained default- While speaking to a nurse about making an appointment for my son, when she asked his birth-date, then said, “Are you sure that’s his birth-date?” I had to check my notes, making me angry at myself for doubting knowing my own son’s birthday. Later, turning off my laptop, phone, and all social media, sitting alone in a quiet room, because my program recommended it, I'd think, No, I don’t think I’m being too hard on myself. I think I’m just being honest. Although it’s painful, self honesty has been essential for my recovery.
My 12-step program states, “Parents abandon their children when they fail to praise or recognize a child’s true effort to please the parent.” I was oblivious of this fact of my childhood. Then I read, when we reach the age our parents had their breakdown, and our children are at the age when we suffered our worst traumas, it can feel like we’re going to go insane. I related to that- as my children reached those ages, respectively, it felt like the noose was tightening, and I was losing my mind. I’ve also observed some of my patients, clients, and friends struggling in this same way. Unfortunately, some of them don’t make it, taking their lives slowly through a harmful lifestyle, or quickly by suicide, like my father.
Still, sometimes, the work seemed pointless, making me think, again, Why does everyone seem to be having a better life than me? and No one cares about what I’m writing. Deciding to quit for the hundredth time, a small voice kept whispering for me to continue, even after a literary agent sent a two sentence rejection that made me question the value of my entire life. Thankfully, I soon learned who that little voice was, and started paying attention to it more and more. At those times, hopeless of ever feeling better, having lost focus of my purpose, I’d confess my frustration to Frank. He’d suggest other therapies, like EMDR. Skeptical, but desperate, I’d play along. Then, during one of those sessions, when I didn’t expect it, I came face to face with that little voice. It was from a little boy, sitting alone on a curb in his Little League baseball uniform, waiting for me, sitting where his father had left him 39 years before.
So, I couldn’t quit, even when I tried, because I knew I couldn’t walk away from that little boy again. I realized he’d stay stuck on that curb unless I sat down next to him, and listened. Slowly, over time, I took that little boy's hand and gently helped him off the curb, walked him up the stairs and out of his childhood basement, and lifted him out of his father’s blue van. And because a therapist who read an excerpt suggested it, sat on the grass of my boyhood yard with him, our faces lifted up toward the warm sun, promising him, You’re safe now. I’ll never leave you again.
Writing about all of this has been therapeutic. That surprised me because I thought that was just a cliché. Truthfully, I wrote because I felt compelled to write, and eventually, this story came out. Then, sharing it with Frank was essential to my healing. I’d write, we’d discuss it, and with his guidance, I’d heal the wounds one by one, making the hole smaller
His knowledge of dysfunctional families helped me understand what really happened, and how it held me hostage. My recovery would have been impossible without this insight. For years I concluded my problems were due to my inherent flaws, driving me deeper into my dysfunction, taking me to the edge of my sanity. I can only speculate my father had once been here too. His solution was fire. I had to do better for my children.
Sharing early drafts of my writing on my blog and social media, besides the unexpected support, some readers became concerned. They wrote, “Why do you do this to yourself?” And, “I pray you are ok.” almost begging me to leave the past where it was. To those who shared their love and concern, I assure you, though I still struggle, I know I’ll be okay. To write honestly, I had to take myself back there- The curb, the van, the basement, the hospital room. It was essential to my recovery to authentically feel the emotions I was not allowed to, or able to feel when the traumas occurred. Because my father was dead, writing as though he was still in the room, and I was still that scared little boy in the corner, was the best way I had to accomplish that.
I’ll admit, often, walking away from my laptop in tears after a writing session, people staring on the street, the danger and fear followed me around the corner and into my car. A friend reminded me, “Make sure to leave it behind. You don’t have to carry it with you.” It took some work, but I have been able to come back to the present, to my children, to my life, most of the time.
My recovery took four years and counting of working the 12-steps, attending weekly meetings, weekly therapy sessions, daily readings, daily communications with 12-step friends, and writing. I had previously spent over 15 years and $25,000 going to self help seminars, buying books, listening to audio programs, and doing what self help “gurus” recommended. I even created a self help business of my own. But for me, after hitting my bottom, a free, anonymous, 12-step program, a good therapist, authentic relationships, time, and a willingness to heal were what I needed.
During this journey I also had to face the darker side of humanity, exploring deeply my father’s words and actions, eventually confronting the question, Are there evil people, or just evil acts?
One client, someone I went to high school with, reached out to me in my role as a health coach and asked, “Can you help me lose weight?” She told me she weighed over 300 pounds. When I asked her, “Why do you think you can’t lose weight?” she replied with a common misbelief I have heard too often from clients in my 30 years as a health coach, “I’m lazy, and I lack willpower.” When I asked, “How do you feel about yourself,” she said, “Honestly, like I’m not worth it.”
When we dug deeper, she connected where that belief came from. She confessed to me, eyes wet, “My father would tell me, ‘Once, I fucked your mother in her asshole, and you came out’.”
Before this writing I could think there was a special place in hell for a father who spoke that way to his daughter. Now I think, I wonder what happened to him when he was a child. Not to justify his behavior, but to understand where it came from. Through understanding we can change, uncover our long dormant true selves, separate with love from our past or present tormentors, and treat the children in our lives better, including our own inner children.
During what would be our last session, my friend from high school, referring to what her father told her, her eyes full and now spilling onto her cheeks, leaned in and quietly whispered, between sobs, “You see... Peter, I really am…. literally….a piece of shit.”
Tragically, she carried that belief with her to her end. She died a few weeks later from complications of obesity, the result of trying to fill with food the hole where her father’s love should have been.
In addition to these heartbreaking revelations, when I shared early drafts with family and close friends, I was surprised by two reactions. The first was, “You’re courageous,” and “brave.” A high school friend wrote, “I admire your dedication to bettering yourself, and the strength you have doing it.” The compliments were nice to hear, but confused me. I didn’t, and still don’t, see myself as brave or courageous. That’s not feigned humility. I felt, and can still feel, like a coward. When Frank refers to my journey as that of a Phoenix rising from the ashes, I desperately want to emulate that simile, but honestly, struggle doing so.
Because I pretended to be perfect up to now, when I started sharing my insecurities I worried people would see me as weak and pathetic, thinking, Why was I so affected by my father and childhood? What’s wrong with me?
Someone I respect said, “That’s what makes you strong, the fact that you’re unaware of your strength.” Again, I resisted the compliment, grudgingly, because I wished I could feel what she saw.
The truth is, the work I did, I did because I felt I had no other choice. It was either, find out what happened, heal, and move on, or continue to live in misery, go insane, and do something to hurt others, or myself, like my father did.
The other responses I wasn’t expecting were; “I can relate to this,” and “I want to tell you something about my father,” and, “Though our childhoods were different, I feel the same.” That’s when I realized sharing my story might help others. The unexpected responses compelled me to write as truthfully as possible because, maybe, someone would read this, and it might help a child praying in the back of their father’s blue van, or sitting alone on a curb in their Little League uniform, or hiding in the corner of their childhood basement. I hope that’s true.
Thanks for reading. If what you heard/read resonated with you, send me an email or leave a comment. I love hearing from you.
Peter
Read more memoir excerpts here
Hitting Bottom Definition
“Bottoming out can vary from person to person; however, … the person usually has exhausted all resources, lacks self-love, and is practicing self-harm… allowing others to neglect and abuse him. … denial is rampant and relatives or friends may have turned away. … the adult child usually isolates or becomes involved in busy work to avoid asking for help. He scrambles to manipulate anyone who might still be having contact with him. Some adult children are at the other extreme. They have resources and speak of a bright future or new challenge; however, their bottom involves an inability to connect with others on a meaningful level. Their lives are unmanageable due to perfectionism and denial that seals them off from others. These are the high-functioning adults who seem to operate in the stratosphere of success. In their self-sufficiency they avoid asking for help, but they feel a desperate disconnect from life. Their bottom can be panic attacks without warning or bouts of depression that are pushed away with work or a new relationship.”
― ACA WSO INC., Adult Children of Alcoholics/Dysfunctional Families― ACA WSO INC., Adult Children of Alcoholics/Dysfunctional Families
