What Will Be
I have baggage. Sometimes it feels like a ten-ton anchor around my neck.
I’m a survivor. But before I was a survivor, I was a victim and victimhood dies hard.
It took me a long time to realize that too often I greeted the hurt, sadness, fear, and loneliness of bad outcomes with a shrug. What else did I expect? Bad shit always happens to victims. Victimhood became an unconscious but steadfast and defeatist way of life.
For the last six years, I’ve been working doggedly and proactively to reinvent myself. I allow myself to have hope. I tell myself I’m not jinxed or snake-bitten, hapless, or doomed. That’s bullshit. That’s the irrational rationalization of a victim. But sometimes my quest sure feels hopeless.
Where did this victimhood complex come from? When I was just 5 years old, my little brother Dave died after enduring a painful illness. He went to the hospital one day and never came home. Two months later, brother Peter was born prematurley and only survived a single day. I never even met him. My brothers died but I became the victim, subconsciously consumed by survivor’s guilt.
My dad struggled with the deaths. He became emotionally detached and mean-spirited. He escaped his feelings by going out drinking with his buddies. My mom tried to be present with me but likely failed too often. She had enough on her plate. I felt abandoned — like an imposition, a casualty — and isolatingly alone. My vulnerability made me an easy mark. Sadly, and not surprisingly, I was sexually abused several times between the ages of 10 and 13. And since I viewed myself as a skinny little nobody with little support at home, I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Thus, I didn’t tell a single person about the molestation for more than forty years — until it was forced out of me by an all-out cataclysm. My secrets festered inside me where they became fueled by toxic shame. Outwardly I was strong, confident, successful, and seemingly had the “life of Riley.” But underneath my facade was deep hurt, sadness, shame, fear, loneliness, and self-hatred. My childhood wounds ate away at my soul and psyche, sending me on a journey of risk-taking, adrenaline-seeking self-sabotage. And I paid the price in spades for my idiotic indiscretions.
The “house of cards” I had meticulously constructed to protect myself from my pain came crashing down on top of me. You know that saying about the bigger someone is the harder they fall? It’s true. My free fall from grace was sweeping and calamitous — and it was big news in the community and beyond. I became the target of a criminal investigation, was indicted, pled guilty, and sentenced to probation. I lost my wife, job, financial security, career, and reputation. Boom! Just like that, my life as I knew it was over.
Instantly, I devolved into a leper. Nobody would touch me with a ten-foot pole. I was publicly excoriated, tarred the feathered in the public square, and left for dead. Death was certainly an option — one I that I considered, then discounted. But choosing to live required finding a way forward and searching for answers.
How could I recover from annihilation? How could I live with the guilt of hurting others and the shame of feeling that I was worthless? How could I support myself financially? How could I challenge myself creatively and intellectually? How could I hold my doubts, despair, and hopelessness at bay? How could I recapture even a semblance of confidence and find purpose and belonging?
Sadly, I realize now that it all had to happen. It was my punch-in-the face wake-up call. The risks I took kept getting more audacious. I had to be forced to address my childhood wounds before they killed me. It’s just heartbreaking that I hurt my family and so many others left in my wake.
Prior to this calamity, I had earned a reputation as an accomplished filmmaker, journalist, and sports and media executive. I won awards, received widespread recognition, and made a comfortable living. This is what I knew. And, I was good at it. But it appeared as if I had reached the end of the line. My future had been eviscerated by my self-destruction.
Who was I now that I had lost my identity? If I believed, as I did, that I am my work, without my work I am nobody. You see, I’d been driven by achievement since I was a kid. Research scientist, Dr. Ben Houltberg, calls what I have, “performance-based identity.” It means I measure my self-worth solely by how well I perform. In essence, I have to perform at a high level in order to feel accepted, respected, loved. Failure to achieve results in shame and self-loathing, which is obvioiusly not sustainable over the long haul. That’s when my victim-self emerges.
Three and a half years of intensive therapy helped me navigate through that psychological morass. I can now recognize the phenomenon that is victimhood when it occurs, but that doesn’t mean I can always control it. And besides, my primary longing was still to discover a path forward that would enable me to accomplish something meaningful, anything. I desperately needed to find a new career that would excite and inspire me. I needed a “calling” I could feel passionate about.
I decided my first step would be to sit down and write. So, I gritted my teeth and told the story of my life and its transformation, one keystroke at a time. The experience was pure paradox. It was wonderful — harrowing, cathartic — disconcerting, well within my skill set but completely out of my comfort zone. In my writing, I discovered a simple truth, articulated by Mark Lewis in his book, The Biology of Desire. Lewis wrote, “Humans need to be able to see their own lives progressing, moving, from a meaningful past to a viable future. They need to see themselves as going somewhere, as characters in a narrative, as making sense.”
Bingo. That’s exactly what I needed. I needed a viable future that made sense.
Deep into my reflection I discovered the “calling” I had been looking for. It seemed a likely and natural progression, the intersection of all the winding roads I’ve traveled. I’ve been a storyteller all of my professional life. And, as my long-time therapist and mentor pointed out to me, “story” is the essence of therapy. So, maybe this isn’t such a cockamamie idea after all. Thus, I summoned all the courage I could muster to say the words, “I want to become a therapist,” and began applying to graduate schools at the tender age of 63.
I knew damn well the odds would be formidable. And I was right. So far, I’m 0 for 4 with grad school applications. I didn’t get a good reason for my rejection from two of the schools. It could have been my baggage. It could have been my age. Or, it could have been my less-than-stellar undergraduate G.P.A. forty years ago. Maybe it was a combination of all three.
But, the other two schools were more candid. I was rejected because of the criminal conviction on my record. I get it. I really do. But, my story is complex and requires context. And to be fair, a whole lot healing and growth occurred in the six years since that conviction. Shouldn’t that count for something? Especially in a counseling program?
To be honest, sometimes it feels like I’ve been banging my head against a wall over and over again. I try very hard to fight through the victimhood thing. I allow myself to hope and to believe that my quest is not in vain. I’m now awaiting admittance decisions from the last four schools on my list. Surely one of them will recognize the value in admitting me? Right? Surely somebody will see fit to give me an opportunity at redemption, a second chance?
Let me be clear. I’m not seeking sympathy. This is not a tale of woe is me. I know second chances are real. They do exist. I’ve received these gifts of grace innumerable times in my life, and most especially in the last six years. My quarrel is not with my lot in life. Still, sometimes the voice of shame swoops in to hijack my hope. It tells me I could never become a therapist. I’m not smart enough. I’m too old. It’s a stupid idea. I’m a victim. I can’t expect anything to work out. I don’t deserve it.
But, I don’t buy that inflammatory yammering for a second. It’s just not true. I do deserve it. That said, there’s no guarantee I’ll get into the right grad school, become a therapist, and live happily ever after. People are fond of saying that God has a plan for us. I don’t know if that’s true or not. Is there such a thing as destiny, karma, kismet, or whatever word you choose to use? Is this the path I was meant to take? Again, I don’t know the answer.
What I do know is that my healing journey in therapy and my study of it have transformed my life. It has made me who and what I am today. My objective now is to take what I’ve learned, and what I continue to learn, and pass it on. My desire is simply to help people. It’s not about making a comeback. It’s not about saving the world. It’s about helping people, one at a time.
I firmly believe I have a great deal to offer as a Clinical Mental Health Counselor. I’ve been at the bottom of the barrel. I’ve seen first-hand what psychotherapy can do for someone. I’m living proof it works. Now I want to use what I’ve learned to help others.
In his book, The Gift of Therapy, Psychiatrist Irvin Yalom expounds on Carl Jung’s hypothesis about the efficacy of people like me. “Perhaps wounded healers are effective because they are more able to empathize with the wounds of the patient; perhaps it is because they participate more deeply and personally in the healing process.”
If I am indeed destined to become a therapist, if this is what I’m meant to do, if this is God’s plan, somebody will step forward and say, ‘yes, you are an imperfect human being but I will give you a second chance. You have earned the opportunity to pursue your passion to help others by becoming a “wounded healer.”
Time will tell. What will be will be.
