Why This Program Exists…
I don’t know when the romance ended for my parents, but I do know it was when I was really young. . .
When I close my eyes and think back, the earliest memory I have is of me lying in bed, hugging my Teddy Bear when I was five or maybe six years old. . .
I take my fingers and push them as deep as I can into my ears until I almost feel like I’m tickling my brain. I bury my head under the pillow.
I hum to myself. I cry to myself. I whisper to Mortimer (my Teddy Bear) and beg him to get them to stop.
But he can’t.
And no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, my tiny little fingers can’t block out the sound. The shouting vibrates through me: The anger, the frustration, the hurt.
At the time, I was too young to have any idea why my Mom and Dad were so mad at each other all the time. Why they were so mean to each other. Why they were so bitter.
But I knew it was like this almost every night. And I knew it just kept getting worse.
It got to the point that as soon as I would hear my dad’s car pull into the garage my heart would start to pound like a jackhammer because I knew what was coming.
I’d hear Dad climb the stairs, hang his keys on the hook. I’d hear Mom banging dishes in the kitchen. And again and again they’d go to war.
And then one night it all came to a head. It must have been 11 or 12 at night. . .way past my bedtime. They’d been at it for over an hour. What were they fighting about? Who knows, but I guess I had enough.
I took Mortimer and crawled out of bed. I padded down the hallway in my Sesame Street pajamas.
The light in the kitchen felt so bright it stung my eyes and I could barely see. . . but I took a deep breath and shouted as loud as my little voice could. . .“I’m trying to sleep, can you please be quiet!!”
And then suddenly, there was silence. Just the hum of electricity in the overhead light. Just the hard breathing of the three people in the room.
Mom and Dad looked at me, looked at each other. . .And I couldn’t figure out why, but they both suddenly had tears in their eyes and horror on their faces.
Flash forward 30 years. . .
And there I am on Valentine’s Day, sitting on a couch in a television studio about to be a featured guest on the Rachael Ray Show to teach millions of people around the world how to have more romantic, more connected lives. . .
And as the makeup guy powdered my bald skull and I looked out at the crowd, all I could think was “How did I get here?”
The answer is simple, really. That fight (that childhood full of fights) is why I do what I do. It’s why I’m obsessed with helping women and men have better relationships. It’s why I’ve spent the last 14 years digging through my own damage and rage to understand myself and to become a man who can actually open up.
I watched my parents destroy each other, not because they didn’t love each other, but because they didn’t understand each other.
And now my father is dead (a heart attack at forty-seven), and my mother is filled with regret over a lifetime of never finding the “right” guy.
I don’t want you to suffer like they did. And I don’t want the guys in your life to suffer either.
So turn the page and let’s get to work.
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