Chained to the Desk (Third Edition): A Guidebook for Workaholics, Their Partners and Children, and the Clinicians Who Treat Them

5: Childhood and the Making of a Workaholic

85 5 Childhood and the Making of a Workaholic We’re so engaged in doing things to achieve purposes of outer value, but the inner value, the rapture that is associated with being alive is what it’s all about. —Joseph Campbell Gloria and Me The first time I spoke with Gloria Steinem, we both said, “I feel like I know you.” Although our lives were very different on the outside, the way we experienced them was much the same on the inside. The following accounts of the childhoods of two self-professed workaholics, Gloria Steinem and me, illustrate the connections that can lead two adults of different genders, ethnic backgrounds, and geographic regions who have never met to say,“I feel like I know you.” I, Bryan, could have been the workaholic poster child, living in an alcoholic home where I was caretaker of a younger sister and overly responsible for the emotional tone of an out-of-control family. My upbringing led me to use housework, homework, schoolwork, and church work as groundwork to my adult work addiction. My stomach turned as the jolt of my father’s drunken outbursts hit me like a jackhammer. I quaked in my bed late at night as I heard him stagger up the porch steps and fumble around for his house keys. Lights came on all over the house, and everyone was in an uproar. I’d jump out of bed to control the scenario , closing doors, windows, and drapes so that neighbors wouldn’t see and hear, hiding lamps and breakables so that the house wouldn’t be destroyed, 86 Childhood and the Making of a Workaholic and no one would be killed or sent to the hospital. It was not a role I chose; it was one that I took by default, out of necessity and out of a will to survive. I had become the one who ran the show: the protector, the peacemaker, the referee, the judge, the general. I was nine years old. On many nights, my father abandoned me and my little sister at the movies . And although I was learning to read and write, I still had to get us home. Underneath the big-screen excitement of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe lurked my fear and worry. Sometimes when we stood in the dark street not knowing what to do, my sister would cry, and, although I wanted to cry too, I had to make her think I was in charge of the situation. I was scared and mad because of the cold and the dark, empty streets. Sometimes the police would take us home, and other times we walked the three-mile trek in the dark, dogs barking and chasing after us. In high school I wrote and directed the church Christmas play, singlehandedly designed and built the sets, and acted the role of lead character. I didn’t know it at the time, but doing everything gave me immense feeling of control and a sense of stability that served as an anchor to my rocky home life. Paradoxically, accolades from teachers, neighbors, and relatives who admired and rewarded my disguised workaholism only drove me further into misery, feelings of inadequacy, and an addiction to work that would stalk me into adulthood. Schoolwork helped me feel good about myself, and, later, the working world gave me the same sense of what I thought was fulfillment. It provided an escape so I didn’t have to deal with the many feelings I had buried since childhood . I covered my pain with a cheery smile and hard work, both of which concealed the problem, kept me disconnected from people and intimate relationships , and gave me something intimate with which I could connect safely. With the sense of total control that work gave me, I’d found my drug of choice. I transformed my long hours of college study into long hours of career building , on weeknights, weekends, and holidays. By the time I was forty, work addiction had invaded every tissue of my body. I was hooked. I was a chain-smoking, caffeine-drinking, one-man production line. Like an alcoholic without a bottle, I felt restless and became irritable when I spent more than a few days away from my desk. Even when I lounged on a tropical beach, my thoughts centered on my next project. I hid my work as my father had hidden his bottle. I slept off work highs in...