* * *
To this day I am still in awe of the resources that were available once I was finally able to admit that I was not, and am not, omnipotent, omniscient, clairvoyant, perfect. Eventually, I went naked to those closest to me and, most important, to my God. My road to recovery started when I met a Vietnam vet at a party, and he touched on the subject of delayed-stress syndrome. We started to meet privately, and he'd say, "Max, let me tell you what happened to me, and maybe it fits for you." He'd been through it; he was very involved in vet activities; he'd been in therapy.
The biggest hurdle for me to overcome was the fear that I was going to be found out. I thought, maybe I'm not strong enough to be who I've become. Maybe this game I've been playing -- accepting responsibility and attacking challenges -- has taken a weak guy and made him look strong. And if I seek help, they're going to get inside my head and are going to show me that I'm just a weak charlatan who's gotten where I am through sheer discipline, willpower, and hope. But when I completely broke down at a church function -- I had shaken hands with a woman who was wearing a POW bracelet -- I knew I had to act.
Again, fate was with me. I went to a college alumni meeting and a classmate of mine -- somebody I knew and trusted -- was there. He was a professional psychologist, and I started seeing him. For the vet in me, confronting the horrors of war after the fact, the solution was relatively straightforward: open the subconscious and deal with the grief and the fear. My monthly trips to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington were part of that healing process. My lingering grief has to do with the fear I was forced to experience. Fear that deep changes a man.
For the entrepreneur in me, though, the learning curve was far steeper. One day my psychologist said, "Let me guess what it's like at your company. The people are detached, they're a little afraid of you, they do what you tell them to do, and that's about it. You feel they're not contributing." I said, "You're absolutely right. What's wrong with them?" "Max," he said, "the question is 'What's wrong with you?' '
Then this thing unfolded about my trying to be perfect, never admitting weakness. With his help, I eventually tried a very simple exercise. "Go back to your employees," he suggested, "and instead of using the word 'weak,' use 'real.' That is, don't say 'I need your help because I'm weak.' Say, 'I need your help because I'm real.' See, because you're not real to them, they can't understand you, they can't identify with you, and they can't help you.'
That simple act of redefining weakness was a breakthrough. The next day, I called in my number-two guy. I told him I was in therapy and wanted to know what he felt about our communication, our relationship.
"Max," he said, "we don't have bad communication. We have no communication. You bark at me and I tell you what you want to hear. You second-guess every decision we make while you're away. Max, you and I don't have a bad relationship. We have no relationship.'
So I let him know that I was real. I said, "I don't have the personal strength left inside me to run this company alone. I can't do it. The success of the company doesn't rest with me anymore. It rests on me and you and everybody else out there, and they're going to learn that today." And before the day was over, I had talked to each of my 11 employees. And I promised that I would no longer second-guess their decisions. I initiated an open-door policy in my office; I made sure that everyone in the company who wanted it could get some sort of psychological counseling -- and that the cost would come from our operating budget.
And this amazing transition took place. All of a sudden projects were going on throughout the company, lifting one responsibility after another from my shoulders. When someone made a mistake, we started approaching it from a learning/therapeutic angle -- not "You stupid bastard, any fool knows you should have done it this way." My philosophy now is that if we're doing our job taking care of each other, taking care of the client is easy.
* * *
In the past few years, Corporate Resource Development has become the success I'd always hoped it would be. By 1986, we were turning a profit, and we'll do $1 million in revenues this fiscal year. One of my goals, to make the INC. 500 list of fast-growing companies, was realized in 1987 (#395), when I also received the Atlanta Small Businessperson of the Year and Georgia's Vietnam Veterans Small Business awards. I've got excellent people around me, a thriving company, a wonderful family, all the material things I need.
But I have something else that's of crucial importance to me. And that is a mission. The large gray mass of vets who came back from Vietnam without my kind of credentials, who were branded "losers" and "druggies' -- they're the ones I'm fighting for now. I teach a course for vets in entrepreneurship and sales and marketing; I do a lot of fund raising. What these guys need is a chance -- a chance, and the expertise of someone they trust. In that sense, it's important for them to know that Max Carey, the golden boy, also failed along the way. They're not so concerned about the guy who went right to the top, because they can't identify with him. But they can identify with someone like me, someone who went down and came back up.
To know you're not alone is a great relief.
* * *
William R. Carey Jr. is chief executive officer of Corporate Resource Development Inc., in Atlanta. n
* * *
