I had no idea where I was.

It was like a movie, as I remember it. My eyes slowly opened into celestial, bright-white, and numbing silence. I would later learn morphine had a lot to do with the heavenly glow and thick fog clouding my mind. As I put the situation together one tick at a time from dreamland to the waking world, I realized there was someone standing over me. At this point, my synapses still weren't firing at full speed, and I thought it was a priest. But it couldn't be, so I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking he'd be gone when I looked again. I opened up slowly, peeking, and he was still there.

No way, I thought. Please don't tell me I've died and gone to heaven.

Up until October 10, 1988, even though I'd earned the nickname Padre, I'd been anything but pious. A better description would have been hell-raiser, troublemaker, reckless, or even crazy. My life had been like a snowball of fear careening downhill and steadily picking up speed.

I don't remember exactly when fear attached itself and became my daily companion. What I do know is that as far back as I can remember, I'd always felt like something was wrong with me. I'd lived with a sense of impending doom, a dark cloud over my head. Many times I felt like I was born into a world that I wasn't good enough to live in. As my story moves on, you'll learn it was completely irrational, yet it was how I felt. I once asked my mother to speculate on from where my fear may have come. She shrugged and said, "You were born with it."

She would know. There were six of us kids, and I was nothing like the rest. I was born at St. Mary's Hospital in Waterbury, Connecticut, on February 4, 1967, number five in the lineup. As my mother will jokingly tell you, "That one? Oh, he started giving me problems right from the start!" I was premature, just a little over five pounds, and suffered from pectus excavatum. In simple, everyday terms, I was early and underweight, and my chest was caved in, making breathing a struggle. However, after spending a week in intensive care, I finally made enough progress to go home. I had only been home a couple of days when one night I turned blue after breastfeeding. I was rushed to the hospital and back into intensive care. That night, a priest was called to baptize me because the doctors didn't think I would make it until morning. But I'm a survivor, as you're going to learn. I ended up staying in the hospital a couple of weeks, receiving round-the-clock care. Slowly I got better and stronger, and my breathing improved enough for me to go home. The doctor's parting wisdom to my mom was that my chest would take on a normal shape, but they weren't sure if I would ever breathe normally. As you might imagine, from that day forward my mom lived on pins and needles, watching me breathe. She's never said, but I'll bet those early episodes acted as warning signals of what was to come: I was not going to be an easy child to raise.

When I look back on my life, I often wonder whether those early episodes incubated the fear you're going to hear about in my story. Perhaps the struggle to breathe let loose a hormone that permeated my cells and hard-coded a story: that I really wasn't supposed to be alive.

Early on, however, you'd never suspect there was anything brewing inside of me. In fact, a single glance at photos of my younger years wouldn't suggest anything but pure joy and vibrancy. I was a blond, curly-haired kid who'd have given Shirley Temple a run for her money in the cute department. You'd think my life was one big smile. If you examined my family, you'd get instant thoughts of apple pie, red-checkered tablecloths, flags, and fireworks. We were the all-American, God-fearing, Irish Catholic family. Yours truly was even a smiling altar boy—always smiling, that was me. That was us: one big, happy family.

With all of us kids, each a little over a year apart, one can imagine what life must have been like for my parents. It was before the era of play-dates and minivans, soccer, and video games. It was just my mom and dad, surrounded by the raw energy of Trisha, George, Kathleen, Brenda, me, and Kerry. I'll say this early and often: my parents were amazing, and I don't know how they did it. I have two daughters, and between their talent shows, soccer, modeling classes, and parent-teacher conferences, I get lost. I couldn't imagine adding four more kids to the equation, but my parents pulled it off.

We were a close family, and I can vividly recall the joys of early childhood. The world was a giant playground, it seemed, and we were always on a new adventure. In the winter we took ski trips to Haystack Mountain. I learned to ski when I was five. Even though I loved ripping down the mountain full throttle, I must say my fondest memories are of summer vacation. It was pure excitement, piling in the station wagon and staring out the window as we drove from Cheshire to Hotchkiss Grove in Branford, Connecticut. We'd spend the entire summer there in a cottage, and it was fun, especially for me, because I loved boats. I'd spend hours on the water with my dad, the wind and bright sun washing over my face. It was during that time when I fell in love with the sensation of speed. Even now, as I think of those times, it makes me smile.

At the end of the summer, the Hotchkiss Grove community would have a celebration that was aptly named Hotchkiss Day. The event included a parade with costumes, swimming races, and a gigantic barbecue. I can almost smell the burgers and hot dogs smoking on oak coals. Children's laughter rang out as they played games of tag, beer cans popped, and seventies rock 'n' roll blasted—Bad Company, Eric Clapton, and the Grateful Dead. People from all over the region said farewell to summer and hello to fall, and they braced for those dreaded New England winters.

I imagine if you looked into your childhood, there would be some recollections that are brighter than others. Perhaps some played a part in shaping who you are; some may have given you a glimpse of the personality that would emerge. I have one such memory that I believe watered and fertilized the seeds of fear that were lying dormant. It happened near the end of one of our summer vacations. The remembrance is of me standing alone and staring wide-eyed at a motorcycle, wondering if I should touch it. Then over my shoulder, a deep, gravelly voice asked, "You like my bike?" I turned and looked at a pair of black leather boots, raising my gaze upward into the face of the tallest man I'd ever seen. He looked like he was twenty feet tall. I remember his scruffy beard, and he had ratty blond hair pulled into a ponytail that fell down his back. What struck me right away was how different he was from my dad. He wore Levi's and a T-shirt with a black vest, and he stood with a cool lean. He had swagger. He was bad—the good bad. All I'd ever seen my dad wear was starched shirts with collars and pleated chino shorts or slacks in muted colors.

"It's a hog." His deep voice vibrated my young bones. "A Harley Fatboy."

I think I turned back to the bike without saying anything. I was wondering how fast it would go and how soon I could get one. I calculated how many chores I would have to do to get a hundred dollars; I figured it couldn't cost much more than that.

"My friends and I are heading out on the water for a while," he said. "Would you watch my bike for me?" He patted the saddle and looked at me with a smile.

I lit up with warm feelings...