I know I'm not the only person who is reflecting on the events of 2010 today. I am truly grateful that I remember 2010. There are many New Year's Eves in the past that are a blank slate to me. Every day was New Year's to me because I would use and drink and say to my self "I'm gonna quit tomorrow." I made resolution after resolution, night after night and was trapped in Groundhog's Day. I was trapped in tomorrows and yesterdays.
Today will be my second sober December 31st in a row. On this date in 2008 I stopped drinking for 10 days, then drank for 6 more. I have not had a drink or a drug since January 17, 2009. I had tried rehab in 1999 and had counseling after my accident in 1991. I would do okay for a while and then isolate. I am an isolating drunk. Sure, I went to bars occasionally but my favorite place to party was all by myself with a bottle and a box of tissues. Me and my self-pity are the fire and the booze is the bomb. When the three got together - kaboom!
This is the most popular time of the year for people joining recovery groups. I have yet to see someone come in happy and smiling, stating with glee, "I just won the lottery. I am dating twins and I thought I would just stop in and see how you guys were doing." Some arrive because the court ordered them. Some come because their wife or husband gave them an ultimatum. Yet others walk in FINALLY realizing that they can't stay sober on their own. They need help from people just like them. I lived my life thinking no one was like me and here were all these me's of all shapes and sizes ready to help.
If you were lost in a jungle would you rather have a map or a guide who has walked that same jungle a hundred times and knows how to safely navigate the way out? The answer is obvious. Unfortunately the ego, fear and disease of "self" have worked on the alcoholic for a long time. It is hard to accept you have a condition or disease that makes drinking an unsafe option for you once you begin.
Our society glamorizes booze and promotes it as socially glamorous. These constant bombardments of fun and laughter that come with a cocktail are inviting to anyone, and damn near hypnotic porn to an alcoholic. The commercials remind me of the casino ads that show gambling, hot chicks, laughter and booze then end with a public service announcement. "If you or someone you know has a gambling problem call 1-800-I'm screwed!" The ads don't show the guy who can't stop gambling or the one who spent his paycheck on chance instead of paying the rent. Addiction starts out a wonderful servant and ends up a merciless master.
Most people can tie one on and that is it. They wake up with a New Year's Day hangover and lay on the couch drinking Gatorade and nursing a headache through endless football games. That doesn't make you an alcoholic. For those of you who are or live with a potential alcoholic I am sorry to say that there is nothing that you can say to make us stop. We must reach a point where the agony, self-loathing, depression, anger and chaos is too much for us to handle. In short we all have to decide for ourselves when the rat race of addiction is over.
For me it was January 17, 2009. I had drank all day and had pissed the bed the night before. There were times I pissed on the floor, on the couch, you name it. My Lab, Fabian, has actually pissed on my floor fewer times than I have. At the end of my run I would even fashion a diaper for myself knowing full well I would piss again but finding nothing abnormal about the behavior. I even bought my wife one of those mini carpet cleaners to clean up after the "dogs" made a mistake. On that night I begged to whoever was up there to please deliver me from the pain. I meant it and was willing to do anything to stop.
When I wet the bed my wife always knew but I hid it from the kids. After everyone left I would clean and suck the urine from our expensive mattress, wash the sheets and place fans around the wet area to assure dryness before my crew returned home from school and work. After 6 months of sobriety my wife was so proud of the new me she wanted to buy me a new drum kit. I was humbled by her amazing grace and the offer was tempting. I declined and took her to the mattress store and let her pick out the mattress of her dreams. I can say confidently and with deep gratitude to God that it has never been peed on.
If you are wondering if you are an alcoholic or addict the most honest answer to the question is what do you think. Only you know. Do you obsess that you may be an armadillo? I would think not. But if you are at a point where your ability to stop using when you want to doesn't work, or your life revolves around using, recovering from using or obsessing about using is a constant cycle, a hard look at the situation may be necessary. As a loved one there is support for people in addictive or codependent relationships, regardless of what addiction you may have. If you want to truly begin a new way of life look in the phone book. Start with the letter "A" and go from there. Before you know it, help will appear on the page. Whether you are the user or living with one, you have to wake up with you everyday. You are the only person that you are guaranteed to wake up with for the rest of your life. How are you doing?
I used to resent people who could drink safely and then put it down. I don't anymore. The thought of not drinking 5 years down the road at my middle daughter's wedding was impossible to comprehend. Now I just don't drink for today and tomorrow will take care of itself. Each one of us only has today, whether an addict or an earthling.
A lot of the justification I used to continue the cycle of addiction were notions and memories like, "Nobody loves me." "I am a loser." "I hated my childhood." " I can't tell anyone about the 'tickle game' a trusted adult played with me when I was a boy." "I can't live without booze. The pain is too much." All of these are symptoms of unhealthy thinking. Drugs and alcohol are the medicine addicts use to mask that pain.
Most of the things I wanted to be, but couldn't when I was drunk, have come to me ten fold. It feels great to have my wife and kids smile at me when I walk in the door. I am confident that I am a good husband, father, son, brother and friend. People can depend on me. I can look at myself in the mirror and other people in the eye. All the things I planned on doing tomorrow as a drunk, I am living sober today. It isn't always easy. I have to work hard at staying sober, as hard as it was being an addict day in and day out.
If I stay close to God and people who think like me it gets easier. I have no desire to use today. That is a miracle. I may crave tomorrow but I know what to do before giving into the craving. I call someone who has been through the same hell and pray for help.
Asking for help and surrendering is just the beginning. But sobriety is amazing. Just because you get tanked occasionally doesn't make you like me. Alcoholics know what they are, long before reaching out for help. We think we hide it so well and nobody can see our addiction. We are only fooling ourselves. I was amazed to find out that there were people who had the same crazy thinking I did.
Tonight I will sit back with my wife and daughter with some tasty snacks and Dave Chappelle videos. We will laugh and I will remember the whole night. I will wake up in a dry bed and thank God for giving me another sober today. Happy New Year!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Step Parent? Stepson? There Are NO Steps, Only Parents and kids...
'Hi, my name is Tommy and I am a STEP PARENT!' "HI, TOMMY!" Sometimes I think there should be a recovery program for being a stepparent or the child of one. I am both. It has been both the most difficult and rewarding experience of my life, beyond my battle with addiction and recovery.
The word "STEP" in front of the word parent or child is as ridiculous as the term "Holy War," or "Amicable Divorce." The word implies a barrier between the parent and child. It sets up a preconceived foundation of separation between the two. When the word "stepmother" is mentioned the first thing that comes to mind is poor Cinderella being run ragged by hers. As for "stepfather" I think of those horror movies where the guy is all cheesecake and smiles when his wife is in the room and pure evil when he's alone with her child.
My first experiences with a stepparent was when my father remarried when I was 6. I thought his new wife was pretty and polite and she brought along 3 daughters. I was the only boy so I was either the lucky one or the odd man out. There were feelings of envy and jealousy at the thought of sharing my father but I think that is pretty normal for a little kid. I also had a stepfather for a short time and he would be a good candidate for the nasty character I described earlier in this chapter.
After enduring the loss of two children to miscarriage in my previous failed marriages I was angry at God for not giving me a child of my own. I asked over and over and the answer was always no, or so I thought at the time. Little did I know that he had a plan for my life, and when he didn't follow "my" plan, I thought I was getting a raw deal. My father never called his new wife's daughters "step," just daughters. I took note of that early on and it made a lasting impression on me.
When I moved in with Squeaky I have stated that I was "instafather." The position has its advantages and definite disadvantages. When things were great it was, "I love you DA!" When things weren't so good, the ever popular, "You aren't my Dad!" exclamations flew like death darts. I would be less than honest if I didn't point out that I pulled the same trump card early in our marriage with comments like, "YOUR daughter and YOUR son...."
As a parent to my kids I have made lots of mistakes, both drunk and sober. I always will. I am human. There were benefits from my dad once removed, DNA free relationship with my kids. When they were small I told them they had a father and I wasn't trying to replace him. They adopted an affectionate nickname the Irish use instead of "Pa," like we say in America. It was "Da." Any Mick will tell you they are familiar with the term. I told them they could talk to me more like a friend than their dad, but that I was to be respected as the man of the house and their mother's husband.
I was there for Scott's first day of school his first 3 years. I will never forget his adorable look of excitement mixed with a touch of terror as I left him behind on that first day of Kindergarten. My middle daughter, Amanda was, and is close to her father. We had a lot of challenges during our years of growing up together. Now we are the best of friends. Andrea, my oldest calls me Dad and that makes me feel good. Her father has taken little interest in her since she was young. I hope that changes some day. I will be happy to share her with him. She will always be Daddy's little girl to me.
Once Amanda and I were at a doctor's office and a man commented that she looked just like me. We smiled and thanked him for his kind words then laughed our butts off in the car at the congenital comparison. Scott has referred to me as his Da and stepdad, depending on his entourage, and I am comfortable with either title. I know he loves me and I went through those same situations growing up. I was proud to take Andrea to the "Daddy/Daughter" dance her senior year.
Growing up, my relationship with my stepmother was up and down. She was patient and always cordial to me but I could sense her frustration with the fact that I always ran to Daddy when I was in a pinch or needed some money. She was more of the tough love type and I am sure my frequent requests caused disagreements between my father and her. I am grateful that my father helped me and I certainly took advantage of his willingness to help, over and over in my addictive manipulation.
During the time of my father's illness, and the 9 times he was in the hospital the last two years of his life, my second mom and I grew very close. We spoke freely of my addictions and the challenging personality my father could bring to a relationship. She loved him and I could see why he spent his life with her. Today we are close friends and I love her deeply.
If you are a stepparent I feel ya! If you are not, please don't judge us until you have walked a block in our shoes. I do not see my biological daughter as much as I would like to, but that is a story for another day. That will work itself out in God's time. I can say that I have 2 mothers, 4 sisters and 4 kids. There are no "steps" between us.
God often gives us what we want, it's just not the way "we" wanted it. I am blessed to be a second father to my wife's kids and have 2 mothers and 4 sisters. I have adopted my father's policy of no "steps" in between when I speak of any of them. Dad, thanks for the life lesson. I miss you! God, thanks for giving me the children I always begged you for. I have given up on trying to figure you out but am grateful that you understand me.
The word "STEP" in front of the word parent or child is as ridiculous as the term "Holy War," or "Amicable Divorce." The word implies a barrier between the parent and child. It sets up a preconceived foundation of separation between the two. When the word "stepmother" is mentioned the first thing that comes to mind is poor Cinderella being run ragged by hers. As for "stepfather" I think of those horror movies where the guy is all cheesecake and smiles when his wife is in the room and pure evil when he's alone with her child.
My first experiences with a stepparent was when my father remarried when I was 6. I thought his new wife was pretty and polite and she brought along 3 daughters. I was the only boy so I was either the lucky one or the odd man out. There were feelings of envy and jealousy at the thought of sharing my father but I think that is pretty normal for a little kid. I also had a stepfather for a short time and he would be a good candidate for the nasty character I described earlier in this chapter.
After enduring the loss of two children to miscarriage in my previous failed marriages I was angry at God for not giving me a child of my own. I asked over and over and the answer was always no, or so I thought at the time. Little did I know that he had a plan for my life, and when he didn't follow "my" plan, I thought I was getting a raw deal. My father never called his new wife's daughters "step," just daughters. I took note of that early on and it made a lasting impression on me.
When I moved in with Squeaky I have stated that I was "instafather." The position has its advantages and definite disadvantages. When things were great it was, "I love you DA!" When things weren't so good, the ever popular, "You aren't my Dad!" exclamations flew like death darts. I would be less than honest if I didn't point out that I pulled the same trump card early in our marriage with comments like, "YOUR daughter and YOUR son...."
As a parent to my kids I have made lots of mistakes, both drunk and sober. I always will. I am human. There were benefits from my dad once removed, DNA free relationship with my kids. When they were small I told them they had a father and I wasn't trying to replace him. They adopted an affectionate nickname the Irish use instead of "Pa," like we say in America. It was "Da." Any Mick will tell you they are familiar with the term. I told them they could talk to me more like a friend than their dad, but that I was to be respected as the man of the house and their mother's husband.
I was there for Scott's first day of school his first 3 years. I will never forget his adorable look of excitement mixed with a touch of terror as I left him behind on that first day of Kindergarten. My middle daughter, Amanda was, and is close to her father. We had a lot of challenges during our years of growing up together. Now we are the best of friends. Andrea, my oldest calls me Dad and that makes me feel good. Her father has taken little interest in her since she was young. I hope that changes some day. I will be happy to share her with him. She will always be Daddy's little girl to me.
Once Amanda and I were at a doctor's office and a man commented that she looked just like me. We smiled and thanked him for his kind words then laughed our butts off in the car at the congenital comparison. Scott has referred to me as his Da and stepdad, depending on his entourage, and I am comfortable with either title. I know he loves me and I went through those same situations growing up. I was proud to take Andrea to the "Daddy/Daughter" dance her senior year.
Growing up, my relationship with my stepmother was up and down. She was patient and always cordial to me but I could sense her frustration with the fact that I always ran to Daddy when I was in a pinch or needed some money. She was more of the tough love type and I am sure my frequent requests caused disagreements between my father and her. I am grateful that my father helped me and I certainly took advantage of his willingness to help, over and over in my addictive manipulation.
During the time of my father's illness, and the 9 times he was in the hospital the last two years of his life, my second mom and I grew very close. We spoke freely of my addictions and the challenging personality my father could bring to a relationship. She loved him and I could see why he spent his life with her. Today we are close friends and I love her deeply.
If you are a stepparent I feel ya! If you are not, please don't judge us until you have walked a block in our shoes. I do not see my biological daughter as much as I would like to, but that is a story for another day. That will work itself out in God's time. I can say that I have 2 mothers, 4 sisters and 4 kids. There are no "steps" between us.
God often gives us what we want, it's just not the way "we" wanted it. I am blessed to be a second father to my wife's kids and have 2 mothers and 4 sisters. I have adopted my father's policy of no "steps" in between when I speak of any of them. Dad, thanks for the life lesson. I miss you! God, thanks for giving me the children I always begged you for. I have given up on trying to figure you out but am grateful that you understand me.
I Was In A Coma! Oh Yeah, And Driving My Car!
One of the most ridiculous statements I have made to myself and to other people is that when I have a couple of drinks in me I'm a much better and safer driver. I pay attention more and my reactions are better. That is like saying when I wear a blindfold my hearing gets better! I have said it dozens, if not hundreds, of times to the people daring enough to get in the car with me when I was hammered. I said it mainly to myself knowing in my heart I should not be driving, but my addiction could play me like a kazoo.
My prayer life was at it's peak while driving drunk. "God please don't let me get a DUI." The professional drunk takes note of the shape of police car headlights so we can do a quick rear view mirror analysis of the cars tailing us. "It's a Ford LTD slow down." "It looks like a Charger. Be cool." I couldn't tell you much about a car's interior, but I damn well could describe the front of a cop car to the T.
In March of 1991 I was laid off from a job I held with a major petrochemical corporation. I loved being laid off. I could get paid, drink earlier and drink more. When I was working, I had second shift and my hours were 7pm-7am, a two days on and 3 days off kinda thing. Since my body was not used to nocturnal labor I began to take ephedrine to keep me awake. I could get it at the gas station. There was no late night drive to unfriendly neighborhoods or circling my dealer's house endlessly until he returned home. I could pop in, buy some speed and a honey bun and I was set.
The recommended dose was not to exceed 4 tablets during any 24 hour period. I took 30-50 in a night. It's funny how the addict has a unique way of counting. When I was talking to people I had half the money I claimed to have in my pocket and did three times the drugs I claimed to have taken. Even to this day if I take some Tylenol and its recommended dose is 2 tablets, I will take 3! An addict like me feels we need more than the average bear, even when it comes to curing a headache. I am working on that unhealthy thinking daily.
I quickly learned that when I mixed the speed with the booze, I could consume unbelievable amounts of the sauce and get a racy head tingly, hair itching buzz at the same time. It was addiction Utopia! On this particular March day in 1991 it was unseasonably warm and I was enjoying several vodka and lemonades with ephedrine chasers. I made a couple of trips to the liquor store that day. I was celebrating the dawn of spring! I deserved a drink! My high made the birds sing louder and the breeze all the more refreshing. I am amazed when I look back at the denial, justification and rationalizations I used for killing myself one drug at a time.
I got a call late in the afternoon that I would be returning to work the following Monday. I would have time to cleanse my body of the pollution and piss clear spring water for my drug test. This was a call for more celebration! I called a buddy and we made plans to meet later in the evening. I drank and popped, drank and popped. My mother returned home to find me tanked. I took a French bath and headed for my white Ford Escort.
As I slid behind the reigns of my iron chariot, my mother came to the car and begged me not to drive. I dismissed her knowing I was a much safer driver while drunk rather than sober. At that time seat belt laws were more lax than today. I never wore one. That evening I clicked the belt on to pacify my mother's concerns and headed for the bar. I do not remember anything about the drive until "IT" happened.
I was halfway between Frankfort and Mokena on Route 45. They were repaving the road and the sides were cut straight. There was no curbing installed, just a 24 inch drop off. I looked down to change the radio station and didn't notice that the Blazer in front of me had made a last second decision to make a left turn. I looked up in time to cut my wheel hard right. Grazing the bumper of the Blazer I shot over the two foot man made cliff. The nose hit first and I began to roll end over end, 4 times I would later find out.
The car came to rest on its roof. I unbuckled my seat belt and crawled through the window. I was numb and in shock. My hand and right ankle ached and burned. I do not remember anything after that except waking up in Silver Cross Hospital. I had a police guard and promptly vomited all over me and him. I had broken my hand and ankle. Thankfully no one was hurt in the Blazer.
They stitched and casted me up and my friend came to bail me out of the police station. He told me that I had a blood alcohol content of .32. In Illinois the limit is .05 and drunk is .08. I was .32! I was driving in a clinical coma! So much for driving better while drunk. I was nearly dead and should have been killed in the accident. Why did I put my seat belt on that night? God was looking after me. I see that crystal clear now. I used to think he didn't know I existed. Looking back, I see he saved my ass day after insane day for 20 plus years.
My sister took me to the pound to see the remains of the car and we both wept in horrified relief that I survived. You could barely recognize the twisted chunk of metal. It shook me up. It hit me hard just how lucky I was. I could barely process the information but I had a solution. I got home and made a stiff drink. What? You made a drink after nearly dying in a drunk driving accident? Yup! That's what alcoholics do.
My prayer life was at it's peak while driving drunk. "God please don't let me get a DUI." The professional drunk takes note of the shape of police car headlights so we can do a quick rear view mirror analysis of the cars tailing us. "It's a Ford LTD slow down." "It looks like a Charger. Be cool." I couldn't tell you much about a car's interior, but I damn well could describe the front of a cop car to the T.
In March of 1991 I was laid off from a job I held with a major petrochemical corporation. I loved being laid off. I could get paid, drink earlier and drink more. When I was working, I had second shift and my hours were 7pm-7am, a two days on and 3 days off kinda thing. Since my body was not used to nocturnal labor I began to take ephedrine to keep me awake. I could get it at the gas station. There was no late night drive to unfriendly neighborhoods or circling my dealer's house endlessly until he returned home. I could pop in, buy some speed and a honey bun and I was set.
The recommended dose was not to exceed 4 tablets during any 24 hour period. I took 30-50 in a night. It's funny how the addict has a unique way of counting. When I was talking to people I had half the money I claimed to have in my pocket and did three times the drugs I claimed to have taken. Even to this day if I take some Tylenol and its recommended dose is 2 tablets, I will take 3! An addict like me feels we need more than the average bear, even when it comes to curing a headache. I am working on that unhealthy thinking daily.
I quickly learned that when I mixed the speed with the booze, I could consume unbelievable amounts of the sauce and get a racy head tingly, hair itching buzz at the same time. It was addiction Utopia! On this particular March day in 1991 it was unseasonably warm and I was enjoying several vodka and lemonades with ephedrine chasers. I made a couple of trips to the liquor store that day. I was celebrating the dawn of spring! I deserved a drink! My high made the birds sing louder and the breeze all the more refreshing. I am amazed when I look back at the denial, justification and rationalizations I used for killing myself one drug at a time.
I got a call late in the afternoon that I would be returning to work the following Monday. I would have time to cleanse my body of the pollution and piss clear spring water for my drug test. This was a call for more celebration! I called a buddy and we made plans to meet later in the evening. I drank and popped, drank and popped. My mother returned home to find me tanked. I took a French bath and headed for my white Ford Escort.
As I slid behind the reigns of my iron chariot, my mother came to the car and begged me not to drive. I dismissed her knowing I was a much safer driver while drunk rather than sober. At that time seat belt laws were more lax than today. I never wore one. That evening I clicked the belt on to pacify my mother's concerns and headed for the bar. I do not remember anything about the drive until "IT" happened.
I was halfway between Frankfort and Mokena on Route 45. They were repaving the road and the sides were cut straight. There was no curbing installed, just a 24 inch drop off. I looked down to change the radio station and didn't notice that the Blazer in front of me had made a last second decision to make a left turn. I looked up in time to cut my wheel hard right. Grazing the bumper of the Blazer I shot over the two foot man made cliff. The nose hit first and I began to roll end over end, 4 times I would later find out.
The car came to rest on its roof. I unbuckled my seat belt and crawled through the window. I was numb and in shock. My hand and right ankle ached and burned. I do not remember anything after that except waking up in Silver Cross Hospital. I had a police guard and promptly vomited all over me and him. I had broken my hand and ankle. Thankfully no one was hurt in the Blazer.
They stitched and casted me up and my friend came to bail me out of the police station. He told me that I had a blood alcohol content of .32. In Illinois the limit is .05 and drunk is .08. I was .32! I was driving in a clinical coma! So much for driving better while drunk. I was nearly dead and should have been killed in the accident. Why did I put my seat belt on that night? God was looking after me. I see that crystal clear now. I used to think he didn't know I existed. Looking back, I see he saved my ass day after insane day for 20 plus years.
My sister took me to the pound to see the remains of the car and we both wept in horrified relief that I survived. You could barely recognize the twisted chunk of metal. It shook me up. It hit me hard just how lucky I was. I could barely process the information but I had a solution. I got home and made a stiff drink. What? You made a drink after nearly dying in a drunk driving accident? Yup! That's what alcoholics do.
Loud Tears... Quiet Laughter
It's 1:08 AM, a popular time in my blog history. I am tired, emotionally spent, amped up and cashed out. I felt the full spectrum of the human emotional meter today, starting with taking photos at sunrise, then going to the memorial service for Lil Deb Snack Cake and finishing up with a comedy performance at Cigars and Stripes in Berwyn. The picture taking was cold but inspiring, the memorial service surreal and the comedy gig liberating but difficult.
I like to take pictures of sunsets or sunrises, on days of a funeral or deaths, because it helps me to remember the person lost and burns a permanent picture in my mind's eye. I see creation and eternity. You can see my photos on my Facebook page. I have done it for several people. I like the pictures of the sun because it is fantastic, warm and hard to put into words. These few will have to do.
I sat alone in the dark of my family room thinking about Lil Deb for a long time today. I actually dreamed of her as the darkness and quiet lulled me to sleep. I was set to go to the visitation at 3pm and was even going to wear a suit. I woke up about 2:15pm realizing I needed to hop in the shower and get ready. But instead I sat on the couch trying to talk myself out of going. I remember Deb in my heart and in the songs of the Doors. The thought of the service just made me sadder.
I have been to 10 funerals in 2010, a personal record I wish not to repeat. Some of them were crushing like my father's, others just a courtesy and respect to the person passed beyond. I remember as a kid there were birthday parties several times a year. Now that I am older there are fewer birthday celebrations and a marked increase in funerals. That's reality I guess. It seems though that with every funeral, I am less and less afraid of the day when my ticket gets punched. I can not look at the wonder of the cosmos and think this is the only stop there is.
I was scheduled to perform comedy at a club in Berwyn and was seriously considering cancelling it. I wasn't feeling very funny today. I dressed and left for the chapel at 4:15. Being the instigator and the wannabe anarchist I am, I slapped a Doors concert poster on the wall when I entered the room where her service was being held. She would love that. There was a picture of her in a John Lennon shirt smiling ear to ear and I felt my tears fall loud and heavy on my shirt. Unlike the death of my father, Deb's was out of nowhere. Life is really only moment to moment whether we like it or not.
There were lots of people, as I knew there would be. She is loved by many. I paid my respects to her family and left feeling lost. We were not bosom buddies but tight in our relationship. We always took off where we left off and shared many difficult patches together. She was one of those people in your orbit who you think is gonna be there forever. Just like the sun, she made life on earth warmer and brighter.
I returned home and checked my messages to find one from Joellyn, a mutual friend of Deb's. She had seen my sunrise photos and commented to me, "You always know the best way to show God's handiwork through yourself, others, comedy and beauty." The words were deep and I felt grateful and humbled for the kind words. I knew I had to go and do my gig. There were people who wanted me to make them laugh and feel good, even though I felt like crawling under a rock. Deb would say, "GO TOM!"
I thought about Joellyn's words and understand that I, or we, are messengers on this big round ball of earth and sky. I have been blessed with the gift of making people smile and laugh. It is my duty while I am here to spread that message of laughter. What is your gift? We all have them. Most of us ignore them or dismiss them as frivolous. If we all made one person smile each day there would be no war, famine and oppression.
As I was being introduced to hit the stage at the club, I said one last I love you to Deb, grabbed the mic and the laughter came after my first few lines. First slowly and quietly, then hearty and rich. It felt good to be God's messenger for those few moments. I reflected on Deb's cheeky laugh and felt grace as the crowd returned their approval for a joke well done.
God might be the copilot but we have to drive through humanity. He speaks through us. He sends messages to others through all of us collectively. The burning bush trick has been done. It's up to us to be messengers of peace and good will. We don't need to join the brotherhood. Try opening a door for a stranger, calling an old friend, flashing a smile or letting someone into traffic. Spread the message! It might be the one thing that a person needs the most while at a critical point in their life.
On Christmas God sent a present to earth. On that same Christmas the earth sent God a gift and her name is Lil Deb Snack Cake.
I like to take pictures of sunsets or sunrises, on days of a funeral or deaths, because it helps me to remember the person lost and burns a permanent picture in my mind's eye. I see creation and eternity. You can see my photos on my Facebook page. I have done it for several people. I like the pictures of the sun because it is fantastic, warm and hard to put into words. These few will have to do.
I sat alone in the dark of my family room thinking about Lil Deb for a long time today. I actually dreamed of her as the darkness and quiet lulled me to sleep. I was set to go to the visitation at 3pm and was even going to wear a suit. I woke up about 2:15pm realizing I needed to hop in the shower and get ready. But instead I sat on the couch trying to talk myself out of going. I remember Deb in my heart and in the songs of the Doors. The thought of the service just made me sadder.
I have been to 10 funerals in 2010, a personal record I wish not to repeat. Some of them were crushing like my father's, others just a courtesy and respect to the person passed beyond. I remember as a kid there were birthday parties several times a year. Now that I am older there are fewer birthday celebrations and a marked increase in funerals. That's reality I guess. It seems though that with every funeral, I am less and less afraid of the day when my ticket gets punched. I can not look at the wonder of the cosmos and think this is the only stop there is.
I was scheduled to perform comedy at a club in Berwyn and was seriously considering cancelling it. I wasn't feeling very funny today. I dressed and left for the chapel at 4:15. Being the instigator and the wannabe anarchist I am, I slapped a Doors concert poster on the wall when I entered the room where her service was being held. She would love that. There was a picture of her in a John Lennon shirt smiling ear to ear and I felt my tears fall loud and heavy on my shirt. Unlike the death of my father, Deb's was out of nowhere. Life is really only moment to moment whether we like it or not.
There were lots of people, as I knew there would be. She is loved by many. I paid my respects to her family and left feeling lost. We were not bosom buddies but tight in our relationship. We always took off where we left off and shared many difficult patches together. She was one of those people in your orbit who you think is gonna be there forever. Just like the sun, she made life on earth warmer and brighter.
I returned home and checked my messages to find one from Joellyn, a mutual friend of Deb's. She had seen my sunrise photos and commented to me, "You always know the best way to show God's handiwork through yourself, others, comedy and beauty." The words were deep and I felt grateful and humbled for the kind words. I knew I had to go and do my gig. There were people who wanted me to make them laugh and feel good, even though I felt like crawling under a rock. Deb would say, "GO TOM!"
I thought about Joellyn's words and understand that I, or we, are messengers on this big round ball of earth and sky. I have been blessed with the gift of making people smile and laugh. It is my duty while I am here to spread that message of laughter. What is your gift? We all have them. Most of us ignore them or dismiss them as frivolous. If we all made one person smile each day there would be no war, famine and oppression.
As I was being introduced to hit the stage at the club, I said one last I love you to Deb, grabbed the mic and the laughter came after my first few lines. First slowly and quietly, then hearty and rich. It felt good to be God's messenger for those few moments. I reflected on Deb's cheeky laugh and felt grace as the crowd returned their approval for a joke well done.
God might be the copilot but we have to drive through humanity. He speaks through us. He sends messages to others through all of us collectively. The burning bush trick has been done. It's up to us to be messengers of peace and good will. We don't need to join the brotherhood. Try opening a door for a stranger, calling an old friend, flashing a smile or letting someone into traffic. Spread the message! It might be the one thing that a person needs the most while at a critical point in their life.
On Christmas God sent a present to earth. On that same Christmas the earth sent God a gift and her name is Lil Deb Snack Cake.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
New Years Eve 1997, Some Drinks, Some Tears and a Popsicle!
I don't remember the 90's. It seems like such a simple sentence when it rolls off the tongue. When it rolls off of mine it stings. By the end of the Nineties I was nearly dead and in a 10 year blackout. I missed a lot of Bill Clinton, who I liked, and a lot more of Nirvana, whom I thought were overrated. Mother Love Bone, Pearl Jam, Alice-in-Chains and Soundgarden were the true pioneers of the "Seattle Sound," or "Grunge" as far as I'm concerned. Nirvana was at the right place at the right time. Sorry to my Seattle area mates, Ian McLennon Shipp and Angela Kirby, if you disagree. A Mick has an opinion or several of them on any subject.
One of the things I do to deflect feelings of discomfort is to tell a joke to redirect a conversation. When my emotions take a turn I don't like, or that create fear in me, a quick witted comeback or smart ass comment is immediate relief. It works great as a comedian and actor, but not so well when I am in a serious conversation with a friend or loved one. I use it as a defense mechanism. I would rather feel laughter than "feel" others pain because I get frustrated when I can't help solve their problem. By making them laugh I have given them a moment of relief...but I digress.
At the end of the 90's I was in my third failed marriage. Although married a year we never spent more than a few days together before my booze and her temper broke up the bliss. I was living in my car part time and in sleazy hotels the other half. New Year's Eve was on a Wednesday in 1997. My on and off wife and I went to a prepackaged dinner party. I drank, she yelled and the night was over before the prerequisite confetti, horns and warm hearted kisses.
I dropped her off at her apartment and should not have been driving. I headed back toward the strip of transient hotels on Lagrange Road in Stone Park. As I approached the corner of Grand Avenue to turn onto Lagrange I could see a police road block set up in the middle of the street about a quarter mile from where I had just turned. I was absolutely over the legal limit and switched into survival mode. Spotting a familiar dumpy motel I had stayed at before on my left, I pulled into the drive smooth as silk. I had out smarted the law and savored the familiar adrenalin rush one experiences knowing catastrophe had been averted.
I had little money but not enough for the innkeeper. He knew me well and in a pathetic nod said it was okay for me to sleep in the parking lot. I assured him I was going to get paid Friday and would check in respectably. I was instantly taken back to Wimpy from Popeye. "Can I borrow a quarter for a hamburger, for which I will gladly repay you on Tuesday?" I navigated my car into an empty spot, or two, and set out for the liquor store across the street. An addict always makes sure, that when choosing a place to rest his head, that there is liquor, an ATM, a laundry mat and fast food within stumbling distance. All of the necessities a gentleman of my station needed.
I bought enough booze to help me pass out quickly. It was well below zero and my car had no heat. I was dressed in a business suit with no coat. I recrossed the busy roadway laughing at the suckers getting hauled away by the coppers a few blocks down. Not me! It was party time. I had a pair of sweat pants in my car and a blue U-Haul blanket. I was cock sure that I wasn't a drunk. I was a SURVIVOR! I wasn't homeless. I was just camping in my car.
I guzzled the pint of Vodka in a few deep, burning gulps. I chased it with a grape soda for sophistication. The late night radio talk show host, who talks about aliens and UFOs, was a familiar companion. I slipped my sweat pants over my now wrinkly tailored suit pants, wrapped myself in the greasy blue blanket and wept in desperation that I couldn't take much more. I always thought I would die before 40. Now the horrifying realization that my madhouse life could continue infinitum was seeping into my fragile psyche.
As the windows frosted up inside, the warmth of my flammable breath was the only source of heat the car provided. I passed out for an hour, waking to more UFO talk. I slept another hour and awoke to a new voice. The third time I woke up the sun was cracking its way through the New Year dawn. It was now 1998 and I was sure things would be different.
1998 did begin a new twist in my alcohol abuse and chaotic existence. As I flipped the driver seat back to upright I scratched at the heavy frost to peer out at the New Year. My crotch was so cold. I felt as if I was naked. I leaned into the door to nudge it open and immediately discovered why I felt so naked. During the course of the night I had unknowingly pissed all over myself and it had frozen! As my head pounded I shivered uncontrollably I picked the yellow ice chunks from my once lovely suit. I tried to exit the car but was also frozen to the seat and couldn't move.
I had reached a new low in wetting myself. I would do it hundreds of times later. This first time horrified me. I hadn't peed myself since I was a kid! As I worked myself back and forth I could hear the sounds of carpet tearing, but it was my pantsicle unpeeling from my portable home. I was demoralized, broken and the Mr. Freeze of Piss! I had a solution though! It worked for me many times before and after that. I slithered back across the street and bought a bottle of booze and got some quarters for the laundry.
After downing my liquid potato breakfast I was ready for the new day. I slipped into a pair of gym shorts I had in the back seat and set my sails for the laundry mat. The disgust of my new bottom was gone. Denial was a welcomed mate. I had escaped the police and me again. I sat in the filthy laundry mat watching my clothes go around and around. My life was like that. I was just going around and around, but a dryer shuts off after a few minutes demanding another quarter. My body kept the cycle going and going, around and around. It didn't stop because I kept feeding it the booze it demanded.
One of the things I do to deflect feelings of discomfort is to tell a joke to redirect a conversation. When my emotions take a turn I don't like, or that create fear in me, a quick witted comeback or smart ass comment is immediate relief. It works great as a comedian and actor, but not so well when I am in a serious conversation with a friend or loved one. I use it as a defense mechanism. I would rather feel laughter than "feel" others pain because I get frustrated when I can't help solve their problem. By making them laugh I have given them a moment of relief...but I digress.
At the end of the 90's I was in my third failed marriage. Although married a year we never spent more than a few days together before my booze and her temper broke up the bliss. I was living in my car part time and in sleazy hotels the other half. New Year's Eve was on a Wednesday in 1997. My on and off wife and I went to a prepackaged dinner party. I drank, she yelled and the night was over before the prerequisite confetti, horns and warm hearted kisses.
I dropped her off at her apartment and should not have been driving. I headed back toward the strip of transient hotels on Lagrange Road in Stone Park. As I approached the corner of Grand Avenue to turn onto Lagrange I could see a police road block set up in the middle of the street about a quarter mile from where I had just turned. I was absolutely over the legal limit and switched into survival mode. Spotting a familiar dumpy motel I had stayed at before on my left, I pulled into the drive smooth as silk. I had out smarted the law and savored the familiar adrenalin rush one experiences knowing catastrophe had been averted.
I had little money but not enough for the innkeeper. He knew me well and in a pathetic nod said it was okay for me to sleep in the parking lot. I assured him I was going to get paid Friday and would check in respectably. I was instantly taken back to Wimpy from Popeye. "Can I borrow a quarter for a hamburger, for which I will gladly repay you on Tuesday?" I navigated my car into an empty spot, or two, and set out for the liquor store across the street. An addict always makes sure, that when choosing a place to rest his head, that there is liquor, an ATM, a laundry mat and fast food within stumbling distance. All of the necessities a gentleman of my station needed.
I bought enough booze to help me pass out quickly. It was well below zero and my car had no heat. I was dressed in a business suit with no coat. I recrossed the busy roadway laughing at the suckers getting hauled away by the coppers a few blocks down. Not me! It was party time. I had a pair of sweat pants in my car and a blue U-Haul blanket. I was cock sure that I wasn't a drunk. I was a SURVIVOR! I wasn't homeless. I was just camping in my car.
I guzzled the pint of Vodka in a few deep, burning gulps. I chased it with a grape soda for sophistication. The late night radio talk show host, who talks about aliens and UFOs, was a familiar companion. I slipped my sweat pants over my now wrinkly tailored suit pants, wrapped myself in the greasy blue blanket and wept in desperation that I couldn't take much more. I always thought I would die before 40. Now the horrifying realization that my madhouse life could continue infinitum was seeping into my fragile psyche.
As the windows frosted up inside, the warmth of my flammable breath was the only source of heat the car provided. I passed out for an hour, waking to more UFO talk. I slept another hour and awoke to a new voice. The third time I woke up the sun was cracking its way through the New Year dawn. It was now 1998 and I was sure things would be different.
1998 did begin a new twist in my alcohol abuse and chaotic existence. As I flipped the driver seat back to upright I scratched at the heavy frost to peer out at the New Year. My crotch was so cold. I felt as if I was naked. I leaned into the door to nudge it open and immediately discovered why I felt so naked. During the course of the night I had unknowingly pissed all over myself and it had frozen! As my head pounded I shivered uncontrollably I picked the yellow ice chunks from my once lovely suit. I tried to exit the car but was also frozen to the seat and couldn't move.
I had reached a new low in wetting myself. I would do it hundreds of times later. This first time horrified me. I hadn't peed myself since I was a kid! As I worked myself back and forth I could hear the sounds of carpet tearing, but it was my pantsicle unpeeling from my portable home. I was demoralized, broken and the Mr. Freeze of Piss! I had a solution though! It worked for me many times before and after that. I slithered back across the street and bought a bottle of booze and got some quarters for the laundry.
After downing my liquid potato breakfast I was ready for the new day. I slipped into a pair of gym shorts I had in the back seat and set my sails for the laundry mat. The disgust of my new bottom was gone. Denial was a welcomed mate. I had escaped the police and me again. I sat in the filthy laundry mat watching my clothes go around and around. My life was like that. I was just going around and around, but a dryer shuts off after a few minutes demanding another quarter. My body kept the cycle going and going, around and around. It didn't stop because I kept feeding it the booze it demanded.
My Thoughts Are Racing And I Can't Catch Up To Them....Panic Attack Preview! (3 minutes Inside Me)
WARNING: You are about to enter my mind! If you are prone to motion sickness you might want to reconsider before boarding...
I've fallen asleep on the couch reading a book by Uta Hagen. I am just on the edge of consciousness because I rarely get deep sleep and when I sleep I am easily woken. The sound of a mouse fart will sit me up straight, wide eyed and mind racing. Since the passing of my sweet friend Debbie, my racing mind is kicking up the RPM's. There is no punctuation in my mind. There will be little here.
I shake from my delicate slumber as my Lab is nudging my arm. He needs to go out. What time is it? Only 1:05? I'm not getting up until four! Damn dog! "LA Woman, LA Woman!" You know he only wakes you when he "really" has to go! "LA Woman, LA Woman." She was only 43! Come on guys lets go out! Why her? Make it quick boys! Come on! "Grace stay out of the deep snow! They better not wake up my Squeaky. She's getting up in 3 hours. "Ridin, Ridin..." Hurry up Grace! I wonder if she was in pain. Don't forget their treats. Am I afraid to die? "LA Woman, LA Woman." Grace needs a grooming. Quiet! Quiet! "I did a little dot about an hour ago..." What should I wear to the service? What should I wear when I've died? I wonder if a lot of people will come to my funeral. She was only 43! I'm 45! SHHHH, you guys go back to bed. "ridin, ridin...ridin, ridin. I wonder if death hurts. I have to mail out submissions tomorrow. Grace you have snow all over you! Cooter you're a good girl! What was that feeling in my chest just now? A heart attack! I'm gonna die right here in the kitchen! "which way the wind blows," Lord don't let me die here! Not now! Grandpa was 39 when he died of a grabber. I look just like him. Maybe I'll just wear a sweater and Dockers! "La Woman, LA Woman..." Check your pulse. Just put two fingers up to the side of your throat! No more treats! You guys are done for the night. God I love you! "Ridin, Ridin..." I have got to get more sleep! My pulse seems normal. Wait was that an irregular heartbeat! Man I hate this cold weather! She was so cool. I think I'll be cremated. Those submissions should be sent to the agents by certified mail! "Ridin, Ridin." What if the kids die before me? If I do die Lord let it be quick! Squeaky is gonna be a mess! How will she get through it? The service starts at 3 pm. I will leave the house at 2:45. "Well I did a little dot about an hour ago." I still have a couple hours to sleep. I better put an aspirin on the coffee table in case I do have a heart attack! Aspirin is supposed to help. I remember when we went to the banquet with her! "Ridin, Ridin.." I love her and miss her. I wonder if people will miss me. A sweater is cool! I need to pay my respects, not interview for a job! "woooooooh." Now I think my heart is beating too slow! Check your neck again! "LA Woman, LA Woman. It's only 1:08. Go lay down guys. Grace you are looking pudgy! I should put you guys on a diet! Maybe it's just her long hair. I think I'll be cremated in my Lennon shirt. No the Dylan! If I have a heart attack now, will I still be alive when my wife wakes? I'm gonna take the aspirin now just in case. I gotta get up in a couple hours! "LA Woman, LA Woman..." It's 1:08!
I've fallen asleep on the couch reading a book by Uta Hagen. I am just on the edge of consciousness because I rarely get deep sleep and when I sleep I am easily woken. The sound of a mouse fart will sit me up straight, wide eyed and mind racing. Since the passing of my sweet friend Debbie, my racing mind is kicking up the RPM's. There is no punctuation in my mind. There will be little here.
I shake from my delicate slumber as my Lab is nudging my arm. He needs to go out. What time is it? Only 1:05? I'm not getting up until four! Damn dog! "LA Woman, LA Woman!" You know he only wakes you when he "really" has to go! "LA Woman, LA Woman." She was only 43! Come on guys lets go out! Why her? Make it quick boys! Come on! "Grace stay out of the deep snow! They better not wake up my Squeaky. She's getting up in 3 hours. "Ridin, Ridin..." Hurry up Grace! I wonder if she was in pain. Don't forget their treats. Am I afraid to die? "LA Woman, LA Woman." Grace needs a grooming. Quiet! Quiet! "I did a little dot about an hour ago..." What should I wear to the service? What should I wear when I've died? I wonder if a lot of people will come to my funeral. She was only 43! I'm 45! SHHHH, you guys go back to bed. "ridin, ridin...ridin, ridin. I wonder if death hurts. I have to mail out submissions tomorrow. Grace you have snow all over you! Cooter you're a good girl! What was that feeling in my chest just now? A heart attack! I'm gonna die right here in the kitchen! "which way the wind blows," Lord don't let me die here! Not now! Grandpa was 39 when he died of a grabber. I look just like him. Maybe I'll just wear a sweater and Dockers! "La Woman, LA Woman..." Check your pulse. Just put two fingers up to the side of your throat! No more treats! You guys are done for the night. God I love you! "Ridin, Ridin..." I have got to get more sleep! My pulse seems normal. Wait was that an irregular heartbeat! Man I hate this cold weather! She was so cool. I think I'll be cremated. Those submissions should be sent to the agents by certified mail! "Ridin, Ridin." What if the kids die before me? If I do die Lord let it be quick! Squeaky is gonna be a mess! How will she get through it? The service starts at 3 pm. I will leave the house at 2:45. "Well I did a little dot about an hour ago." I still have a couple hours to sleep. I better put an aspirin on the coffee table in case I do have a heart attack! Aspirin is supposed to help. I remember when we went to the banquet with her! "Ridin, Ridin.." I love her and miss her. I wonder if people will miss me. A sweater is cool! I need to pay my respects, not interview for a job! "woooooooh." Now I think my heart is beating too slow! Check your neck again! "LA Woman, LA Woman. It's only 1:08. Go lay down guys. Grace you are looking pudgy! I should put you guys on a diet! Maybe it's just her long hair. I think I'll be cremated in my Lennon shirt. No the Dylan! If I have a heart attack now, will I still be alive when my wife wakes? I'm gonna take the aspirin now just in case. I gotta get up in a couple hours! "LA Woman, LA Woman..." It's 1:08!
Monday, December 27, 2010
This is the End My Friend...J. Morrison...No It's Not. It is Just The Beginning
There is a very simple and central theme in recovery. Live today, the yesterdays are gone and tomorrow's not here yet. Matthew 6:34 says: "Be not anxious about tomorrow...sufficient for the day is it's own trouble." That is a paraphrase. The point is that we have only now, the moment we are in. God grants us today after today until he decides when the next today won't come. When someone dies who is old or sick it hurts but we have prepared ourselves for the loss. When someone young, vibrant and filled with life is taken, it sucks the air right out of you.
I wrote the chapter "Mom I Love You, Sister I love you, and You Love Me!" when I returned home from an amazingly, life changing day at my family's Christmas gathering last night. As I finished the posting and was checking into my Facebook account, a friend messaged me saying a mutual friend had died on Christmas morning. The elation of the day I savored with my family was replaced by sadness, emptiness and shock at the unexpected news.
My friend Debbie was very close to my age. We had much in common and I loved her. We never dated. She was friends with my wife and was a true girlfriend. That is a friend who just happened to be a girl. I called her Debbie Snack Cake because she was so tiny and so, so sweet. Height wise she came up to the middle of my chest, but she had giant written all over her.
She was going through the difficulties of coping with the death of her mother while my dad was deteriorating and physically moving toward the end himself. We shared our pain and funny stories about our parents and bonded over the agony of seeing them slip away. I attended her mother's memorial service and she was there at my dad's. We could just look at each other and see the pain and emotional exhaustion in each others eyes. Words did not have to be spoken.
Like me, she was slightly neurotic and a bit OCD but in a cute, lovable way. If she was a puppy, there is no doubt that she would be the one that you couldn't resist and wanted to take home that day. Quiet in nature she spoke openly rarely, but when she did it was always something you were glad you had a chance to hear. I am glad that I hugged her when I saw her a few days before the holiday. She was smiling ear to ear and hugged me tight, not a slap on the back but a "good ta see ya" hug.
I burnt lots of Doors music for her. She loved Jim Morrison, like I love Lennon and Dylan. Her license plate even read LA WMAN. Her favorite song by them was "The End." It is a haunting and deeply philosophical poem set to music. She bragged she had every version ever made. I believed her.
The thing I loved most about her was that she was always there to help a friend in need. She would put her life on hold to lift up complete strangers. She poured her heart out like liquid gold, holding nothing back for her own reserves. Even when she was crying inside she would smile and show the outside world that life is for living. I'll never know how God got such big balls on such a tiny person.
The joy I had returning from my sister's house was quickly replaced by shock and tear soaked reflection. I do have to disagree with Mr. Morrison that "This is the End." I believe death is just the turning of a page in a new chapter of existence called paradise. I live my life today trying to keep my relationships on solid ground. I understand all of us may only have today. Maybe our kids, or parents, or neighbors won't be there for the apology or clearing of the air we are planning for another day.
Never in a million years would I believe that the deep, love filled hug we shared a few days ago would be our last. It confirms even more that life is too short for petty disagreements and that long held grudges must be cast aside. I don't want the guilt of "I shoulda". When I walk out the door, leaving behind a friend or loved one, I try to do so on a good note or just not on a bad one. I do not let the sun go down on my anger. I know the sun shines and the rain falls on the good and the evil.
I have talked about Little Debbie Snack Cake in the past tense in this chapter. She may not be here to see, but she is in my heart. She taught me a lot in life and has shown me how fragile and short it can be. I will see her again in paradise, probably walking with her mom and Jim Morrison and she will hug me firmly as if to say "I love you and you're going to love this place!" Snack Cake I love you! See ya whenever.
I wrote the chapter "Mom I Love You, Sister I love you, and You Love Me!" when I returned home from an amazingly, life changing day at my family's Christmas gathering last night. As I finished the posting and was checking into my Facebook account, a friend messaged me saying a mutual friend had died on Christmas morning. The elation of the day I savored with my family was replaced by sadness, emptiness and shock at the unexpected news.
My friend Debbie was very close to my age. We had much in common and I loved her. We never dated. She was friends with my wife and was a true girlfriend. That is a friend who just happened to be a girl. I called her Debbie Snack Cake because she was so tiny and so, so sweet. Height wise she came up to the middle of my chest, but she had giant written all over her.
She was going through the difficulties of coping with the death of her mother while my dad was deteriorating and physically moving toward the end himself. We shared our pain and funny stories about our parents and bonded over the agony of seeing them slip away. I attended her mother's memorial service and she was there at my dad's. We could just look at each other and see the pain and emotional exhaustion in each others eyes. Words did not have to be spoken.
Like me, she was slightly neurotic and a bit OCD but in a cute, lovable way. If she was a puppy, there is no doubt that she would be the one that you couldn't resist and wanted to take home that day. Quiet in nature she spoke openly rarely, but when she did it was always something you were glad you had a chance to hear. I am glad that I hugged her when I saw her a few days before the holiday. She was smiling ear to ear and hugged me tight, not a slap on the back but a "good ta see ya" hug.
I burnt lots of Doors music for her. She loved Jim Morrison, like I love Lennon and Dylan. Her license plate even read LA WMAN. Her favorite song by them was "The End." It is a haunting and deeply philosophical poem set to music. She bragged she had every version ever made. I believed her.
The thing I loved most about her was that she was always there to help a friend in need. She would put her life on hold to lift up complete strangers. She poured her heart out like liquid gold, holding nothing back for her own reserves. Even when she was crying inside she would smile and show the outside world that life is for living. I'll never know how God got such big balls on such a tiny person.
The joy I had returning from my sister's house was quickly replaced by shock and tear soaked reflection. I do have to disagree with Mr. Morrison that "This is the End." I believe death is just the turning of a page in a new chapter of existence called paradise. I live my life today trying to keep my relationships on solid ground. I understand all of us may only have today. Maybe our kids, or parents, or neighbors won't be there for the apology or clearing of the air we are planning for another day.
Never in a million years would I believe that the deep, love filled hug we shared a few days ago would be our last. It confirms even more that life is too short for petty disagreements and that long held grudges must be cast aside. I don't want the guilt of "I shoulda". When I walk out the door, leaving behind a friend or loved one, I try to do so on a good note or just not on a bad one. I do not let the sun go down on my anger. I know the sun shines and the rain falls on the good and the evil.
I have talked about Little Debbie Snack Cake in the past tense in this chapter. She may not be here to see, but she is in my heart. She taught me a lot in life and has shown me how fragile and short it can be. I will see her again in paradise, probably walking with her mom and Jim Morrison and she will hug me firmly as if to say "I love you and you're going to love this place!" Snack Cake I love you! See ya whenever.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Mama I Love You, Sister I Love You, and You Love Me! It's All Crystal Clear!
It's a funny thing how events look so different when you look back in the rear view mirror of your life. The distortions and distances of relationships, both real and imagined, become clearer and focused. On the side mirror of my car it reads "objects may be closer than they appear." Life truly is like that, but sometimes those distances and distortions have to be trudged through before we can look at them and gain their proper perspective.
Squeaky, Ange and I went down to my sister's house for my family's Christmas in the quaint town of Dwight. My mother, brother-in-law, nephew, niece and her husband spent one of the nicest, most joyful holidays together I can remember in a long time. It started with a Bear victory and a variety of tasty snacks and treats. It ended with me relating this story of how different things look in that rear view mirror now.
Growing up in Mokena it was just me, my mom and my sister in our tiny apartment on Wolf Road. Mom worked a lot, sometimes more than one job to support us. We were not poor as there was food on the table and clothes on our backs but Christmas gifts often included underwear, socks, belts, sweaters and other types of clothing. There were toys too. I remember opening the boxes by the corner and if I saw there were clothes or socks inside I would quickly chuck the box to the side in search of G.I. Joe, Big Jim with Kung-Fu action or Vertibird, my all time favorite toy. When I had tossed the boxes to the side my Mom would make me retrieve them and hold up sweaters and pants or even worse, try them on to see if they fit. Oh how I hated trying clothes on knowing that I had left G.I. Joe behind with my sister's Barbie.
Mom went through some tough relationships after the divorce from my father. My sister and I lived through the same pain she did. My mom was private and hardworking and handled her job as mother and father for a good part of my young life. When she would get home from work we would have a simple dinner and she would crash on the couch, exhausted from the hard day she had just put in. There were factory jobs, paint store jobs, Amway and real estate just to name a few.
My sister and I weren't close coming up. I really don't know why. We shared a room in our tiny apartment and the whole floor of a house when Mom got remarried when I was 6. Even though our beds were a few feet apart or our rooms next to each others we didn't talk life. It seemed like we had a mile in between us. We rarely shared our feelings about those challenges that our youth seemed to throw at us left, right and center.
I was active in sports and I wanted my Mom to go to every event. I would run home chattering like a record on 78 rpms until she would shoo me away because of my nonstop jabbering. I wanted my sister to dote on me like I was her sweet baby brother. Those things didn't happen THE WAY I WANTED THEM TO and I resented it. My friends had two parents doing things. I had one Mom trying to be everything all the time. My sister was navigating her way through life's difficulties, as I was, and I didn't understand the realities of daily living.
In my teens I did everything I could to avoid feelings and realities. I would morph into different "me's" hoping to reach my mom or escape the confusion of our complicated family dynamic. When I began to drink I drank "AT" people. It was THEIR fault! I didn't DESERVE this! I had a million reasons to use and a lot of painful material to draw from. As I got older the distances became chasms of misunderstanding between me and these two extraordinary women.
When I got into recovery I regurgitated my life story seeking confirmation that I did indeed have the worst young life a boy had ever encountered in the history of mankind. They asked me a few simple questions. "Did any of these people who cause you so much pain pour booze down your throat?" Well no. "If you won the award for having the worst life ever what would you do about your life starting tomorrow?" There is nothing an addict hates more than logical, sensible responses to our desperately manipulating bullshit!
Today everything became crystal clear to me. My mom sacrificed her life physically, mentally and emotionally to provide for our simple existence. She would have been everywhere for my sister and I if she wasn't going to or coming home from work. She had her own personal dramas to deal with but always made sure that my sister and I had food, clothes and shelter. I do remember she would say "I love you" every day as I left for school.
There was nothing but laughter and love in that quaint house in Dwight today. My mom is healthy and my sister is an amazing mother and sister. We ate, took pictures, told stories and reminisced about days gone by. The past is gone but it can be put in perspective now. When a seed is sitting in a pile of shit it doesn't realize that after it makes it through that shit, only sunshine and beauty await. I saw only sunshine and beauty today. It was a perfect family get together.
For all of you single parents, thanks for what you sacrifice for your kids. They will understand some day. For all you addicts, all the excuses are gone. You use because you are an addict. You will quit when you stop running. For any of you sitting like a seed in a pile of life shit, be confident that when you get through it there is a lot of sunshine and beauty awaiting you.
Squeaky, Ange and I went down to my sister's house for my family's Christmas in the quaint town of Dwight. My mother, brother-in-law, nephew, niece and her husband spent one of the nicest, most joyful holidays together I can remember in a long time. It started with a Bear victory and a variety of tasty snacks and treats. It ended with me relating this story of how different things look in that rear view mirror now.
Growing up in Mokena it was just me, my mom and my sister in our tiny apartment on Wolf Road. Mom worked a lot, sometimes more than one job to support us. We were not poor as there was food on the table and clothes on our backs but Christmas gifts often included underwear, socks, belts, sweaters and other types of clothing. There were toys too. I remember opening the boxes by the corner and if I saw there were clothes or socks inside I would quickly chuck the box to the side in search of G.I. Joe, Big Jim with Kung-Fu action or Vertibird, my all time favorite toy. When I had tossed the boxes to the side my Mom would make me retrieve them and hold up sweaters and pants or even worse, try them on to see if they fit. Oh how I hated trying clothes on knowing that I had left G.I. Joe behind with my sister's Barbie.
Mom went through some tough relationships after the divorce from my father. My sister and I lived through the same pain she did. My mom was private and hardworking and handled her job as mother and father for a good part of my young life. When she would get home from work we would have a simple dinner and she would crash on the couch, exhausted from the hard day she had just put in. There were factory jobs, paint store jobs, Amway and real estate just to name a few.
My sister and I weren't close coming up. I really don't know why. We shared a room in our tiny apartment and the whole floor of a house when Mom got remarried when I was 6. Even though our beds were a few feet apart or our rooms next to each others we didn't talk life. It seemed like we had a mile in between us. We rarely shared our feelings about those challenges that our youth seemed to throw at us left, right and center.
I was active in sports and I wanted my Mom to go to every event. I would run home chattering like a record on 78 rpms until she would shoo me away because of my nonstop jabbering. I wanted my sister to dote on me like I was her sweet baby brother. Those things didn't happen THE WAY I WANTED THEM TO and I resented it. My friends had two parents doing things. I had one Mom trying to be everything all the time. My sister was navigating her way through life's difficulties, as I was, and I didn't understand the realities of daily living.
In my teens I did everything I could to avoid feelings and realities. I would morph into different "me's" hoping to reach my mom or escape the confusion of our complicated family dynamic. When I began to drink I drank "AT" people. It was THEIR fault! I didn't DESERVE this! I had a million reasons to use and a lot of painful material to draw from. As I got older the distances became chasms of misunderstanding between me and these two extraordinary women.
When I got into recovery I regurgitated my life story seeking confirmation that I did indeed have the worst young life a boy had ever encountered in the history of mankind. They asked me a few simple questions. "Did any of these people who cause you so much pain pour booze down your throat?" Well no. "If you won the award for having the worst life ever what would you do about your life starting tomorrow?" There is nothing an addict hates more than logical, sensible responses to our desperately manipulating bullshit!
Today everything became crystal clear to me. My mom sacrificed her life physically, mentally and emotionally to provide for our simple existence. She would have been everywhere for my sister and I if she wasn't going to or coming home from work. She had her own personal dramas to deal with but always made sure that my sister and I had food, clothes and shelter. I do remember she would say "I love you" every day as I left for school.
There was nothing but laughter and love in that quaint house in Dwight today. My mom is healthy and my sister is an amazing mother and sister. We ate, took pictures, told stories and reminisced about days gone by. The past is gone but it can be put in perspective now. When a seed is sitting in a pile of shit it doesn't realize that after it makes it through that shit, only sunshine and beauty await. I saw only sunshine and beauty today. It was a perfect family get together.
For all of you single parents, thanks for what you sacrifice for your kids. They will understand some day. For all you addicts, all the excuses are gone. You use because you are an addict. You will quit when you stop running. For any of you sitting like a seed in a pile of life shit, be confident that when you get through it there is a lot of sunshine and beauty awaiting you.
I've Got A Hangover...Boy Does My Head Hurt!
Ah ha! You thought I went out and got drunk last night! No I did not. In sobriety it was just another day. It is funny when a family member or friend knows you are in recovery they feel an obligation to ask if "I mind" that they have a drink. Nobody asks me when I'm on a diet if "I mind" if they eat a donut. I assure you that if I know you have a shell fish allergy and we are at a holiday party, I will feel no guilt grabbing the chubby mollusk and dragging it through some cocktail sauce on the way to my big mouth.
It is courteous and appreciated, but if I wanted to get drunk or high, I would instantly switch into "McHighver" and find a way to get wasted. If I were on a deserted island and wanted to get drunk, I would find some coconut milk and monkey piss to ferment and make a sweet island cocktail. That is the deliberate obsession when an addict wants to use. Rationalizing the need, formulating the plan, attaining the resources, and getting away from the people who would frown upon us for using is the equation for doing the deed.
I want to stress again I am not anti-alcohol. I am not mightier than thou! I wish I could have a drink like normal folk. But for me there is no such thing as "a drink." The only thing guaranteed after the first drink is lots more of them. If I don't have the first, I don't need to worry about the 56th.
The hangover I have is that of the racing thoughts, obsessions and unrealistic expectations I put on holidays and every day for that fact. I question my gift selections, the wrapping, the traffic getting to our destination and the safe return home. I have the expressions of approval of each gift recipient acted out in my mind and my courteous, humble acknowledgement to their gratitude for receiving it.
Unrealistic expectations are a one-two punch for me with addiction issues and depression issues. It is a plain and simple fact that no one, especially me, can meet my expectations because they are unattainable. If you were to ask me what my expectations for me were, it is perfection and nothing short of that. That is why the obsessive person tends to be frustrated a lot. I could not write out specifically what goals I am trying to reach in my life. I do know if I'll never meet them. My mind sets up goals and ideals for me that are always just out of reach.
It is impossible for any of us to know how people will react. My reactions don't properly match the situation I am experiencing. That is what a racing misfiring mind offers. I can remember going to a funeral for an aunt and having zero emotion at her death. Nothing! Zip! My critical mind then questioned if I was some kind of heartless, head case because of my lack of feelings. I cared for her and I was going to miss her.
On the way home from the service, a sparrow flew into the grill of my 1973 AMC Javelin. I pulled over and extricated the lifeless body from the chrome screen and sat there weeping for 10 minutes at the demise of the tiny creature. It was just a bird, not a blood relative. I, however, processed it as a catastrophe and injustice! I felt guilt for driving my car in that place at that moment. I took out the "hit me stick" and whacked away at myself, weeping all the way for taking the breath from one of God's miraculous creations.
On a previous Christmas, when my son was about 6, he wanted a remote control dinosaur. I was a man possessed going from store to store, rabid with the focus that I would find the gift my son so wanted at any expense. I found the item after several hours and several mall trips. I felt quiet satisfaction picturing his elation as he ripped open the treasure I had found for him. On that morning my heart was racing as he reached for the magical box. Ripping the paper feverishly from the booty I presented him, he quietly uttered, "Wow, cool," and cast the dinosaur to the side and grabbed a foam football I picked up as an afterthought gift. I was devastated, angry and confounded at his reaction. I had played the scene of him leaping into my arms dozens of times before that fateful morning. My day was ruined and I moped around for the day thinking only of my feelings
Today we have Christmas with my side of the family. We are a complicated bunch, to say the least. It will be enjoyable and quietly subdued. I will "think" my way through what I say and have my feelings bruised somewhere along the way. These get togethers were a source of pain for years. It is easier now and gets less traumatic with each visit. Our history together has been challenging and we all suffer from some residual pain from the events of the past.
If I have no preconceived notion of what people say or do, there can be no frustration when the action and outcome don't align. Family is family. I can remember saying to my mother one time in anger, "You are not the mom I wanted!" It was a horrible and cutting remark, but liquid courage had welled up in me when I spat such vile words. Her reply shocked me into sobriety and I will never forget it. She replied, "Did you ever think that maybe you're not the son I wanted?" The words hit the bulls eye and started me on the road of acceptance.
Today I will keep my lofty expectations for a "Rockwell" moment out of my mind's eye. I will just go with the flow. I will enjoy my time with loved ones and accept everyone as being just the way they are supposed to be. That will guarantee me a happier day, a quieter mind and gratitude for sharing another day of life on planet earth where each day is a gift.
It is courteous and appreciated, but if I wanted to get drunk or high, I would instantly switch into "McHighver" and find a way to get wasted. If I were on a deserted island and wanted to get drunk, I would find some coconut milk and monkey piss to ferment and make a sweet island cocktail. That is the deliberate obsession when an addict wants to use. Rationalizing the need, formulating the plan, attaining the resources, and getting away from the people who would frown upon us for using is the equation for doing the deed.
I want to stress again I am not anti-alcohol. I am not mightier than thou! I wish I could have a drink like normal folk. But for me there is no such thing as "a drink." The only thing guaranteed after the first drink is lots more of them. If I don't have the first, I don't need to worry about the 56th.
The hangover I have is that of the racing thoughts, obsessions and unrealistic expectations I put on holidays and every day for that fact. I question my gift selections, the wrapping, the traffic getting to our destination and the safe return home. I have the expressions of approval of each gift recipient acted out in my mind and my courteous, humble acknowledgement to their gratitude for receiving it.
Unrealistic expectations are a one-two punch for me with addiction issues and depression issues. It is a plain and simple fact that no one, especially me, can meet my expectations because they are unattainable. If you were to ask me what my expectations for me were, it is perfection and nothing short of that. That is why the obsessive person tends to be frustrated a lot. I could not write out specifically what goals I am trying to reach in my life. I do know if I'll never meet them. My mind sets up goals and ideals for me that are always just out of reach.
It is impossible for any of us to know how people will react. My reactions don't properly match the situation I am experiencing. That is what a racing misfiring mind offers. I can remember going to a funeral for an aunt and having zero emotion at her death. Nothing! Zip! My critical mind then questioned if I was some kind of heartless, head case because of my lack of feelings. I cared for her and I was going to miss her.
On the way home from the service, a sparrow flew into the grill of my 1973 AMC Javelin. I pulled over and extricated the lifeless body from the chrome screen and sat there weeping for 10 minutes at the demise of the tiny creature. It was just a bird, not a blood relative. I, however, processed it as a catastrophe and injustice! I felt guilt for driving my car in that place at that moment. I took out the "hit me stick" and whacked away at myself, weeping all the way for taking the breath from one of God's miraculous creations.
On a previous Christmas, when my son was about 6, he wanted a remote control dinosaur. I was a man possessed going from store to store, rabid with the focus that I would find the gift my son so wanted at any expense. I found the item after several hours and several mall trips. I felt quiet satisfaction picturing his elation as he ripped open the treasure I had found for him. On that morning my heart was racing as he reached for the magical box. Ripping the paper feverishly from the booty I presented him, he quietly uttered, "Wow, cool," and cast the dinosaur to the side and grabbed a foam football I picked up as an afterthought gift. I was devastated, angry and confounded at his reaction. I had played the scene of him leaping into my arms dozens of times before that fateful morning. My day was ruined and I moped around for the day thinking only of my feelings
Today we have Christmas with my side of the family. We are a complicated bunch, to say the least. It will be enjoyable and quietly subdued. I will "think" my way through what I say and have my feelings bruised somewhere along the way. These get togethers were a source of pain for years. It is easier now and gets less traumatic with each visit. Our history together has been challenging and we all suffer from some residual pain from the events of the past.
If I have no preconceived notion of what people say or do, there can be no frustration when the action and outcome don't align. Family is family. I can remember saying to my mother one time in anger, "You are not the mom I wanted!" It was a horrible and cutting remark, but liquid courage had welled up in me when I spat such vile words. Her reply shocked me into sobriety and I will never forget it. She replied, "Did you ever think that maybe you're not the son I wanted?" The words hit the bulls eye and started me on the road of acceptance.
Today I will keep my lofty expectations for a "Rockwell" moment out of my mind's eye. I will just go with the flow. I will enjoy my time with loved ones and accept everyone as being just the way they are supposed to be. That will guarantee me a happier day, a quieter mind and gratitude for sharing another day of life on planet earth where each day is a gift.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Christmas Rules For 2010 A MUST READ!
Today, I got up before the sun, as usual. Another Christmas is here. I had some time before everyone got up to think of Christmases past and the optimism I have on Christmases to come. There is not a pile of gifts under our freshly cut tree. The decorations are minimal and the perennial playing of Frank Sinatra and Deano holiday songs is not playing.
In the front window sits a fiber optic tree just 3 feet tall. It is my Charlie Brown Christmas tree. There are a few assorted family gifts and holiday clutter in the dining room. There are no lights circling my house as in years gone by. When the kids got up there was no rapid shuffling in slippered feet as each of them jockeyed for first place in the gift grabbing derby. The paper wasn't strewn about like a Hallmark Tsunami hit our family room. There was no happy faces at receiving the perfect gift or familiar frowns as a box with socks or underwear was opened.
My wife got up and her back hurt. My daughter got up and jumped in the shower. My son grabbed a cup of coffee and retreated to his room to rid the world of Nazi Zombies. My, how times have changed. How fast the times goes. There was hugs and kind words of love and it was a relaxing, contented feeling as my tiny children have grown. But there is some melancholy reflection on how I miss those days.
Later we will be visiting Kris' side of the family for Christmas dinner and gifts. Her family is colorful and very Italian. I remember times when certain family members would irritate me to the point of obsession, thus robbing me of a lovely day. Some couples have broken up or moved away to start broods of their own in different towns and distant places.
My wish to you today is enjoy TODAY! There will come a day when the adrenalin charged shrieks of your kids will be replaced with their new plans and new friends. Traditions long held will be altered as multiple family visits demand careful time management and logistical planning. There are times when our kids talk or chatter so much we wish they would shut up. The day is coming when you will crave that chatter and have to pry a decent conversation out of them.
WARNING! One of your family members will make you crazy today. One will drink too much. Another will gossip or say nothing. A story that you wish was long forgotten will be thrown in your face and new stories will be created. Don't let it get to you! Nobody should have that much power over us anymore.
Family is our family. Our kids will soon be grown and gone. New traditions will replace the old and some members will disappear from death, divorce or whatever. Enjoy every minute today! Suck the life out of your kid's antics. Accept the crazy things Uncle Joe does as cute. Forget what happened to you when you were 9. Live this Christmas like it is your last.
This is my first Christmas without my dad. Our family was able to bring him home last year and it was difficult to see him declining. We all somehow knew that it would be our last together as one. I miss him today and everyday.
As you go about the frenetic pace this day brings, be thankful for what is right in your world. Put pain aside and breathe gratitude and thanks for what you have been given. Be more thankful for what you haven't been given. We only have today. So does everyone who populates our hearts and minds. Just for today live your life as love, happiness and gratitude.
In the front window sits a fiber optic tree just 3 feet tall. It is my Charlie Brown Christmas tree. There are a few assorted family gifts and holiday clutter in the dining room. There are no lights circling my house as in years gone by. When the kids got up there was no rapid shuffling in slippered feet as each of them jockeyed for first place in the gift grabbing derby. The paper wasn't strewn about like a Hallmark Tsunami hit our family room. There was no happy faces at receiving the perfect gift or familiar frowns as a box with socks or underwear was opened.
My wife got up and her back hurt. My daughter got up and jumped in the shower. My son grabbed a cup of coffee and retreated to his room to rid the world of Nazi Zombies. My, how times have changed. How fast the times goes. There was hugs and kind words of love and it was a relaxing, contented feeling as my tiny children have grown. But there is some melancholy reflection on how I miss those days.
Later we will be visiting Kris' side of the family for Christmas dinner and gifts. Her family is colorful and very Italian. I remember times when certain family members would irritate me to the point of obsession, thus robbing me of a lovely day. Some couples have broken up or moved away to start broods of their own in different towns and distant places.
My wish to you today is enjoy TODAY! There will come a day when the adrenalin charged shrieks of your kids will be replaced with their new plans and new friends. Traditions long held will be altered as multiple family visits demand careful time management and logistical planning. There are times when our kids talk or chatter so much we wish they would shut up. The day is coming when you will crave that chatter and have to pry a decent conversation out of them.
WARNING! One of your family members will make you crazy today. One will drink too much. Another will gossip or say nothing. A story that you wish was long forgotten will be thrown in your face and new stories will be created. Don't let it get to you! Nobody should have that much power over us anymore.
Family is our family. Our kids will soon be grown and gone. New traditions will replace the old and some members will disappear from death, divorce or whatever. Enjoy every minute today! Suck the life out of your kid's antics. Accept the crazy things Uncle Joe does as cute. Forget what happened to you when you were 9. Live this Christmas like it is your last.
This is my first Christmas without my dad. Our family was able to bring him home last year and it was difficult to see him declining. We all somehow knew that it would be our last together as one. I miss him today and everyday.
As you go about the frenetic pace this day brings, be thankful for what is right in your world. Put pain aside and breathe gratitude and thanks for what you have been given. Be more thankful for what you haven't been given. We only have today. So does everyone who populates our hearts and minds. Just for today live your life as love, happiness and gratitude.
Friday, December 24, 2010
My Christmas Gift 2010
In a previous chapter I mentioned that I spent Christmas in 1998 alone, drunk, lost and covered in cock roaches, wishing God would end my life. Boy how times have changed! It is 10:30 pm here in Plainfield. I am sitting at my coffee table with my back just 20 feet from the attached garage where I tried to force his hand at my exit and he chose to let me live.
Fabian, my black Lab, and Grace, my Pekingese, are laying by my wife, who is sawing logs on the couch across from me. My son Scotty, or Bro as I call him, is in bed or more likely killing zombies on Xbox. Cooter, my yellow Lab, is laying near the bedroom of my eldest daughter, Ange and keeping watch over that part of the house. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse.
I have so much to be thankful for on this Christmas. This is the 12th Christmas with my pre-made family. 2010 has been rough with the death of my Dad, putting down my Pug Ruby, having a cancer scare, losing my job and trying to get through all of that sober. Those life challenges are what we all face and for an addict with depression issues, it feels great that I have friends who help me deal with things sober minded. I have finally realized I can do very little alone.
As I write I am comfortable being me right now. It isn't like that every day. The face that stares back at me sometimes bugs me. But I can look myself in the eye. I can look at others in the eye. When I was using I would look at me and others then quickly redirect my gaze. The amazing thing is that the better I get along with me, the better I get along with the world around me.
Even when I was using I got flashes of peace, especially on Christmas Eve. Did you ever notice how quiet it gets outside around midnight? As a kid I would look at the nativity scene and be fascinated and uplifted at the story of Jesus' birth. If you haven't experienced it open a door and listen to the sounds of silence. It seems to me that for a few moments the noise and commotion of the world gets muted. I can feel a tinge of "Peace on Earth." I can feel the good of the universe edging out the bad in that rare and precious moment.
I am so grateful that in 1998 God said no to my pleas. I am so grateful that God said not yet in 2004. I am so very humbled at the friends I have found in you and the many people I have met on the set or on the stage. It feels comfortable and I almost feel normal. Normal isn't a word thrown in my direction very often.
I don't know what stands in the road of my life between now and next Christmas, or between tonight and tomorrow, for that matter. I do know I can face life sober. It feels good to feel! It feels amazing to have emotions instead of living emotionally. I have learned from my ghosts of Christmas and May Day's past that God does answer our prayers. It isn't always when we demand the answer. It is in his time.
I have also learned that sometimes, when I ask for what I want, God says NO! I have also been blessed with a God who gives me everything and more than I really need. MERRY CHRISTMAS to you all. I am glad I have, God, you, family, friends, sobriety and HOPE in my life tonight. Happy Birthday Jesus and I hope some of you join me outside in a short while to hear the sounds of silence ringing in your ear. Peace! God it's Good to be alive.
Fabian, my black Lab, and Grace, my Pekingese, are laying by my wife, who is sawing logs on the couch across from me. My son Scotty, or Bro as I call him, is in bed or more likely killing zombies on Xbox. Cooter, my yellow Lab, is laying near the bedroom of my eldest daughter, Ange and keeping watch over that part of the house. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse.
I have so much to be thankful for on this Christmas. This is the 12th Christmas with my pre-made family. 2010 has been rough with the death of my Dad, putting down my Pug Ruby, having a cancer scare, losing my job and trying to get through all of that sober. Those life challenges are what we all face and for an addict with depression issues, it feels great that I have friends who help me deal with things sober minded. I have finally realized I can do very little alone.
As I write I am comfortable being me right now. It isn't like that every day. The face that stares back at me sometimes bugs me. But I can look myself in the eye. I can look at others in the eye. When I was using I would look at me and others then quickly redirect my gaze. The amazing thing is that the better I get along with me, the better I get along with the world around me.
Even when I was using I got flashes of peace, especially on Christmas Eve. Did you ever notice how quiet it gets outside around midnight? As a kid I would look at the nativity scene and be fascinated and uplifted at the story of Jesus' birth. If you haven't experienced it open a door and listen to the sounds of silence. It seems to me that for a few moments the noise and commotion of the world gets muted. I can feel a tinge of "Peace on Earth." I can feel the good of the universe edging out the bad in that rare and precious moment.
I am so grateful that in 1998 God said no to my pleas. I am so grateful that God said not yet in 2004. I am so very humbled at the friends I have found in you and the many people I have met on the set or on the stage. It feels comfortable and I almost feel normal. Normal isn't a word thrown in my direction very often.
I don't know what stands in the road of my life between now and next Christmas, or between tonight and tomorrow, for that matter. I do know I can face life sober. It feels good to feel! It feels amazing to have emotions instead of living emotionally. I have learned from my ghosts of Christmas and May Day's past that God does answer our prayers. It isn't always when we demand the answer. It is in his time.
I have also learned that sometimes, when I ask for what I want, God says NO! I have also been blessed with a God who gives me everything and more than I really need. MERRY CHRISTMAS to you all. I am glad I have, God, you, family, friends, sobriety and HOPE in my life tonight. Happy Birthday Jesus and I hope some of you join me outside in a short while to hear the sounds of silence ringing in your ear. Peace! God it's Good to be alive.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Happy Holidays!....FUGETABOUTIT!
I have talked about the ghosts of Christmas past and the ghosts of Christmas present and still am a little anxious about the ghosts of Christmas future. But let's get back to the ghosts of Christmas present.
I want to wish each of you a Merry Christmas! If you are Jewish, Happy Hanukkah! If you are African-American Happy Kwanzaa! If you are Hindu, Happy Pancha Ganapti! I wish that whatever celebration you celebrate this year is full of the customs and traditions you have grown up with and make your culture unique and something you identify with.
I don't want to take your traditions, they are important to you and part of what makes your culture unique and part of the great American melting pot. But I want to celebrate my customs and traditions and that is the celebration of Christmas. In our politically correct society, (note to reader: look up word 'oxymoron' here), every attempt is made to sterilize and assimilate every one into individual Stepford wives and husbands. The very traditions and cornerstones of what made America what it is are being forgotten.
I am quite sure that the celebrations of Cinco De Mayo are much more grand in Mexico than the ones they have for Independence Day, as it should be. If I moved there and demanded equal billing for the Fourth of July it would fall on deaf ears. They are celebrating what made Mexico...Mexico! When visiting a restaurant in Japan, the patron must remove his shoes before entering. They don't cast aside their way of living just because I want to wear my new Air Jordan's! They would politely tell me to do it their way or find a McDonald's. I was slightly jealous at this time of year when my Jewish friends had 8 days of gift giving. But there was one big difference - I didn't cry at the injustice and inequality of their traditions!
America was built on "In God We Trust" but was careful in crafting religious freedom into our Constitutional Rights. Kids don't say the Pledge of Allegiance in school at the risk of hurting someone's feelings by mentioning "under God." In our ability to bring everyone together we are succeeding in creating great rifts and separation. Our politically correct posture is slowly eating away at being American in America. Soon the only things held dearly by Americans will be Walmart, Starbucks and iPOD! We wonder why America is having an identity crisis while taking everything American out of America!
The pride I have for this country runs deep. I served in the U.S. Navy Reserve for 1 year after 911. In our attempt to please everyone we are letting the inmates run the asylum. Big Brother should just come in and finish the job! When we use our phones to call a business we should hear a plea from the other end, "Press 1 for Spanish, 2 for Italian, 3 for Vietnamese, 4 for French and so on and so on. They should redo our coins into large half-dollar like creations mentioning "we trust" followed by a laundry list of deities! The National Anthem should be banned. Believe me, it's coming. When I try to satisfy everyone I only end up frustrating everyone.
When my ancestors came to America from Ireland via Canada, they cherished the American ways and ALSO embraced the traditions of the Irish. The same can be said of the Italians, the Germans and the African Americans, blah-blah-blah! Let's just start a "world bank like" set of beliefs and turn everyone in the world into neatly quaffed lemmings running through the maze of the earth. No identity is right for all! Right?
I'm not an apologist. This is Christmas. It's the day of our Lord. We already built the Santa guy into the day just in case you aren't a Christian. That's enough! Merry Christmas, No, MERRY CHRISTMAS! I hope your holiday is happy and that GOD fills your new year with many blessings!
I want to wish each of you a Merry Christmas! If you are Jewish, Happy Hanukkah! If you are African-American Happy Kwanzaa! If you are Hindu, Happy Pancha Ganapti! I wish that whatever celebration you celebrate this year is full of the customs and traditions you have grown up with and make your culture unique and something you identify with.
I don't want to take your traditions, they are important to you and part of what makes your culture unique and part of the great American melting pot. But I want to celebrate my customs and traditions and that is the celebration of Christmas. In our politically correct society, (note to reader: look up word 'oxymoron' here), every attempt is made to sterilize and assimilate every one into individual Stepford wives and husbands. The very traditions and cornerstones of what made America what it is are being forgotten.
I am quite sure that the celebrations of Cinco De Mayo are much more grand in Mexico than the ones they have for Independence Day, as it should be. If I moved there and demanded equal billing for the Fourth of July it would fall on deaf ears. They are celebrating what made Mexico...Mexico! When visiting a restaurant in Japan, the patron must remove his shoes before entering. They don't cast aside their way of living just because I want to wear my new Air Jordan's! They would politely tell me to do it their way or find a McDonald's. I was slightly jealous at this time of year when my Jewish friends had 8 days of gift giving. But there was one big difference - I didn't cry at the injustice and inequality of their traditions!
America was built on "In God We Trust" but was careful in crafting religious freedom into our Constitutional Rights. Kids don't say the Pledge of Allegiance in school at the risk of hurting someone's feelings by mentioning "under God." In our ability to bring everyone together we are succeeding in creating great rifts and separation. Our politically correct posture is slowly eating away at being American in America. Soon the only things held dearly by Americans will be Walmart, Starbucks and iPOD! We wonder why America is having an identity crisis while taking everything American out of America!
The pride I have for this country runs deep. I served in the U.S. Navy Reserve for 1 year after 911. In our attempt to please everyone we are letting the inmates run the asylum. Big Brother should just come in and finish the job! When we use our phones to call a business we should hear a plea from the other end, "Press 1 for Spanish, 2 for Italian, 3 for Vietnamese, 4 for French and so on and so on. They should redo our coins into large half-dollar like creations mentioning "we trust" followed by a laundry list of deities! The National Anthem should be banned. Believe me, it's coming. When I try to satisfy everyone I only end up frustrating everyone.
When my ancestors came to America from Ireland via Canada, they cherished the American ways and ALSO embraced the traditions of the Irish. The same can be said of the Italians, the Germans and the African Americans, blah-blah-blah! Let's just start a "world bank like" set of beliefs and turn everyone in the world into neatly quaffed lemmings running through the maze of the earth. No identity is right for all! Right?
I'm not an apologist. This is Christmas. It's the day of our Lord. We already built the Santa guy into the day just in case you aren't a Christian. That's enough! Merry Christmas, No, MERRY CHRISTMAS! I hope your holiday is happy and that GOD fills your new year with many blessings!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Conquer A City And You're King...Conquer Yourself And You're Free...
By relating my visit to the loony bin and attempted exodus from this mortal toil, I shared one of my deepest secrets and unshakable regrets. I probably won't be getting any junk mail trying to sell me life insurance in the near future. If any of my doctors saw the blog they probably rushed back to their office to see what I checked off in the suicide and mental health issues categories on my patient history.
I usually end my chapters on a positive note. I like to provide hope for those who suffer from these brutal conditions and help their loved ones understand the way I think as an addict in recovery. I also like to stress that you are not alone whether suffering as, or with, an addict. There are recovery groups for virtually every kind of support a person needs. Check the newspaper or Internet in your area. One of the hardest things for me as an addict and depression sufferer is asking for help or sharing my pain when I am in the middle of it. But if I don't reach out my hand no one else can lend me theirs.
I don't want to bother my loved ones with my feelings knowing I spent so many years not taking their feelings into consideration. I don't want people to think I'm nuts even though I have a 'thanks for visiting' card from Hinsdale Hospital's psych ward. In recovery it isn't any easier to talk than when I was using. It's harder. When I put mind altering chemicals into my body the filter is removed between my brain and my mouth. I say exactly what I think no matter what damage it causes. It makes me think of that commercial where Abe Lincoln's wife asks him if her dress makes her bottom look big. When I was high I would say something coy but cutting like, "define big." I couldn't control it. It just spilled out. In recovery I often don't know how to explain how I feel because having real feelings is so new.
Part of the recovery process involves making reparations to people for the damage you have caused. To the addict it helps remove the baggage, remorse, guilt and shame that helped justify the highs and keep the madness rolling. The ultimate goal is to make peace with those we have hurt and make peace with ourselves and lighten the burden of being us.
I have tried to make these reparations to those I have harmed. Some of my confessions of responsibility have been met with amicable results. Some of them have fallen on deaf ears. Others opened up old wounds long forgotten. Many people dismissed my pleas having forgotten the issue altogether. When that happens I realize that in some instances my behaviors have not created the lifetime of anguish I supposed it did. I have also made some reparations that I considered insignificant only to find out that my actions had a huge impact on the person I had harmed. In either case, I have learned that everyone sees the world differently. What wounds one, bounces right off another and is unique to each of us.
When I got to this point in my sobriety I wanted the world to forgive me and pardon me of all my sins. I was sober after all! Look at me, I'm sober! To an earthling the quick reply would be, "So what. So am I." It is funny that once I was sober I wanted to be acknowledged for being a good husband and father, worker and friend, neighbor and citizen. All of these things that a non-addict has done so easily and faithfully for their entire lives is completely alien to the addict.
In my using days, if I received a bill saying I owed ten dollars to someone I would see it as an injustice and spend twenty dollars on booze or whatever to express my disdain for them trying to take my money. For me being "normal" is completely abnormal behavior! It gets easier as long as I stay sober but it is a daily challenge. When I was living my life in the total insanity of addiction, my mind warped itself into a new perception of normalcy. It had to keep the party going by convincing me that wrong was right.
There are things I have done in my life as an addict and human that I regret to the point of nausea. I can not change them. None of us can change yesterday no matter how badly we wish we could. The horror of my past behaviors and fear of the future kept me from living in the moment. To my addicted self the thought of feeling now was impossible. When I get into a dark yesterday or fretful tomorrow, I can't sit there long. I have to live my life from day to day. Sometimes moment to moment. Obsession is just as a ferocious foe to the recovering addict as the active user. If I sit in that spot too long my sobriety and life become jeopardized.
I take full responsibility for 50% of every relationship I have or have had with every human I have crossed paths with and will meet farther down the road. By living in today I see all the beauty and the challenges that right now offers. All we have is right now! Whether you're an addict or a Mormon our lives can change or end in an instant. I enjoy today. I let yesterday go and I'll face tomorrow if the good Lord sees fit to wake me up.
I usually end my chapters on a positive note. I like to provide hope for those who suffer from these brutal conditions and help their loved ones understand the way I think as an addict in recovery. I also like to stress that you are not alone whether suffering as, or with, an addict. There are recovery groups for virtually every kind of support a person needs. Check the newspaper or Internet in your area. One of the hardest things for me as an addict and depression sufferer is asking for help or sharing my pain when I am in the middle of it. But if I don't reach out my hand no one else can lend me theirs.
I don't want to bother my loved ones with my feelings knowing I spent so many years not taking their feelings into consideration. I don't want people to think I'm nuts even though I have a 'thanks for visiting' card from Hinsdale Hospital's psych ward. In recovery it isn't any easier to talk than when I was using. It's harder. When I put mind altering chemicals into my body the filter is removed between my brain and my mouth. I say exactly what I think no matter what damage it causes. It makes me think of that commercial where Abe Lincoln's wife asks him if her dress makes her bottom look big. When I was high I would say something coy but cutting like, "define big." I couldn't control it. It just spilled out. In recovery I often don't know how to explain how I feel because having real feelings is so new.
Part of the recovery process involves making reparations to people for the damage you have caused. To the addict it helps remove the baggage, remorse, guilt and shame that helped justify the highs and keep the madness rolling. The ultimate goal is to make peace with those we have hurt and make peace with ourselves and lighten the burden of being us.
I have tried to make these reparations to those I have harmed. Some of my confessions of responsibility have been met with amicable results. Some of them have fallen on deaf ears. Others opened up old wounds long forgotten. Many people dismissed my pleas having forgotten the issue altogether. When that happens I realize that in some instances my behaviors have not created the lifetime of anguish I supposed it did. I have also made some reparations that I considered insignificant only to find out that my actions had a huge impact on the person I had harmed. In either case, I have learned that everyone sees the world differently. What wounds one, bounces right off another and is unique to each of us.
When I got to this point in my sobriety I wanted the world to forgive me and pardon me of all my sins. I was sober after all! Look at me, I'm sober! To an earthling the quick reply would be, "So what. So am I." It is funny that once I was sober I wanted to be acknowledged for being a good husband and father, worker and friend, neighbor and citizen. All of these things that a non-addict has done so easily and faithfully for their entire lives is completely alien to the addict.
In my using days, if I received a bill saying I owed ten dollars to someone I would see it as an injustice and spend twenty dollars on booze or whatever to express my disdain for them trying to take my money. For me being "normal" is completely abnormal behavior! It gets easier as long as I stay sober but it is a daily challenge. When I was living my life in the total insanity of addiction, my mind warped itself into a new perception of normalcy. It had to keep the party going by convincing me that wrong was right.
There are things I have done in my life as an addict and human that I regret to the point of nausea. I can not change them. None of us can change yesterday no matter how badly we wish we could. The horror of my past behaviors and fear of the future kept me from living in the moment. To my addicted self the thought of feeling now was impossible. When I get into a dark yesterday or fretful tomorrow, I can't sit there long. I have to live my life from day to day. Sometimes moment to moment. Obsession is just as a ferocious foe to the recovering addict as the active user. If I sit in that spot too long my sobriety and life become jeopardized.
I take full responsibility for 50% of every relationship I have or have had with every human I have crossed paths with and will meet farther down the road. By living in today I see all the beauty and the challenges that right now offers. All we have is right now! Whether you're an addict or a Mormon our lives can change or end in an instant. I enjoy today. I let yesterday go and I'll face tomorrow if the good Lord sees fit to wake me up.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
I Was Dead... But Didn't Die...
When I started to write this book I told my wife that there was no experience in my past that I wouldn't write about. If I truly wanted to help people trapped in the merry-go-round of addiction I would have to bare my soul. Leaving names and places out is my way of protecting people who I do not wish to hurt any more than I have. Only a handful of family know this story - up until now.
I have intimated the fact that I switched from drug to drug to prove I wasn't addicted, like any seasoned addict would. I stopped drinking on March 21, 1999. I went into Hinsdale Hospital for 5 days to detox and then admitted myself to their psych ward. I had 11 days left of inpatient coverage on my insurance and was fired from my job while detoxing. I was free to come and go from the ward and walk the hospital grounds but was on lock down at night. I was so afraid of drinking that I was willing to make a stop in the nutty bin to help assure my continued sobriety. After my 11 day stay as McMurphy hanging with the Chief, Billy and Martini, I spent 28 days at a recovery house in Poplar Creek.
After 6 months of honest sobriety, I started smoking pot again. It kept me relaxed so I didn't need to continue with my alcohol recovery, or so my addiction convinced me. My new girl Kris, Squeaky as I call her, was okay with the pot as long as I didn't do it in the house in front of the kids. Her previous husband had alcohol issues and she was happy I wasn't drinking. She had no idea how addiction works the addict from every angle until it has its grip firmly on the soul of the user and starts the insanity again. I figured God created it and the Native Americans smoked it so I saw no harm in my occasional high.
I would smoke and go to work. I was a gainfully employed professional, suit and tie intact and was wasted all the time. As the months went by my use got heavier. The level of drug needed to get me to where I wanted to be - outside of being me, was increasing. I was a good worker or good enough to keep the gig. I always had a back-up job in my pocket in case the one I had fell through.
After 5 years of freedom from alcohol we bought our dream house. Nestled on a cul de sac in Plainfield, we began our new life in suburbia. It was a lovely 4 bedroom, quad level with the prerequisite large fenced in yard for my dogs. I had the "American Dream." It was 2003 and Squeaky and I had gotten married the year before. I proposed to her from a phone booth on the coast of Ireland. I had everything a man could want or need, and more.
My weed habit was costing me about $160-$200 dollars a week. I planted grass to fill our dirt plot, and landscaped with bushes and trees to match our dream homes' exterior and smoked grass in all my waking hours. Seeing that I had achieved my goals of happy home and ideal wife, the notion came to me that I could have a few beers. After all, I had not taken a drink in 5 years. It was obvious to me that I wasn't an alcoholic from the control I had displayed during that time.
It started as a couple, then a few, then too much, to where I couldn't get enough. I was now drinking again and smoking dope. But then I was getting tired from the combination so I started taking speed to keep me going. I made it through work doing just enough to keep the boss off my back and when I got home I would tie one on, and two, or three or more. The mind numbing trifecta was now costing me more money than I made and my wife was losing faith.
After a particularly loud and expletive laced argument about the money I was spending and how pathetic I was becoming, she told me she was leaving me. She had packed a small bag and was heading home to her parents. I was furious, high, drunk, afraid and terrified of abandonment. She drove away and I drove to the supermarket. I formulated my plan on the way. I purchased a bottle of 100 proof rum, a bottle of Robitussin and some sleeping pills. I returned home, my resolve forged. I would show her...I would kill myself! The pain of living was suffocating me. I loathed me. I lost my best friend. I had been drunk and homeless and drunk in my dream home. The common factor was I was drunk. My disease didn't care where I was, how much money I had or what I did for a living. Addiction wanted me dead and settled for me high! High was no longer working for me so dead was the only option left.
Addicts crave chaos and drama. I had told my wife I was going to end it before in a carefully crafted Shakespearean-like soliloquy. She never bought into the game and would reply to my performance with a quick reply like, "go ahead, just don't make a mess." This time I was not acting. I was afraid I would go to hell for taking my own life but I figured it couldn't be much worse than the hell I was living day after day here. I called my wife at her parents and announced my intentions of self extermination. She replied with her usual remarks. I called several more times and she wouldn't take the bait. She was done with me. I was done with me.
I drank about half of the rum and sipped on the Robitussin. Why Robitussin, I'm not sure. I think I had read about it in a Jack Kevorkian book. I took the sleeping pills and prepared to move to our attached garage. Being the conscientious suicidal person I was, I opened all the windows in the house and put food in the bowl for my Lab Fabian, then straightened up before I closed the door behind me. As each moment passed and more of the chemicals spilled into my bloodstream I began to make peace with myself and my final decision.
I took the hose from my shop vac and placed one end into the exhaust pipe and the other through the vent window of my tiny Dodge. I stuffed the window with newspaper and taped the openings closed. I gloated in a macabre satisfaction at what a good job I had done in my preparations. I returned to the house and grabbed the items I would take into eternity...hopefully! I placed a rosary around my neck and a picture of my wife and the Holy Bible in the passenger seat. I slid in behind the wheel and turned on the motor. It choked and spit for a few minutes while it got used to the foreign object obstructing its breathing. I said I was sorry to God and cried. I sobbed for forgiveness. I thought the rosary and the Bible might enable me to con my way past Gabriel. I was getting sleepier as the fumes filled up the tiny sedan. It struck me that it didn't smell so bad.
The lids of my eyes felt like they weighed a pound each as I struggled to stay awake. The fear returned but I was too tired to reconsider now. My lungs burned as I passed out cold. It was April 30, 2004.
I came to several hours later and wasn't sure if I was dead or alive. My head pounded and I threw up all over my rosary and steering wheel. The car was off and the battery was dead. The engine had stalled, no doubt from the choking pipe restricting the exhaust. I was elated and sullen at the same time. This was no cry for help. I tried to off myself but God had other plans for me. He wanted me to live. It was May Day 2004. I slept a few more hours in the house before calling my wife and rehashing the nights events. I realized it was May Day. May Day, May Day Tom it's not your time. I was grateful to be alive and thankful the car had malfunctioned at the perfect moment.
My wife did not return home right away. I returned to recovery support and began a new relationship with God. I wish I could say that I never used again but that would be a lie. I can say that I have never had the thought of trying my luck again at a kamikaze mission. Addiction will kill you if you let it. You can't do it alone. I know I wasn't alone that May Day when my tiny car stalled in my lovely house in the suburbs. I know now that I am never alone!
I have intimated the fact that I switched from drug to drug to prove I wasn't addicted, like any seasoned addict would. I stopped drinking on March 21, 1999. I went into Hinsdale Hospital for 5 days to detox and then admitted myself to their psych ward. I had 11 days left of inpatient coverage on my insurance and was fired from my job while detoxing. I was free to come and go from the ward and walk the hospital grounds but was on lock down at night. I was so afraid of drinking that I was willing to make a stop in the nutty bin to help assure my continued sobriety. After my 11 day stay as McMurphy hanging with the Chief, Billy and Martini, I spent 28 days at a recovery house in Poplar Creek.
After 6 months of honest sobriety, I started smoking pot again. It kept me relaxed so I didn't need to continue with my alcohol recovery, or so my addiction convinced me. My new girl Kris, Squeaky as I call her, was okay with the pot as long as I didn't do it in the house in front of the kids. Her previous husband had alcohol issues and she was happy I wasn't drinking. She had no idea how addiction works the addict from every angle until it has its grip firmly on the soul of the user and starts the insanity again. I figured God created it and the Native Americans smoked it so I saw no harm in my occasional high.
I would smoke and go to work. I was a gainfully employed professional, suit and tie intact and was wasted all the time. As the months went by my use got heavier. The level of drug needed to get me to where I wanted to be - outside of being me, was increasing. I was a good worker or good enough to keep the gig. I always had a back-up job in my pocket in case the one I had fell through.
After 5 years of freedom from alcohol we bought our dream house. Nestled on a cul de sac in Plainfield, we began our new life in suburbia. It was a lovely 4 bedroom, quad level with the prerequisite large fenced in yard for my dogs. I had the "American Dream." It was 2003 and Squeaky and I had gotten married the year before. I proposed to her from a phone booth on the coast of Ireland. I had everything a man could want or need, and more.
My weed habit was costing me about $160-$200 dollars a week. I planted grass to fill our dirt plot, and landscaped with bushes and trees to match our dream homes' exterior and smoked grass in all my waking hours. Seeing that I had achieved my goals of happy home and ideal wife, the notion came to me that I could have a few beers. After all, I had not taken a drink in 5 years. It was obvious to me that I wasn't an alcoholic from the control I had displayed during that time.
It started as a couple, then a few, then too much, to where I couldn't get enough. I was now drinking again and smoking dope. But then I was getting tired from the combination so I started taking speed to keep me going. I made it through work doing just enough to keep the boss off my back and when I got home I would tie one on, and two, or three or more. The mind numbing trifecta was now costing me more money than I made and my wife was losing faith.
After a particularly loud and expletive laced argument about the money I was spending and how pathetic I was becoming, she told me she was leaving me. She had packed a small bag and was heading home to her parents. I was furious, high, drunk, afraid and terrified of abandonment. She drove away and I drove to the supermarket. I formulated my plan on the way. I purchased a bottle of 100 proof rum, a bottle of Robitussin and some sleeping pills. I returned home, my resolve forged. I would show her...I would kill myself! The pain of living was suffocating me. I loathed me. I lost my best friend. I had been drunk and homeless and drunk in my dream home. The common factor was I was drunk. My disease didn't care where I was, how much money I had or what I did for a living. Addiction wanted me dead and settled for me high! High was no longer working for me so dead was the only option left.
Addicts crave chaos and drama. I had told my wife I was going to end it before in a carefully crafted Shakespearean-like soliloquy. She never bought into the game and would reply to my performance with a quick reply like, "go ahead, just don't make a mess." This time I was not acting. I was afraid I would go to hell for taking my own life but I figured it couldn't be much worse than the hell I was living day after day here. I called my wife at her parents and announced my intentions of self extermination. She replied with her usual remarks. I called several more times and she wouldn't take the bait. She was done with me. I was done with me.
I drank about half of the rum and sipped on the Robitussin. Why Robitussin, I'm not sure. I think I had read about it in a Jack Kevorkian book. I took the sleeping pills and prepared to move to our attached garage. Being the conscientious suicidal person I was, I opened all the windows in the house and put food in the bowl for my Lab Fabian, then straightened up before I closed the door behind me. As each moment passed and more of the chemicals spilled into my bloodstream I began to make peace with myself and my final decision.
I took the hose from my shop vac and placed one end into the exhaust pipe and the other through the vent window of my tiny Dodge. I stuffed the window with newspaper and taped the openings closed. I gloated in a macabre satisfaction at what a good job I had done in my preparations. I returned to the house and grabbed the items I would take into eternity...hopefully! I placed a rosary around my neck and a picture of my wife and the Holy Bible in the passenger seat. I slid in behind the wheel and turned on the motor. It choked and spit for a few minutes while it got used to the foreign object obstructing its breathing. I said I was sorry to God and cried. I sobbed for forgiveness. I thought the rosary and the Bible might enable me to con my way past Gabriel. I was getting sleepier as the fumes filled up the tiny sedan. It struck me that it didn't smell so bad.
The lids of my eyes felt like they weighed a pound each as I struggled to stay awake. The fear returned but I was too tired to reconsider now. My lungs burned as I passed out cold. It was April 30, 2004.
I came to several hours later and wasn't sure if I was dead or alive. My head pounded and I threw up all over my rosary and steering wheel. The car was off and the battery was dead. The engine had stalled, no doubt from the choking pipe restricting the exhaust. I was elated and sullen at the same time. This was no cry for help. I tried to off myself but God had other plans for me. He wanted me to live. It was May Day 2004. I slept a few more hours in the house before calling my wife and rehashing the nights events. I realized it was May Day. May Day, May Day Tom it's not your time. I was grateful to be alive and thankful the car had malfunctioned at the perfect moment.
My wife did not return home right away. I returned to recovery support and began a new relationship with God. I wish I could say that I never used again but that would be a lie. I can say that I have never had the thought of trying my luck again at a kamikaze mission. Addiction will kill you if you let it. You can't do it alone. I know I wasn't alone that May Day when my tiny car stalled in my lovely house in the suburbs. I know now that I am never alone!
Dad? I Know It's My First Day of College....I'm In Jail...
Tom Dreesen, legendary comedian and Rat Pack wing man, chimed in on "How to Scare Away The Legends of Comedy in 3 Easy clicks" with some insightful comments on life that illustrate the point of this chapter and a lot of my comedy. As I have written Mr. Dreesen, David Brenner, Mike Toomey and many other comics and actors have helped me with my career, this chapter and with life lessons in general. I have never met them in person but consider them friends. Their willingness to reach out a hand of support to a stranger is rare and refreshing.
In the comment Tom referred to some advice that Carl Reiner gave him while climbing the ladder of comedic success. Reiner said that he should, "Make the people laugh...,"Show them your pain...," "They love to see the pain..." Those comments summarily state my intended purpose here. I share my pain and mix in something to chuckle about so you can relate. I use this platform to expose my pain in hopes that it reaches out a hand of support to a stranger who knows that same pain. I hope I never give you the impression that I feel sorry for myself and that every day was black. That isn't so. Everything that I went through good, bad or indifferent got me to TODAY! If one person gets relief from one of my chapters then my experiences were worth it! God got me through that so I could do this.
After graduating from Lincoln-Way High School in New Lenox, Illinois with the class of 1983 I was anxious to leave for college. I was heading to Illinois State-Bloomington and I was ready for the time of my life. After seeing the movie "Animal House" I was absolutely driven to go to college. It wasn't to receive a good education and forge a path to professional success. It was to party! I wanted to be Bluto Blutarski plain and simple.
I arrived at the state campus in August of 1984. My car was packed to the roof with all the necessities and comforts of home to fill my tiny cubicle-like dorm room. I had arrived with a case of beer, some pot and I was ready for "Delta House!" I parked in a no parking zone and put on my flashers as I began schlepping my stuff up to the 9th floor of Manchester Hall. I took the the fridge and the beer first so I could have it chilled for unwinding after my haul was unloaded. I had a fake I.D. and thought I was going to be the big man on campus.
After my first few trips up and down the elevator to my room I met a returning sophomore. Look at me, I have only been here an hour and I'm already hobnobbing with the upper class men! I offered him a beer, which he accepted, and we small talked our way through the suds. I was naive, and still am, about the motives of my new friend. After finishing his beer he opened up the window and tossed the empty can out of the 9th floor window. He wished me good luck and went on his way. I thought it was so cool. College was just like I imagined it would be!
I finished my can feeling smug and assured that this was the life for me. After returning to my car for the final load of my new home's contents I arrived back at my room only to be greeted by two new friends. One was the resident assistant and the other was a uniformed member of the campus police. I trembled as they asked to search my room for contraband. Upon entering they quickly discovered the beer in the small fridge and confiscated it. I was issued a warning from the R.A. and a verbal undressing from the campus officer. He was standing on the sidewalk near the dorm and saw my new sophomore friend toss the can from the window to the ground below. He counted the rows up and over to the window and matched it to my room. The 22 remaining beers in my mini-fridge were the same brand as the hurled empty and I was busted.
Feeling shaken at the whole incident I was both scared and exhilarated by the encounter. I got away with it. How cool was that? Remembering that I had my fake I.D., I returned to my illegally parked car. Replacing my lost booty would be easy because there was a liquor store just a few blocks away. Buying beer in a college town was a lot different than getting some hooch from one of the isolated taverns around the little village I had just come from. I entered the store and was greeted by a man who asked to see my identification. With complete confidence I pulled the bogus credentials from my wallet and handed it to the fine fellow. I grabbed another case of beer and headed for the check-out line.
As I approached the older looking man at the counter I began to feel uneasy. I kept my cool and slid the case before the cashier and reached into my pocket for some money. As I did so another man walked into the store. It was a fully uniformed Bloomington police officer and he was quickly shuffling in my direction. "Sir, is this your identification?" "Yes." "Are you T. Connolly?" "Uh-huh?" "Sir I am going to have to place you under arrest for trying to purchase liquor as a minor and possession of fraudulent identification. Can you please step outside?"
As he ushered me outside my mind began to race. I had seen movies about prison and "Scared Straight." All of my worst nightmares flashed before me at the vision of me washing my cell mates underwear in the tiny metal cell sink while he called me sweetheart. I turned to the officer and asked meekly "Are you going to put me in a cell with a big guy called Bubba?" He chuckled and said that I would be processed and released if I could post the bail for the charges.
I was already a functional alcoholic by this time and after realizing I wasn't going to become some mutant felon's play toy I laughed inside. I thought it was so cool that I had been arrested! Look at me, the skinny kid from Mokena has a wrap sheet. I will forever be able to spin yarns about the time I spent in the joint. There was no shame or connection that I had been very close to serious trouble involving booze twice that day. I gloated at my good fortune and thought to myself how it was like the movie.
I was finger printed and had my picture taken center, left and right with a tiny placard that stated my name and case number. I don't remember the number or how much bail it cost to get out. I called my roommate. After coming to my rescue we laughed all the way back to the dorm in the cab he had gotten. Upon returning to the store where I was taken down, I saw that my car had been towed. We quickly rerouted the cab and I spent more money getting my car out of the pound. I was not frustrated, ashamed, concerned or troubled with the events of the day. To me it was one big joke.
I made it back to my new home at Manchester Hall and told all my new friends my tale of crime, adventure, the narrow escape from consummation with Bubba and the car being towed. Then reality hit me. I had to tell my parents or at least A parent. I would call my father. He would find great humor in my story and we would both have a huge laugh over the whole incident. I dialed my dad's number and nervously giggled as I retold the events of the day. There was something missing! What, no laughing? The silence on the other end of the line was deafening and the pause seemed to last a lifetime. The weight of my irresponsibility fell on me. The disappointment in the tone of my dad's voice fell even heavier. "It's your FIRST day of college. Is this what I have to look forward to and worry about over the next few years?" My heart sunk. I mumbled an apology to my father and said goodbye. There would be more arrests, more calls to my father and even more empty "I'm sorrys."
In the comment Tom referred to some advice that Carl Reiner gave him while climbing the ladder of comedic success. Reiner said that he should, "Make the people laugh...,"Show them your pain...," "They love to see the pain..." Those comments summarily state my intended purpose here. I share my pain and mix in something to chuckle about so you can relate. I use this platform to expose my pain in hopes that it reaches out a hand of support to a stranger who knows that same pain. I hope I never give you the impression that I feel sorry for myself and that every day was black. That isn't so. Everything that I went through good, bad or indifferent got me to TODAY! If one person gets relief from one of my chapters then my experiences were worth it! God got me through that so I could do this.
After graduating from Lincoln-Way High School in New Lenox, Illinois with the class of 1983 I was anxious to leave for college. I was heading to Illinois State-Bloomington and I was ready for the time of my life. After seeing the movie "Animal House" I was absolutely driven to go to college. It wasn't to receive a good education and forge a path to professional success. It was to party! I wanted to be Bluto Blutarski plain and simple.
I arrived at the state campus in August of 1984. My car was packed to the roof with all the necessities and comforts of home to fill my tiny cubicle-like dorm room. I had arrived with a case of beer, some pot and I was ready for "Delta House!" I parked in a no parking zone and put on my flashers as I began schlepping my stuff up to the 9th floor of Manchester Hall. I took the the fridge and the beer first so I could have it chilled for unwinding after my haul was unloaded. I had a fake I.D. and thought I was going to be the big man on campus.
After my first few trips up and down the elevator to my room I met a returning sophomore. Look at me, I have only been here an hour and I'm already hobnobbing with the upper class men! I offered him a beer, which he accepted, and we small talked our way through the suds. I was naive, and still am, about the motives of my new friend. After finishing his beer he opened up the window and tossed the empty can out of the 9th floor window. He wished me good luck and went on his way. I thought it was so cool. College was just like I imagined it would be!
I finished my can feeling smug and assured that this was the life for me. After returning to my car for the final load of my new home's contents I arrived back at my room only to be greeted by two new friends. One was the resident assistant and the other was a uniformed member of the campus police. I trembled as they asked to search my room for contraband. Upon entering they quickly discovered the beer in the small fridge and confiscated it. I was issued a warning from the R.A. and a verbal undressing from the campus officer. He was standing on the sidewalk near the dorm and saw my new sophomore friend toss the can from the window to the ground below. He counted the rows up and over to the window and matched it to my room. The 22 remaining beers in my mini-fridge were the same brand as the hurled empty and I was busted.
Feeling shaken at the whole incident I was both scared and exhilarated by the encounter. I got away with it. How cool was that? Remembering that I had my fake I.D., I returned to my illegally parked car. Replacing my lost booty would be easy because there was a liquor store just a few blocks away. Buying beer in a college town was a lot different than getting some hooch from one of the isolated taverns around the little village I had just come from. I entered the store and was greeted by a man who asked to see my identification. With complete confidence I pulled the bogus credentials from my wallet and handed it to the fine fellow. I grabbed another case of beer and headed for the check-out line.
As I approached the older looking man at the counter I began to feel uneasy. I kept my cool and slid the case before the cashier and reached into my pocket for some money. As I did so another man walked into the store. It was a fully uniformed Bloomington police officer and he was quickly shuffling in my direction. "Sir, is this your identification?" "Yes." "Are you T. Connolly?" "Uh-huh?" "Sir I am going to have to place you under arrest for trying to purchase liquor as a minor and possession of fraudulent identification. Can you please step outside?"
As he ushered me outside my mind began to race. I had seen movies about prison and "Scared Straight." All of my worst nightmares flashed before me at the vision of me washing my cell mates underwear in the tiny metal cell sink while he called me sweetheart. I turned to the officer and asked meekly "Are you going to put me in a cell with a big guy called Bubba?" He chuckled and said that I would be processed and released if I could post the bail for the charges.
I was already a functional alcoholic by this time and after realizing I wasn't going to become some mutant felon's play toy I laughed inside. I thought it was so cool that I had been arrested! Look at me, the skinny kid from Mokena has a wrap sheet. I will forever be able to spin yarns about the time I spent in the joint. There was no shame or connection that I had been very close to serious trouble involving booze twice that day. I gloated at my good fortune and thought to myself how it was like the movie.
I was finger printed and had my picture taken center, left and right with a tiny placard that stated my name and case number. I don't remember the number or how much bail it cost to get out. I called my roommate. After coming to my rescue we laughed all the way back to the dorm in the cab he had gotten. Upon returning to the store where I was taken down, I saw that my car had been towed. We quickly rerouted the cab and I spent more money getting my car out of the pound. I was not frustrated, ashamed, concerned or troubled with the events of the day. To me it was one big joke.
I made it back to my new home at Manchester Hall and told all my new friends my tale of crime, adventure, the narrow escape from consummation with Bubba and the car being towed. Then reality hit me. I had to tell my parents or at least A parent. I would call my father. He would find great humor in my story and we would both have a huge laugh over the whole incident. I dialed my dad's number and nervously giggled as I retold the events of the day. There was something missing! What, no laughing? The silence on the other end of the line was deafening and the pause seemed to last a lifetime. The weight of my irresponsibility fell on me. The disappointment in the tone of my dad's voice fell even heavier. "It's your FIRST day of college. Is this what I have to look forward to and worry about over the next few years?" My heart sunk. I mumbled an apology to my father and said goodbye. There would be more arrests, more calls to my father and even more empty "I'm sorrys."
Monday, December 20, 2010
Second Chances With A Beautiful Woman!
I met my wife Kris just before Kelly was born. I was living at the YMCA Lagrange. I was 6 months sober from alcohol and fresh out of rehab at Hinsdale Hospital. My relationship with my baby mama was over. The pain of leaving my unborn daughter behind ripped me apart inside, but the reality of the horribly destructive relationship I had with her mother was real and there was no chance of coming together. I could be a responsible father in raising her, but not there. It was not possible.
Kris was going through a painful break-up herself and we became friends quickly. We met at work. I was driving a forklift in a warehouse where she ran a freight forwarding company. We would talk on breaks and after work. Occasionally we would meet for a piece of pie at the local Bakers Square and share our battle stories. She knew I was newly sober and I kept no secrets from her. She was the first person I let into every dark corner of what was my life before then and what I wanted it to be.
She spoke often of her 3 children Andrea, Amanda and Scott. Andrea was 14, Amanda 7 and Scott 5. I admired her uncompromising dedication to her children and the pride she had in them. I got to meet Andrea first. She was the typical teenager in many ways with big dreams. She held the insecurity and self-consciousness about her appearance that all of us feel at that age. She could be described as Goth but she was much more than a mere label. We talked literature and Jack Kerouac, the injustices of war and the plight of the less fortunate. She had an engaging smile and a vocabulary that eclipsed her calendar age. Her father was not available to her and I was more than willing to step in and fill his shoes.
After 6 months of courting Kris and I moved in together. I was "insta-father"! I quickly asserted myself as the "man" of the house. I also had begun smoking pot again. I did not drink for 5 years while the kids were small. I am grateful for that. I didn't "smoke" in front of the kids either. I thought I was very responsible. Weed doesn't present itself like booze. It is much more subtle and laid back but it prevented me from growing emotionally and spiritually.
I still had anger issues and screamed a lot. When I was afraid it would come out as anger but it was well intentioned protective fear on the inside. I thought the world should be judging me on my intentions not my actions. What the kids saw was a Screaming Mimi period - no matter how pure my intentions.
Andrea was coming into age as a young woman and I thought it was my job to provide the "helpful guidance and constructive criticism" any good father would offer his daughter. While she bloomed I tried to keep her in the flower pot. "Do this..." "That's not right.." "You're smarter than that.." "What were you thinking?" was parroted almost daily from my ever helpful self. She isolated and shared very little with me for fear of my rebuke or lack of support. By the time she was 18 and ready to graduate she could barely stand to be in a room with me. Who could blame her? She graduated and moved down state to live with her uncle and to put as many cornfields between us as possible.
She is 25 now and we have grown back together slowly over the last 7 years. She is amazed to see that the anger and control issues have left me. They left a long time ago but she hasn't been here to see the changes. I have made many verbal amends to her and will spend my life being different. It is no surprise that she did just fine without my barrage of helpful life tips. She is a woman in every sense of the term. She is tough, street smart, kind and insightful. The past is gone and I can create 2 great tomorrows for every bad yesterday.
She got married this past September and moved to Germany. Her husband loves and respects her. He is attentive and supportive. A father could not ask for a better man to look after his daughterly treasure. As we danced at her wedding there were no ill feelings, only joy. She was radiant in her dress and her happiness filled the whole room that night.
She is home for the holidays and we have spent time together. A woman and her father, friends and confidants. We just made knish. She is Italian and I am Irish but we found a Jewish cook book while book shopping, a hobby we both share with great enthusiasm. We thought we would surprise her mom with some delicous knish. They may turn out great or terrible but I will love them either way.
I have made and will make mistakes as a father. Not only as an addict but as a man. I am not the guy she grew up with but she sees that I have grown up. The greatest thing about life is that you can start over anytime you want. It can be at the next sunrise or the next moment. I see a lot of the "good" me in Andrea and it makes me proud. I see her mother and grandmother in her much more. I am a lucky man and grateful for my past. It brought me to my today. I could talk for hours about how amazing my daughter is but I have to go and check the knish.
P.S. The knish came out great. She told me she loved me and hugged me tight. Oh how I love making knish!
Kris was going through a painful break-up herself and we became friends quickly. We met at work. I was driving a forklift in a warehouse where she ran a freight forwarding company. We would talk on breaks and after work. Occasionally we would meet for a piece of pie at the local Bakers Square and share our battle stories. She knew I was newly sober and I kept no secrets from her. She was the first person I let into every dark corner of what was my life before then and what I wanted it to be.
She spoke often of her 3 children Andrea, Amanda and Scott. Andrea was 14, Amanda 7 and Scott 5. I admired her uncompromising dedication to her children and the pride she had in them. I got to meet Andrea first. She was the typical teenager in many ways with big dreams. She held the insecurity and self-consciousness about her appearance that all of us feel at that age. She could be described as Goth but she was much more than a mere label. We talked literature and Jack Kerouac, the injustices of war and the plight of the less fortunate. She had an engaging smile and a vocabulary that eclipsed her calendar age. Her father was not available to her and I was more than willing to step in and fill his shoes.
After 6 months of courting Kris and I moved in together. I was "insta-father"! I quickly asserted myself as the "man" of the house. I also had begun smoking pot again. I did not drink for 5 years while the kids were small. I am grateful for that. I didn't "smoke" in front of the kids either. I thought I was very responsible. Weed doesn't present itself like booze. It is much more subtle and laid back but it prevented me from growing emotionally and spiritually.
I still had anger issues and screamed a lot. When I was afraid it would come out as anger but it was well intentioned protective fear on the inside. I thought the world should be judging me on my intentions not my actions. What the kids saw was a Screaming Mimi period - no matter how pure my intentions.
Andrea was coming into age as a young woman and I thought it was my job to provide the "helpful guidance and constructive criticism" any good father would offer his daughter. While she bloomed I tried to keep her in the flower pot. "Do this..." "That's not right.." "You're smarter than that.." "What were you thinking?" was parroted almost daily from my ever helpful self. She isolated and shared very little with me for fear of my rebuke or lack of support. By the time she was 18 and ready to graduate she could barely stand to be in a room with me. Who could blame her? She graduated and moved down state to live with her uncle and to put as many cornfields between us as possible.
She is 25 now and we have grown back together slowly over the last 7 years. She is amazed to see that the anger and control issues have left me. They left a long time ago but she hasn't been here to see the changes. I have made many verbal amends to her and will spend my life being different. It is no surprise that she did just fine without my barrage of helpful life tips. She is a woman in every sense of the term. She is tough, street smart, kind and insightful. The past is gone and I can create 2 great tomorrows for every bad yesterday.
She got married this past September and moved to Germany. Her husband loves and respects her. He is attentive and supportive. A father could not ask for a better man to look after his daughterly treasure. As we danced at her wedding there were no ill feelings, only joy. She was radiant in her dress and her happiness filled the whole room that night.
She is home for the holidays and we have spent time together. A woman and her father, friends and confidants. We just made knish. She is Italian and I am Irish but we found a Jewish cook book while book shopping, a hobby we both share with great enthusiasm. We thought we would surprise her mom with some delicous knish. They may turn out great or terrible but I will love them either way.
I have made and will make mistakes as a father. Not only as an addict but as a man. I am not the guy she grew up with but she sees that I have grown up. The greatest thing about life is that you can start over anytime you want. It can be at the next sunrise or the next moment. I see a lot of the "good" me in Andrea and it makes me proud. I see her mother and grandmother in her much more. I am a lucky man and grateful for my past. It brought me to my today. I could talk for hours about how amazing my daughter is but I have to go and check the knish.
P.S. The knish came out great. She told me she loved me and hugged me tight. Oh how I love making knish!
If You Love Someone Dump Them Before They Break Your Heart!
When I reference being married 4 times it's a source of discomfort and to a lesser sense, a point of shame. Coming from a family of divorce I promised myself that when I get married it's gonna be forever. That statement of Biblical defined marriage obviously didn't come to pass for me. Divorce is a part of many of our lives, not just addicts. My multi matrimonial scorecard is just another reflection of how my addictive mind twists perception to fit its purpose.
The relationships I am in, and have been in, range from healthy to absolutely sick. Squeaky, the nickname of adoration I have for my wife, and I have a fairly healthy and functioning marriage. She is my best friend. We have been through a lot together. She has had to deal with the pains of my addiction and recovery, relapse after relapse and has some extremely big stones. My insane, controlling and irrational behaviors displayed in the early and later years of our marriage were enough to drive the strongest partner away.
I can honestly say that if I was the earthling and she was the addict I don't know if I would have stuck around for all the chaos. I can say with sincerity that my wife knows everything about me. We have no secrets between each other and never let the sun go down on our anger. In the beginning it was not so simple. There are difficult todays but in the early years I had the emotional I.Q. of a 15 year old. Some say that when you transition from casual user to addict your emotional maturity is suspended or retarded. I can say for myself that was definitely true and I can still act like a big, dumb baby when the world doesn't do what I want it to do. I have matured in the last few years more than I did in the several years before them.
I had my first "steady girlfriend" in third grade. I didn't know what that meant but I bought her a smiley face ring from the gumball machine at Mokena Pharmacy and she presented me with a plastic yellow bulldog. We were a match made in heaven. We would play house at recess and she was the bulldog and I was her proud owner. Our master and man's best friend arrangement worked marvelously as long as she did what I said and agreed to play the way I wanted to play. It also took great pains to tell her how she could be a better bulldog and improve herself. This was a pattern I repeated late into my adulthood.
A relationship to me was an opportunity to share romance, avoid loneliness and help my partner better them self. I offered my self-improvement advice whether it was welcomed or not. Long before I used my fear, self-loathing and hyper self-criticism were solidly forged. I got better and better at not trying to change my shortcomings by working harder and harder at telling everyone around me what was wrong with them. I didn't have to look at myself as long as I was focusing my attention on where others were defective.
One of the innate characteristics a lot of addicts share is the ability to read people. In the first few moments of meeting someone I can usually determine how confident they are with themselves, their vulnerabilities and the best way to manipulate them into giving me what I want. It is uncanny. For a casual acquaintance or work associate my unique skills were limited to a few hours a day. For family, friends and significant others I honed in on their tender spots and beat them to death with my recommendations on how to overcome them.
The more I cared for someone the more I feared they would eventually hurt me. Since I was certain that a painful ending was assured I would jab and poke at my partner's insecurities with my relentless advice and criticisms. I would slowly bleed out each partner until they told me it was over. Once my prophesy was fulfilled and I was alone again I could beat myself up some more and reflect on how I knew they would have hurt me all along.
I ruined countless relationships repeating this destructive behavior but I would always find another victim willing to take me on as their man. In the almost 40 years of dating and relationships the longest I have been single is probably three months or less. I needed to latch on to women to take the focus off of how badly I hated myself. By making others feel bad about themselves I took comfort in their discomfort. The words of an alcoholic or addict go straight for the kill shot. There is no preliminary round. We go for the verbal knock out with the first few words.
My recovery has helped me recognize this defect and a multitude of unhealthy behaviors I have participated in. I am longer to think and slower to speak now. I try to build up people instead of tearing them down. The funny thing is that in the past I would cause pain to feel pain. Now when I make others feel good, I feel good. The more time I have in sobriety the easier it becomes to be me. When I am okay with me I play nice with all the other kids in my life sandbox. With the help of God, other friends in recovery and continuous dedication to my sobriety I am confident that the day will come when I wake up content spending each day with myself.
The relationships I am in, and have been in, range from healthy to absolutely sick. Squeaky, the nickname of adoration I have for my wife, and I have a fairly healthy and functioning marriage. She is my best friend. We have been through a lot together. She has had to deal with the pains of my addiction and recovery, relapse after relapse and has some extremely big stones. My insane, controlling and irrational behaviors displayed in the early and later years of our marriage were enough to drive the strongest partner away.
I can honestly say that if I was the earthling and she was the addict I don't know if I would have stuck around for all the chaos. I can say with sincerity that my wife knows everything about me. We have no secrets between each other and never let the sun go down on our anger. In the beginning it was not so simple. There are difficult todays but in the early years I had the emotional I.Q. of a 15 year old. Some say that when you transition from casual user to addict your emotional maturity is suspended or retarded. I can say for myself that was definitely true and I can still act like a big, dumb baby when the world doesn't do what I want it to do. I have matured in the last few years more than I did in the several years before them.
I had my first "steady girlfriend" in third grade. I didn't know what that meant but I bought her a smiley face ring from the gumball machine at Mokena Pharmacy and she presented me with a plastic yellow bulldog. We were a match made in heaven. We would play house at recess and she was the bulldog and I was her proud owner. Our master and man's best friend arrangement worked marvelously as long as she did what I said and agreed to play the way I wanted to play. It also took great pains to tell her how she could be a better bulldog and improve herself. This was a pattern I repeated late into my adulthood.
A relationship to me was an opportunity to share romance, avoid loneliness and help my partner better them self. I offered my self-improvement advice whether it was welcomed or not. Long before I used my fear, self-loathing and hyper self-criticism were solidly forged. I got better and better at not trying to change my shortcomings by working harder and harder at telling everyone around me what was wrong with them. I didn't have to look at myself as long as I was focusing my attention on where others were defective.
One of the innate characteristics a lot of addicts share is the ability to read people. In the first few moments of meeting someone I can usually determine how confident they are with themselves, their vulnerabilities and the best way to manipulate them into giving me what I want. It is uncanny. For a casual acquaintance or work associate my unique skills were limited to a few hours a day. For family, friends and significant others I honed in on their tender spots and beat them to death with my recommendations on how to overcome them.
The more I cared for someone the more I feared they would eventually hurt me. Since I was certain that a painful ending was assured I would jab and poke at my partner's insecurities with my relentless advice and criticisms. I would slowly bleed out each partner until they told me it was over. Once my prophesy was fulfilled and I was alone again I could beat myself up some more and reflect on how I knew they would have hurt me all along.
I ruined countless relationships repeating this destructive behavior but I would always find another victim willing to take me on as their man. In the almost 40 years of dating and relationships the longest I have been single is probably three months or less. I needed to latch on to women to take the focus off of how badly I hated myself. By making others feel bad about themselves I took comfort in their discomfort. The words of an alcoholic or addict go straight for the kill shot. There is no preliminary round. We go for the verbal knock out with the first few words.
My recovery has helped me recognize this defect and a multitude of unhealthy behaviors I have participated in. I am longer to think and slower to speak now. I try to build up people instead of tearing them down. The funny thing is that in the past I would cause pain to feel pain. Now when I make others feel good, I feel good. The more time I have in sobriety the easier it becomes to be me. When I am okay with me I play nice with all the other kids in my life sandbox. With the help of God, other friends in recovery and continuous dedication to my sobriety I am confident that the day will come when I wake up content spending each day with myself.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
I Know We've Just Met....Will You Marry Me?
This is a flashback to "I Don't Like Myself Very Much...But I am All I Ever Think About." I get crazy when I'm watching a movie that has flashbacks and I get lost. I usually turn to my wife and ask in an uneasy tone 'Is this NOW or then?!" She shoots back a wry smile acknowledging that she is aware that I hate flashback films but should shut up and let her enjoy it.
I have jumped around in telling my story of addiction, hope, faith and recovery. I thought that I needed to share some hope after laying out a lot of pain. I have had more feedback on my addiction stories than my "life philosophy," I see the connection between the two, but pain is juicy, hope only warm and fuzzy.
I have had lots of crushes and have been in love a few times. I adore my wife Kris more and more with each passing day and had 3 failed marriages before meeting her. This blog will obviously not veer off into "how to meet the perfect mate." I do know that I hurt a lot of women and some hurt me. All knew I had addiction issues but I was able to convince, or con, them into dating or marrying me anyway.
My first wife was, and is, beautiful, funny and kind hearted. Looking back at the courtship and marriage, after 18 years, I have a clearer idea as to what was wrong from the start and why the marriage was doomed from the beginning. The courtship was stormy and lurched along for 2 years. She left me after just 4 months of marriage. She knew I drank too much. Like lots of people, she didn't realize how bad it was.
When we lived together I would walk to the corner for a paper and a bottle nightly. I would chug the bottle on the short walk back. After arriving home I would thumb through the paper and promptly announce that I needed the "other" paper and repeat my booze cruise again. There were hidden bottles and strange trips I had to take. Sometimes I would say I needed to "clear my head and go for a walk." The trip wasn't to clear my head. It was to check out of it. I would repeat this over and over until the day I arrived home to find our apartment cleaned out. Ah! More reasons to justify continuing the insanity.
I had an opportunity to talk to her in the last year and apologize and clear the air about the past. I can not say that she has forgiven me but she didn't stab me when we spoke. She is still as cool as ever and is touching a lot of people's lives in amazing ways. I am grateful that I had that opportunity.
My second wife was much younger than me. She also knew I was alcoholic but thought she could save me. We had very little in common. Personal tragedy and pain was the tie that bound us together. During a short whirlwind hook-up I got her pregnant. A pre-existing medical condition made it impossible for her to conceive. But I got her pregnant! It was divine intervention as far as I was concerned. So we married quickly and set up house. I married her to "do the right thing" and raise our miracle baby. The child would snap me out of my alcoholic fog and make me a responsible, sober man. We were "in love". She lost our child shortly after we were wed.
My drinking and drug use spun out of control. I was now mixing speed with weed and booze to be able to use more. She threw me out after about 5 months. I have tried to reach out to her but have been unsuccessful. The time isn't right now and I pray for the day when we can talk about those times and apologize for my obnoxious behavior. I know how sick I was inside but the outside world only saw the destruction and anger I left in my wake.
My third wife and I met at a singles dance. She needed a green card and I needed a child. We never lived together more than a few days at a time and I got her pregnant about 3 weeks after we met. In my "do the right thing" alcoholic morality, I married her. I remember taking her to the doctor for her first ultrasound. I was giddy and proud to be there. As I stood by the monitor I could see MY baby's amazing tiny head, hands and feet. The only thing missing from the most beautiful thing I had ever seen was a heartbeat. After a few moments and several doctor/nurse whispery consultations, they confirmed that the baby was dead.
I was 32 and I had been married 3 times in 6 years. I had lost two children and I was pissed at God and the world. How could he do this to me? He knew I wanted so badly to be a daddy. This is when my homeless period began or continued. We were absolutely toxic to each other. We married as a business deal, i.e, green card her, baby me. The relationship did end but I ended up getting her pregnant again. The marriage would never have worked but she gave me one of my greatest gifts.
Kelly was born in January 2000. She has her old man's zest for life but didn't get my schnoz. Thank God! She is brilliant. I am not just saying that because she is mine. Her grades confirm it. I was sober the day she was born. I held her at the hospital and was alcohol free for the first 5 years of her life. I support her mother and see her when I can. It is still complicated but I get through it a day at a time with God's help and guidance. I couldn't get through it or anything anymore without him.
I have jumped around in telling my story of addiction, hope, faith and recovery. I thought that I needed to share some hope after laying out a lot of pain. I have had more feedback on my addiction stories than my "life philosophy," I see the connection between the two, but pain is juicy, hope only warm and fuzzy.
I have had lots of crushes and have been in love a few times. I adore my wife Kris more and more with each passing day and had 3 failed marriages before meeting her. This blog will obviously not veer off into "how to meet the perfect mate." I do know that I hurt a lot of women and some hurt me. All knew I had addiction issues but I was able to convince, or con, them into dating or marrying me anyway.
My first wife was, and is, beautiful, funny and kind hearted. Looking back at the courtship and marriage, after 18 years, I have a clearer idea as to what was wrong from the start and why the marriage was doomed from the beginning. The courtship was stormy and lurched along for 2 years. She left me after just 4 months of marriage. She knew I drank too much. Like lots of people, she didn't realize how bad it was.
When we lived together I would walk to the corner for a paper and a bottle nightly. I would chug the bottle on the short walk back. After arriving home I would thumb through the paper and promptly announce that I needed the "other" paper and repeat my booze cruise again. There were hidden bottles and strange trips I had to take. Sometimes I would say I needed to "clear my head and go for a walk." The trip wasn't to clear my head. It was to check out of it. I would repeat this over and over until the day I arrived home to find our apartment cleaned out. Ah! More reasons to justify continuing the insanity.
I had an opportunity to talk to her in the last year and apologize and clear the air about the past. I can not say that she has forgiven me but she didn't stab me when we spoke. She is still as cool as ever and is touching a lot of people's lives in amazing ways. I am grateful that I had that opportunity.
My second wife was much younger than me. She also knew I was alcoholic but thought she could save me. We had very little in common. Personal tragedy and pain was the tie that bound us together. During a short whirlwind hook-up I got her pregnant. A pre-existing medical condition made it impossible for her to conceive. But I got her pregnant! It was divine intervention as far as I was concerned. So we married quickly and set up house. I married her to "do the right thing" and raise our miracle baby. The child would snap me out of my alcoholic fog and make me a responsible, sober man. We were "in love". She lost our child shortly after we were wed.
My drinking and drug use spun out of control. I was now mixing speed with weed and booze to be able to use more. She threw me out after about 5 months. I have tried to reach out to her but have been unsuccessful. The time isn't right now and I pray for the day when we can talk about those times and apologize for my obnoxious behavior. I know how sick I was inside but the outside world only saw the destruction and anger I left in my wake.
My third wife and I met at a singles dance. She needed a green card and I needed a child. We never lived together more than a few days at a time and I got her pregnant about 3 weeks after we met. In my "do the right thing" alcoholic morality, I married her. I remember taking her to the doctor for her first ultrasound. I was giddy and proud to be there. As I stood by the monitor I could see MY baby's amazing tiny head, hands and feet. The only thing missing from the most beautiful thing I had ever seen was a heartbeat. After a few moments and several doctor/nurse whispery consultations, they confirmed that the baby was dead.
I was 32 and I had been married 3 times in 6 years. I had lost two children and I was pissed at God and the world. How could he do this to me? He knew I wanted so badly to be a daddy. This is when my homeless period began or continued. We were absolutely toxic to each other. We married as a business deal, i.e, green card her, baby me. The relationship did end but I ended up getting her pregnant again. The marriage would never have worked but she gave me one of my greatest gifts.
Kelly was born in January 2000. She has her old man's zest for life but didn't get my schnoz. Thank God! She is brilliant. I am not just saying that because she is mine. Her grades confirm it. I was sober the day she was born. I held her at the hospital and was alcohol free for the first 5 years of her life. I support her mother and see her when I can. It is still complicated but I get through it a day at a time with God's help and guidance. I couldn't get through it or anything anymore without him.
GOD Part Two....U2, "Rattle and Hum"
I'm sure you're wondering why I went off on a tangent on religion and God in the last post. Addiction and God or, a "Higher Power," go hand in hand. I am a Christian but have no beefs with Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism or Judaism or any organized religion. All of them revolve around a Great Creator of the universe and that is a common thread that unites us all. It is the religion part of the equation that has been proven to cause all the chaos.
I know as an addict or more specifically, as a human, I have always had questions about God. For many years I filled my spiritual void with addiction and sin. I was frustrated that my prayers or conversations with him were inadequate. I was frustrated when he didn't give me what I wanted when I wanted it. I was confused and angered at the death of a child or famine and wars. Those conflicting emotions kept me from forming a meaningful relationship and friendship with him. I spent my years chasing after or running from God instead of just walking with him.
I always joke that God has to be a man because after seeing the pain of childbirth and the monthly discomfort a woman goes through there is no way the Master of the Universe would put himself, or herself through that. I refer to God in the masculine tense but ultimately don't think of him as a him. I think of "him" as an energy. That energy is LOVE.
It confounds me when people say there is no God because you can't see him, touch, smell or taste him. I disagree. I see him everywhere. I also wish that I saw him in more places. If you don't believe because you can't see I have a simple test for you. Think of the person you love the most in this whole wide world. Now take that love and set it on the kitchen table. Describe to me the texture, the color, the smell and the sounds love makes sitting there. What, you can't see it sitting there? Then if you can't see it it must not be real!
God and love are the same thing. They make us feel elation and comfort, they hurt us and confuse us, they are experienced in great waves or subtly in the corner of our hearts. They sometimes anger us or scare us but they are always there. There aren't any lovethists out there but lots of atheists. Why not come out against the existence of love? Because it takes on the same characteristics of God?
Nowhere in the Bible or any other sacred reading does it state that life will always be rosy. It doesn't say that you're going to get everything you want and dream. It doesn't promise that things will be fair and that justice will always be served. God is like love because we need it but we don't always understand it. Those readings promise that we are not in the fight alone.
The difference between the two is that we are so quick to dismiss God as not being there when we want direct answers from him in a timely manner. When our kids do something that hurts us we don't dismiss them as not existing because of the pain they cause. Why do we do so with God? When a "Man of God" does something human we use it to condemn the whole God shooting match. When someone with a different spiritual view does something we don't understand we lump everyone together and mark the box as defective and wrong.
Like love itself, God wants an individual relationship with each of us. If that weren't the case we would look, walk, talk and think the same things. We would be automatronic and unfeeling. Then he would be an idol. But no, the key is that he gives us the choice to follow or not follow. He could have made us little worker ants pre-programmed with jobs to do and no emotion. He loved us so much that he lets us decide if we want a relationship with him.
I used to get frustrated with my prayers because I thought they were wrong or inadequate. Did I need to say 3 of these, 2 of those, spin around three times and throw a penny over my shoulder? The answer is no! God knows me better than I know me. He wants a relationship with Tom Connolly. I will fail because I am human. He sent us a second chance so he could feel our humanity and give us a ticket to paradise.
The hole in my heart that was once filled with booze and drugs, sex and codependency is now filled to the brim with faith in his love. I get hurt when I don't get what I want but it feels great to not be alone. If God wanted one relationship with man he would have created only one! My prayers are simple. I don't have to be sitting a certain way or mumble certain phrases. I just have to be honest and reach out for some help. If you don't know how to pray let me help you get started. HELLO GOD IT'S ME......
I know as an addict or more specifically, as a human, I have always had questions about God. For many years I filled my spiritual void with addiction and sin. I was frustrated that my prayers or conversations with him were inadequate. I was frustrated when he didn't give me what I wanted when I wanted it. I was confused and angered at the death of a child or famine and wars. Those conflicting emotions kept me from forming a meaningful relationship and friendship with him. I spent my years chasing after or running from God instead of just walking with him.
I always joke that God has to be a man because after seeing the pain of childbirth and the monthly discomfort a woman goes through there is no way the Master of the Universe would put himself, or herself through that. I refer to God in the masculine tense but ultimately don't think of him as a him. I think of "him" as an energy. That energy is LOVE.
It confounds me when people say there is no God because you can't see him, touch, smell or taste him. I disagree. I see him everywhere. I also wish that I saw him in more places. If you don't believe because you can't see I have a simple test for you. Think of the person you love the most in this whole wide world. Now take that love and set it on the kitchen table. Describe to me the texture, the color, the smell and the sounds love makes sitting there. What, you can't see it sitting there? Then if you can't see it it must not be real!
God and love are the same thing. They make us feel elation and comfort, they hurt us and confuse us, they are experienced in great waves or subtly in the corner of our hearts. They sometimes anger us or scare us but they are always there. There aren't any lovethists out there but lots of atheists. Why not come out against the existence of love? Because it takes on the same characteristics of God?
Nowhere in the Bible or any other sacred reading does it state that life will always be rosy. It doesn't say that you're going to get everything you want and dream. It doesn't promise that things will be fair and that justice will always be served. God is like love because we need it but we don't always understand it. Those readings promise that we are not in the fight alone.
The difference between the two is that we are so quick to dismiss God as not being there when we want direct answers from him in a timely manner. When our kids do something that hurts us we don't dismiss them as not existing because of the pain they cause. Why do we do so with God? When a "Man of God" does something human we use it to condemn the whole God shooting match. When someone with a different spiritual view does something we don't understand we lump everyone together and mark the box as defective and wrong.
Like love itself, God wants an individual relationship with each of us. If that weren't the case we would look, walk, talk and think the same things. We would be automatronic and unfeeling. Then he would be an idol. But no, the key is that he gives us the choice to follow or not follow. He could have made us little worker ants pre-programmed with jobs to do and no emotion. He loved us so much that he lets us decide if we want a relationship with him.
I used to get frustrated with my prayers because I thought they were wrong or inadequate. Did I need to say 3 of these, 2 of those, spin around three times and throw a penny over my shoulder? The answer is no! God knows me better than I know me. He wants a relationship with Tom Connolly. I will fail because I am human. He sent us a second chance so he could feel our humanity and give us a ticket to paradise.
The hole in my heart that was once filled with booze and drugs, sex and codependency is now filled to the brim with faith in his love. I get hurt when I don't get what I want but it feels great to not be alone. If God wanted one relationship with man he would have created only one! My prayers are simple. I don't have to be sitting a certain way or mumble certain phrases. I just have to be honest and reach out for some help. If you don't know how to pray let me help you get started. HELLO GOD IT'S ME......
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