A Beauty and a Beast

A Sliver of Hope, a New Direction and a Genius Idea!

This blog is an updated version from September of 2011. It did not make it into SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself. It will definitely appear in SOUL PAROLE: I Was and I AM.


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is NOW available ON Amazon.com, KINDLE and Amazon Europe. 

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

NOTE to reader: I write about addiction, recovery and depression. Those are my challenges and issues. Please replace the word ADDICTION with the word that best suits you. Fear, insecurity, envy, jealousy and materialism are just a few. Facing the things that are holding us back from reaching our potential and finding peace within is my purpose... 


My baseline thinking as an addict is usually me. I want the universe and all of its' atoms formed, or random, to revolve around my plans. Whoever came up with the expression "there is no ME in team" was not an addict. I can say that with almost complete certainty. It is not that we don't have feelings for others but that we are so focused on survival when we use it's a challenging mind set to overcome in recovery.

In my sobriety I have found that the biggest problem that fueled my years of self-destruction was the love-hate relationship I had with myself. I would wake up each day and hate myself more and more.Chemical escape enabled me to cope with my crushing self criticism   My addiction LOVED it. The more I hated me, the more I would turn to chemicals and booze to try and escape MYSELF temporarily. The next day I would wake up with an extra helping of self hate and some physical pain, guilt and shame to throw into the party mix. Then the mental "rope-a-dope" would begin again for another 24 hours.

 I realize now that I was using because I am wired wrong inside. It was my thinking. I had a twisted perception on reality. More precisely, I used because the people and atoms of the universe didn't act in a fashion that met with my satisfaction. As I grow in sobriety I have learned to like myself by letting the world do what it is supposed to do. I try to accept others as they are. Most importantly I try not to spend too much time alone in my head. I'm cool in a crowd, but when I'm alone a fight always breaks out.

Squeaky and I were going through a rough season leading up to the "Rally Round Recovery 2011." I was working on a film. I had just returned from California after a week shoot for an "Animal Planet" series. I am in final editing of my book Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, God and Myself. I am about to start 2 new films. I was working to promote the premier of "Chasing Hollywood." I was in hyper "ME" mode. This happens in sobriety and reality.

Squeaky's kidney surgery was scheduled for 2 days later. The doctors were not sure if they were going to take a portion of her right kidney or the whole thing. I cleared my schedule of EVERYTHING. I thank GOD for giving me the sense to do that. It was crystal clarity. I made arrangements to stay with her while she was in the hospital. They were very accommodating. It was one of the most fearful yet enlightening times.

As the time passed all I could think about was the stupid arguments leading up to that day. I questioned GOD about putting her through this instead of me. I was the idiot! After 28 years of trying to destroy myself an inch at a time, my health was perfect. My heart was shifting back to center. Why is it that we have to be in a big pile of shite with a loved one, or they're in an operating room or funeral parlor for us to look at how truly dear they are to us? It boggles my mind! We fight about wrapping paper and who ate my cereal? For the love of GOD who cares?!

The surgery went better than we could have imagined. They were able to use the Da Vinci robotic surgery method on her and as the doctor said, "if her kidney were a hamburger we only had to take two pickle slices." It was the greatest horrible analogy I have ever heard.  It did make me a bit crazy that they assign patients numbers now during operations. They have a television you can check like an arrival board at the airport to see if they are "boarding," "on the runway," "ready for takeoff," "inflight," "on the tarmack" and "safely on the ground." Her flight was near perfect.

He said she would be staying for 2 nights. Whatever she needed I would be there. They would know if it was cancer later in the week. She was medicated.  Her family was there to support her. It kept me calm. In post-op she smiled and spoke in tongues. She looked glorious. Every time she moved I jumped up, afraid she was in pain or going to fall out of bed. I was asking if she needed the nurse every time she winced. I contorted myself up in the tiny Hobbit like chair and slept with one eye open grateful that we had dodged a bullet.

Being the real alcoholic I am I spent the hours beating myself up. I also replayed my behaviors over and over. and realized I was not sharing enough of the projects I was involved in with my wife. I am proud she appeared with me in "Chasing Hollywood." My Squeaky is on IMDB as Pina Connor. That is the Cats Pajamas! But I used to read scripts to her. I used to read all my blogs to her. I used to consult her on every career move I was making, while I was making them. Her opinions play into my decisions on what road to take.

I can't tell you what we talked about during her 60 hour stay there. I honestly don't remember. We just talked and laughed like things were early in our relationship. We were focused on each other and I was in the NOW. I was right there and not so danged worried about the future. We laughed at stupid stuff. I fetched ice chips and cups of coffee. She's a java junkie. I can live with her addiction. It creates the jitters at worst. I started calling her sliver kidney. She chuckles at the nickname.

Everything I try to do is for the betterment of the family and marriage. When things are going wrong in my life, I need to look at myself first. The problem I often have is that I have a grand plan inside my head. It is carefully crafted. Sometimes I can't differentiate between what is best for me or us. That is an honest assessment of myself. She can't see my thoughts. She sees my head hunkered down in front of this laptop like a man possessed. Period. ACTIONS speak louder than thoughts. God calls the shots. I just show up for each DAYS game and try not to worry about making the playoffs.

We have some new challenges facing us now. We made it through one war, now there's another one shaping up on the battlefield. I know we can get through it if we keep our faith strong. I know that if I am sure that I'm doing the right thing, I do it. If I know it's a poor choice I don't make it. When I honestly don't know the road to take I sit back and wait. The answers will come when it's right, and I'm willing to listen to the messenger....

The I Haven't Kicked The Bucket Yet List

Thank you to all of you who have purchased my first book SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself (AMAZON). The feedback has been positive so far. I am humbled that people have said it has inspired them to seek treatment, or to catch their goals. I bared my SOUL in the book on my path to rediscovery.

In the chapter, "I Was Dead But Didn't Die," I share a candid look at the day I tried to take my life in April of 2004. I am glad I am still here. It is frightening to reflect on the fact that even a near death experience didn't stop my drinking and using. It would be five more years until I surrendered and found sobriety.

While I was going through boxes to find items for the garage sales. I ran across some journals and poems I had written over the years. The first one begins in 1983, my year of High School graduation and entry into college. I am reviewing them all now and am certain there will be stories to share based on where I was "at" during those years.

The last diary I found was from August of 2003. It was eight months before I attempted to "off" myself. I was surprised what the pages held inside. There was a list of "100 things I wish to do over the next 40 years." A year later death moved to number one on my "to do" list. If I would have succeeded in my death mission I would have been 2 years short OF 40.

Some of the goals, and wishes have come true. That is, in sobriety. I was out of my mind when I wrote the list. I was employed with a company that delivered medicine around five states. It was just me, my drugs, the car and the medicine. Some of the goals are no longer important. My new bucket list will be much different.

Here are a few of the thirty-two listed out of the planned hundred. I was so high back then I couldn't even find 100 things to shoot for in my life. It saddens me. The fact that many have come to fruition over the last 4 years is gratifying.

Here we go:

1. Do God's will and find peace within myself (trying to do that every day)
2. Work better with Squeaky ( We go through seasons like everyone. Things are WAY better than in 2003)
3. See my daughter Kelly regularly ( I still don't know where she is. She is 12. I have left that to GOD.)
4. Have acceptance ( I am glad I accepted the fact that I am a REAL addict. I try to live life as it is)
6. Try acting and comedy (Those dreams have and are coming true)
7. Teach others ( I share my testimony of overcoming obstacles with the help of friends wherever I can)
8. Publish something I write ( Soul Parole and a Poem about Bill Murray have made that dream come true)
12. Work for myself (that one has been realized in sobriety)
14. Save a life (I have been told the book has inspired people to change their lives for the better, That's cool)
17. Donate to charity more ( The 2012 "Extra Hands of Hope" clothing drive for Urban7 begins soon)
19. Get paid to be funny (I have been paid to do comedy. Performing at fundraisers pays me more)
32. Sign an autograph (Dreams of stardom then and something I am uncomfortable doing each time)

There are plenty of material goals on the list. Those are not as important to me in sobriety, as they were lost in addiction. I always thought things, people and different circumstances would spark my desire to get clean. Nothing could, or would, until I surrendered and realized I couldn't get clean on my own.

As I look at the list of 32, I see that I made it past 40 with God's help. I got sober with the help of others like me. I achieved personal goals because I worked hard, and found faith in my sobriety. I don't have to go it alone EVER now. I achieved over 30 %. That is really cool. I am starting another bucket list now. I have also written out a gratitude list. As long as I have gratitude for what I have the other stuff is just icing on my life cake....

But for the grace of GOD...There go I....



SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Please visit tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. The book will be available on Kindle in September, 2012.

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Make Me An Offer I Can't Forget

We held garage sales over the last 2 weekends. Most have held sales of their own. If you're like me, you have visited a few. When I stop at one, I'm certain that I'm going to find a Ming Vase, or an original copy of the Declaration of Independence tucked behind one of those bug eyed, fuzzy kitty posters.

Once I found a sterling silver chalice. I quickly snapped it up. The ornate engravings and elaborate swirls wrapped around the cup in beautiful detail. I was certain that King Arthur had sipped wine from it. It might even be the Holy Grail! I looked up the stamped marking on the bottom. It was from Egypt and worth $1.99. I bought it for a buck. I doubled my money. I'm ready for Suburban Pickers I reckon! My imagination is sparked when I see glimpses into peoples lives laid out on the tables before me.

Preparation for a hoarders blowout is tiring. After the items have been labeled as keep, sell or toss the adventure has just begun. All of the booty is moved into the garage staging area. Card and camping tables  are round up to display the treasures on.

Cable television has permeated my psyche. I had visions of Martha Stewart chastising me for my lack of style and product placement. I organized the artifacts like Dr. Jones would at a museum exposition featuring items from the Temple of Doom. I  created groupings on the tables to make visitors shopping experience more enjoyable. My final presentation would make the DIY girls giggle with envy.  There were housewares to the left, and sporting goods to the right. The yard was divided into a men's and women's section.

As my wife and I went through the boxes we went through a range of emotions. There were nick-knacks that should have been tossed years before, there were broken cups and plates that had been casualties of basement living. Some of the discoveries were things stuffed away, instead of thrown away.

We had purchased a lot of things together. They had sentimental value, but we no longer had room for them in the basement. Many were items we couldn't even recall buying. We about statues and glass dolphins. Each one took us on a nostalgic journey through our time together.

Most of the romantic bears and hearts were gifts I had presented as offerings of forgiveness after I did something stupid. As Ron White says, "I was stuck on stupid," for a long time. I came across my son's first baseball glove and fondly relived the day I had gotten it for him.

Over the years I have been collecting the kids crafts and putting them in to a box. There are Popsicle stick creations and macaroni faces smiling up from the glitter covered box bottom.  From hand made "whatever they were" to certificates of achievement, I had been socking them all away over the years.

While we were organizing I told Squeaky about the box. She had packed away some of the kids stuff as well. She was touched by my sentimental stash of childhood memories. I think, over the years, I had been filling the secret box as a small gesture, recognizing that even though my mind wasn't always there, my heart was still ticking

The sale began with a bang! I had set signs out at every entrance to our subdivision like political signs. For the first few hours I sold little insulted at the paltry offers for such amazing treasure. Many of the product offerings were methodically removed off the sales floor by some mysterious force as the weekend went by. If you can keep a secret. I just couldn't let go of some of our memories for fifty cents! I started another box! I made room for it in my office.

Garage sales are like life. We have to clean out some of the clutter to make our living space more manageable. We can't hold on to everything. It's impossible. There will be new things bought and received. Some will end up in future garage blow out sales.

Change is really tough sometimes, even when you know it's the right thing. Objects have no feelings. They create them in us. Some wax nostalgic as we see them daily. Yet others get passed by without notice. Things come and go. Memories are forever. There were many items sold that I couldn't hold on to any longer, that I will never forget.

No one can steal my joy, or my memories. As long as I'm growing, new memories will enhance the old ones. I can't live in the past or I won't move forward. Glancing back at it is good. Living in it gets me nowhere.

Financially the sale was a success. The remaining items will go to Goodwill and a Joliet Area Recovery Club. It makes me feel good that my treasures will soon be someone else who needs a few.

P.S. If anyone needs any old wooden spoons or coffee cups, let me know....


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Please visit tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. The book will be available on Kindle in September, 2012.

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

You GIT What YOU GIVE....

The last words that the Beatles recorded, before breaking up, was taken from the Abbey Road album. A lot of people think that Let It Be was their last. That is common but incorrect. The message that closes out their final collaboration is, "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you made..." The words are right on. I am saddened when I hear it, knowing it was the end of my favorite group of all time.

Yesterday, I was leaving a film shoot at Studio City in Chicago. As I pulled out of the parking lot I noticed a haggard, dirt covered guy. He was holding up the oft seen, "HELP PLEASE" sign. First I looked away, then I rustled up a couple bucks in quarters, and gave him a Coke I had grabbed before leaving. It was a nice gesture. My thoughts before I decided to do my good deed ... were not so noble.

I never pan handled for money when I was homeless. I stole, conned and pawned my way through those days. When I saw this guy I thought to myself, "Why help him? He's just going to take the money to buy booze or dope!" I have also wondered if the guys are scamming me and cruising home in a Benz.

I was disappointed in myself  because I predetermined where my charity was going to end up and didn't approve of the possibilities. That would make it easier to drive right on by. I figured it was going down his throat, or in a vein. Aye, There's the rub.

When I buy a gift for a loved one or friend I don't stop and wonder if they are going to return it for fishing or shopping money. If that thought does arise I figure that it's okay what they do with the gift I have given. I don't care. I am grateful to have shared the gift with them. I am happy to put a smile on their face. I don't think twice of throwing a few bob into a firemen's boot, help a baseball team or High School band at the supermarket.

When it comes to gift giving within our circle of comfort, we never think, "I'll do it tomorrow," or " I'll just look away at the barbecue and act like Aunt Judy isn't standing right next to me." There is no locking of car doors in my neighborhood. I like to stay within that safety nest. It's really comfortable there. I know of a married couple who look for help on opposite sides of the expressway while their kids are in school and between their part time jobs. The economy is ravaging right now. They are wonderful people and just can't make ends meet. It must be a bitter pill to swallow.

Charity is Charity. If the person you help buys a bottle, so what. It may be the last drink they need before they sober up. It may be that they are truly in need. Why question them? The Good Samaritan didn't cross to the other side of the street, even though the man in the street was a bitter enemy. The affluent acted as if he wasn't there.

Nothing makes me feel better than when I help or inspire a friend. I try to put a smile on people's faces daily. I also try to help a stranger in a small way. There are lots of ways to share. The more you give to others, the longer you stay out of yourself. When I'm alone a fight usually breaks out. When I extend my hand and boost a fella up, I feel contented and...HAPPY!

Just for today get out of yourself. Getting out of your comfort zone is rewarding. Be grateful for what GOD has given you. More importantly, be grateful for what he hasn't. The guy who needs a dollar is worth the toll change in the cup you have in the car. We can't help everyone. The change you give, may change you. "The love you take...is equal to the love you make..."

"You'll Ride Life Into Perfect Laughter" - C.Bukowski

This is my favorite poem of all time! DO IT!

There may not be a tomorrow. BE HERE NOW!

From Pamelasblog. Credited.

Charles Bukowski – Roll The Dice

If you’re going to try, go all the

way.

otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the

way.

this could mean losing girlfriends,

wives, relatives, jobs and

maybe your mind.

go all the way.

it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.

it could mean freezing on a

park bench.

it could mean jail,

it could mean derision,

mockery,

isolation.

isolation is the gift,

all others are a test of your

endurance, of

how much you really want to

do it.

and you’ll do it

despite rejection and the worst odds

and it will be better than

anything else

you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,

go all the way.

there is no other feeling like

that.

you will be alone with the gods

and the nights will flame with

fire.

do it, do it, do it.

do it.

all the way.

all the way.

you will ride life straight to

perfect laughter, its

the only good fight

there is.

–

And I’m doing it

Enduring the long distance between us

Facing myself when there’s silence and darkness

Working while loosing my passion for it

Living in a city that left me long ago

Pushing time forward

Trying to live my dream

Holding my future closeby

Reading Wilde’s words

And still smiling

Because

I’m doing it!

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com (12.95) and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

He Can't Parallel Park Either....

Anxiety and Faith are emotions and convictions that were created by man. The two were not encoded on  our double helix. We created them. That does not mean they aren't real. They just don't fit in with the "fight or flight" instincts we were born with.

When I was in fifth or sixth grade I had a teacher named Miss. Pester. God Rest her soul. Her full name was Minnie Pester. She was no mouse, and tossed this mick around a few times. I was terrified of her. Everyone was. As I recall she was about a hundred years old. She had bright white hair she tucked up into a perfect bun. She wore black framed cat like glasses from which she glared down at everyone from.

I was the class clown so I spent many afternoons sitting next to Miss Pester as she taught the well behaved kids. I would peek around from the corner of her desk to make a face at a friend and POW! Miss Pester would slam my head on the drawers of the ancient wooden desk she ruled from. Sometimes I would reflect on my stupid antics performed to make friends laugh. I would quickly dispense of them. Laughter was worth the pain. Public school was different back then. She had no problem slamming the lids of our desks onto our heads, or fingers, if we were misbehaving.

Between sharing her experiences of living under covered wagons,  and my wondering how many kids she had killed over the years, she was a sturdy woman. She was a woman of faith. During our quiet time, I recall her reading endlessly from General Robert L. Scott's book, "God is My Copilot."

I would stare at the three gigantic moles on her chin as she read. They all had thick grey hairs shooting out from their cores. They taunted me as she read. It was like the Seinfeld episode, or when Austin Powers was hypnotized by a facial mole. I lived those moments. I wanted to grab one and pull it every time she scolded me. My senses fought to over ride my impulses. Her tiny ancient frame could kick my prepubescent ass!

The book title stuck with me. Over the years I came to respect Ole' Miss Pester. She was old school. Literally. I can appreciate that now. She couldn't survive in the "don't hurt the kids' feelings" school system of today. I often think a couple of Miss Pesters' are needed these days.

Another catch phrase that snared me is, "Let Jesus Take the Wheel." Carrie Underwood does an amazing job sharing a beautiful message in the song. As a comic, lots of jokes came to mind when I first heard it. I started doing a few. The punch lines were either, "don't do it in traffic", or "he can't parallel park either!" Ultimately the song is about turning over our anxiety to God and keeping the faith.

I pray. I just chat with the bug guy. Sometimes I do formal prayers. Most of the time I am sharing my worries, and asking for advice and guidance. I try to turn my cares over to him on a daily basis. I trust and have absolute faith that he will get me through any turmoil in my life.

I have to be careful when I'm turning over my faith. I still need to act. I beg for answers to my questions in MY time. I have prayed for jobs to come, then get frustrated when He doesn't make one fall out of the sky! He should know I'll take a collect call from him.! When my kids do crazy things I say to myself, " okay GOD I'm giving this to you. I'm just gonna worry about how you're going to handle it." I drive myself nuts, or worry myself into paralysis.

Miss Pester taught me what to do, and what not to do in her class. When I listened things were cool. If I ignored her warnings, I ended up with the sore head. I trust God. I thank God for waking me up each morning. HE doesn't set the alarm clock. I thank him for the food he puts on the table. I still have to shop. I tell him to take the wheel, or be my copilot. I still have to drive the car. He's going to get me to where I'm supposed to be going. I still have to get up and go, and believe I'm heading in the right direction ....





SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

" Sweet Release, I love how you use me." - Morriso-

I love Van Morrison. Most people associate him as the singer/songwriter who penned, Gloria, Domino and Brown Eyed Girl. I agree with those who call him the Irish Bob Dylan. I see them both as poets who use songs as their medium.

I am a lyrics guy. Some folks dig a song for the tune. I tune in for the message. When I can't seem to cobble my words together effectively, I'll ask the person I'm trying to communicate with to listen to a song that better conveys what I am trying to express.That thing hanging in the back of my throat seems to change my wonderful thoughts into misunderstood ramblings.

The book release party for Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself was July 28, 2012. It was a week after the second anniversary of my father's death. I thought it was fitting to have the release around that date. He had an impact on my life more than anyone. He was usually around for me, when I was no where to be found.

Writing the book was an emotional journey. The baring of my soul on paper was liberating. It was also painful and difficult at times. Recounting the things that I regret, and am ashamed of from my past, was a closet most folks would spend a lifetime trying to keep closed. For the most part this blog was the source of the books content. "Every Day Is A Gift," reached 19,000 reads today. That is truly humbling. The fact that I've only been writing it for nineteen months makes it mind blowing.

As an author, when you present your work to the world, you're hopeful that it will be gobbled up by the masses. I was certain that friends, family, and most importantly people trying to overcome obstacles, would have it flying off the shelves. As of this writing, seventy one copies have been sold. That is far out!

So far the reviews have been positive. That is truly satisfying. A few have said it has given them hope. I hope all who read it find that it is about overcoming our past and reaching for our future, not just about my addictions.  You can plug in any word for what is holding you back into the spaces that read alcohol or drugs. We are all paralyzed by fears and obstacles that prevent us from reaching for our dreams.

The party was surreal. There were many friends and strangers on hand to enjoy the dinner and show. It is hard to grasp that people would want my signature in a pile of paper. The last time anyone asked for my autograph was when I performed at Stateville Prison. The night was a bookmark in coming full circle on my journey. I was in a dream.

As the multi-gifted Charmane Ward started the festivities with her songs of passion and faith, I was comforted by her angelic voice.The dinner was great. People were laughing. That always makes me smile. Squeaky was graciously greeting guests.Comediennes, M.J. Brown and Josie Dykas rocked the house with hilarious sets. The three ladies entertaining created a night to remember by all. Each of them are making a positive impact in their orbits.

Beyond the faithful friends who attended, I was moved by a few strangers who came out that night. A woman, whose son is fighting addiction and recovery, called to see if she could get tickets at the door. She thought the book would inspire him to stay in recovery. That young man made me realize that my work was making an impact. It reminded me that my sobriety is a gift. It helped me see that the writing of Soul Parole was never intended to be a book. It is meant to be a message. It will never be a best seller. It is not a recovery handbook. That one has been written.

Reality and the wreckage of my past hit me full in the face as well. Not a single one of my family attended. It left me feeling wounded. I see how much damage I have done over my twenty eight year run. My In-Laws came. I looked out over the many who attended and realized family goes beyond flesh and blood. That reinforced how close we have grown together. The hits didn't stop there.

Just as I had sat down to greet the people lining up to have the book signed, our alarm went off at the house. I have read about burglars breaking into homes when people post their vacation or travel plans on Facebook, or in other public forums. Our dogs yelping had set off the alarm once before. I thought that they were the source of the emergency call from the police. In fact, it was someone I know that had made an attempt to break in. That was devastating. It was mind numbing knowing that someone I loved would try such a terrible thing.

I feel a deep sense of accomplishment from fulfilling a life long dream of writing a book. You can catch your dreams as well, if you overcome your FEAR that they are possible. That doesn't mean that there won't be hurddles. It does not mean that realities won't impede your journey.

The signing was a personal success. WE raised two hundred and fifty dollars for an area recovery club. The emotions created in me from the attempted break in, and the fact that none of my family attended leveled the playing field. God keeps my feet on the ground. I still have a long journey in trying to amend my past. Some relationships seem broken beyond repair. Time will tell. As long as I keep my side of the street clean, I can live free of guilt. I am responsible for one half of a hundred percent of the relationships I have in this world.

My favorite Van Morrison Album is The Philosopher Stone. I can listen to it endlessly. One song in particular, I Have Finally Come to Realize, rocks me to my core. In the lyrics Morrison sings," I have finally come to realize, a child don't do what I have done. Cut my nose to spite my face. I'm just one tiny, tiny grain of sand. Oh, sweet release, I love how you soothe me, and when I let go, I love how you use me...It's in the doing that we find, a certain way we can live our lives, and obtain some peace of mind."

The book release showed me where I stand in the world. It also pointed me on my continuing journey to spread some hope. Happiness is a choice. No one can make it for us. No one can steal it from us, unless we let them. Others share emotions that enhance our happiness. Sometimes they inflict some pain. We all do. It's the human condition. My attitude toward adversity and treasuring life, can not be touched by anyone. I choose life. I want to make people smile. It makes me smile. I have wonderful friends. I am blessed, and rich  beyond my wildest dreams.

God is always working in my life whether I'm tuned in or not. Every once in a while he throws me a curve. Sometimes I hit a home run. Sometimes I strike out. I will always step up to the plate. I'm grateful to have others on my team. I am glad to be a messenger. As Van would say, "It's in the doing that we find...."


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

"Is It Me...or a Moment?" - Roger Daltry

I remember when I was growing up, and my parents did something wrong, I thought it was high treason punishable by death! If I did something wrong, it was just a mistake and should be forgotten. For some strange reason, I thought parents weren't human. No. Humans went in one column, parents went in another. They were held to a strict double standard.

They were to dismiss my wrongs. I licked up theirs like an all day sucker. I kept a mental diary of all of their faults. Some were hurtful actions and failings, others were just resentments I held against them for not seeing things MY WAY. They had no feelings! I wasn't to be held accountable or judged based on my behavior! I knew everything! My screw ups were different!

As parents we don't keep lists. We have been where our kids are. They think we were hatched, or beamed down from a distant galaxy... just before THEY were born. When we share our experiences with them they look at us as old fashioned, preachy and hypocritical. They say, "times are different now," and that "they just don't understand." Advice burns like hot pokers in their ears. I remember that those hot pokers burnt mine closed for years.

Parents see things from both sides of the fence. Sometimes we are the good cop, on other days the bad one. We too, reflect on things we wish we had handled differently during our kids tender years. We also see where we were wrong in our youth. Some incidents trouble us greatly. We wish we could have a mulligan. Time makes memories clearer when we take an honest look back at what we have said and done. There are regrets for actions taken, and those that were not.

Each of us has a mental time freeze on an age our parents never out grow.  My parents were frozen at around thirty five. When they reached their sixties, I was shocked! I wondered what had happened to their calendars? Theirs didn't match mine! My God! They're old!

 Sometime around thirty, I started seeing my folks as humans. I realized that much of the advice they offered was right. I began to see that my perceptions of their wrongful actions were based on their fear for my safety and guidance. They had not been hatched. They moved into the human column with a parental asterisk. They really did know a lot about life. They weren't clueless.

I understood that they really had already experienced the pains and tribulations of growing up. I had been a bit hypocritical in my assessment of them. They had parents! Grandma and Grandpa had a couple as well!

I did make mistakes as a kid and parent. I still do. Check that! As a human being, sometimes I fail. I know we each share common ground in our victories and failures. I know there is no double standard... we all try our best....

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

The Dough, Ray and Me....

THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM A FICTIONAL PIECE I STARTED WHEN I BEGAN WRITING SOUL PAROLE CALLED "THE DOUGH, RAY AND ME." I might as well have called it non-fiction. IT WAS... ME....

This is the original unedited copy from March, 2011. It contains crude language, grammar and spelling.....


3:30am. I'm painfully awake. My head is pounding with dehydration and demons. They're not the little red guys with horns and trident tail. They jab at me though. They never stop.They are my demons, created from my fears and wrong choices. They were forged from broken hearts and failures, pains of my making, and the agony handed to me by everyone else's reality. They never sleep. They're relentless. Sometimes they let me catch a nap. Then they poke at me in my dreams. They must not sleep, because they are always there to wish me hell-o. They are the only constant in my life, beyond  booze and misery.

I have to get up and shower. My terry cloth diaper didn't hold again. I'm drenched in my own urine. It has grown cold, and leaves me shivering to the bone. The maid hates me. Cleaning my room must be how they break in the new girls. The tiny motel box, I know as home is the litmus test to check the intestinal fortitude of the new hires. I don't feel bad for them. The dozens of roaches that cover me at night, and shoot into secret corners when I turn on the lights, have dulled me to apathy. I don't hate them. They know it. They taunt me as I splatter them on the wall. I leave their guts there for the others to see. It doesn't matter, they have legions to replace my victims.

I have become like them, crawling in the darkness, feeding on the garbage people have tossed aside. Poison has no effect on my body. I ingest it nightly. Sometimes I  run my fingers through my thinning hair. I am convinced that tiny feelers are sprouting from my head. They are survivors. I am a survivor, if not a hanger on. They are oblivious to me while I exist in oblivion. I am a creature of the night too. Light hurts my eyes and attempts to brighten up the darkness of a world too much for me to witness. I am no threat to them. I am either drunk, working, passed out or too sick to care about their take over. They are the only family I have left.

I slip in my own vomit as I fumble into the mold covered bathroom to hose myself down. I don't remember being sick. I've blacked out again. Blackouts scare and delight me. I come to, day after day, with strange objects in my room, bruises on my body. There's more or less money in my pockets than when I left the cave that night. I am grateful for not remembering. It's like my gratitude for cheap vodka or cheaper beer. My fingers and knuckles are painted in cracking blood. I was shooting my mouth off the night before, or punished someone for shooting off theirs.

Sometimes I wake to find a woman laying next to me. I don't remember her name or where she's from. I don't care. I know why she's there. I hope her expectations weren't high when we staggered back to my palace. I am useless as a lover when I'm drunk. I'm a useless drunk when I'm in love. I may have hurt her feelings by my impotency. I don't remember. I would have made it perfectly clear when I picked her up at the bar that I only wanted sex. I find comfort in sharing a bed with someone as lost as I am. I dread it when they wake up. I hate morning conversation. I loathe it with people whom I don't know. I have to guess what to call them. It's rare to find them next to me. I usually kick them out before I pass out, to prevent the uncomfortable morning chit chat.

I turn on the shower. The cold numbs me further. The piss and puke slide from my body. The freezing water dulls my headache and offers the closest thing to sobriety I'll feel that day. I see my roommates are enjoying the mess I have spilled on the floor. I scrub my self like an animal is tearing at my flesh. No matter how hard I try I can't wash myself off of... me. I try to shave with shaky hands and aching soul. The cheap razor tugs at my face. When I feel yesterday has been washed away I dry off. First my hair, then my back, then my front and legs.

There is only one thing left to do, comb my hair. I squint through blood shot eyes like two piss holes in the snow. I try to neaten my thinning hair. I quickly look away. I hate mirrors. I won't look into another one until tomorrow. I will do the same thing tonight as I did the night before, and the hundreds before that. I will try to drink my way out of feeling. I hate how I feel drunk or not as drunk.. I don't need the reminders a mirror offers. I know what I am.


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

So Busy You Forget Your Own Memories....

There is an old adage hung on young baseball players who are entering their second year in the bigs. It's called the Sophomore Slump. It is a reference to players having career setbacks in their second season. Some go through it, some do not. Most of them have some growth, and a few setbacks.

July 21, 2012 marked the second anniversary of my father's death. Ironically the official release of my book SOUL PAROLE is this weekend the 28th. I didn't plan for it to work out that way. The day was based on the publishing date and hall availability. The exact time of Dads' death was 7:27pm.

I decided to write about how I'm feeling a few days before the weekend. I was thinking that his passing was this weekend at 7:21 pm. Thinking of dad, and my mental mix-up is eye opening. My melancholy has been replaced with shock that I had dropped the ball.. I could cry on a dime. When I think about the friends who are coming out to support the book launch, I could cry on that same dime. The first is born from a loss. The second a mark of accomplishment. The reconciliation and personal success was a direct result of teamwork. For this whole week I've been thinking his death was on 7-27-10 at 7:21pm. I was scheduled to do an interview on the 27th. I made a mental note that it was ironic to be honoring his memory on that date. I thought Pop would think it was pretty cool.

I wrote about my Pop in Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself quite a bit. It was a natural. Although we only lived under the same roof for the first two years of my life we were together quite a bit as I grew up. I yearn to hear his unmistakable laugh. I have been so busy, I flipped the date with the time of his passing.

I often write about starting over. We can do it any day, or moment, we choose. Before the Big Bopper moved on to the Isle of Green in the heavens I was given the gift ofgrace before his passing. My despair would be doubly compounded if I had not squared the wreckage of my past with him before he moved on. I am glad he is at peace. I am grateful the book was closed free of regrets.

It is easy to conjure up smells that please us, and some we would love to forget. When you read the words buttered popcorn and burning leaves, the aroma immediately wafts into your mind and nose. They are permanently burned into our honkers. The same can be said for dead skunk. Our snouts have uncanny recall.

My Dad had a smell that was unique to him. I'm recalling it now. They say we are dirty Irish but that refers to mixed blood lines, not personal hygiene. It seems our clan got an extra chromosome of oily hair and skin. With it comes it's own. The smell our hyper oil output creates is not foul. It is just one of those smells I can recall like popcorn and leaves. I have the same condition sans the unique smell. If the day comes that I do, I will know I have lived a rich life, and be reminded of my Pop daily.


When I received the initial shipment of books from the publisher I ripped open the first one like a kid at Christmas. The smell of cardboard, and new book surrounded me. I bathed in it. I felt contentment as I gazed upon the piles of my creation. It was burned into the "never forget" smell file.


There was a time when I thought I had written a book. I now see that my Dad and friends wrote it with me. I just held the pen. There are at least 100 of my friends nestled in the pages. Each one of them should be listed as contributors. I do mention several of them in the  Special Thanks section. If I listed all the people who have touched and enriched my life, it would read like the family trees from the Old Testament.

Last weekend I was relaxing in my garage after work and was enjoying the sights and smells of a mid summer night evening. I could hear the calls of frogs and cicadas. The wind was whispering and a few of the neighborhood dogs were taking claim of the night. Their howls were like challenges between canine warriors. I was just taking it all in.

For a moment THAT smell wafted around me. I turned quickly to see if he was standing behind me. I called Squeaky into the garage. She said she didn't notice. I would like to think he was there. It lingered for about a minute or so. I called out and told him I missed him. I could imagine his pride in how far I have come in recovery and life. The smells I longed for disappeared as quickly as they had befallen me. It was the 21st.

We all have goals we want to achieve. There are people whom reside in the dark places in our hearts. This is called the human experience. How we approach them is unique to the individual. Fear can paralyze us from even attempting to catch our dreams. Difficult, and often deeply seeded pains can keep us from trying to reconcile with loved ones. We get busy, and say we'll get to it.

Nothing compares to the liberation you feel when you reach out for a goal or mend a relationships broken fences. I'd rather live at peace with the world than fight to be right. I would rather try and fail, than never try at all. Regrets are living through the retching of daily self poisoning, without death...ad infinitum.

I don't think anyone would say that facing the pink elephants trapped in our souls is easy. It is rewarding, or creates closure on the poison drinking. I know I have a better day when I'm free of the anxiety of fear and resentment. My moods are directly proportionate to how much good or bad energy I'm adding to the cosmos.

It's never to late to become a new you. The Beatles nailed it in Tomorrow Never Knows. This weekend will  be filled with mixed feelings and conflicting emotions. No matter how I feel I will be contented by the fact that I am reaching for the stars and mending life's fences. There will forward progress and some failures. In either case, I am cleaning up my side of the street. My Dad would laugh at the fact that I flipped the date and times. I say good night to him every time my head hits the pillow.

Learning to say "Never Say Never," is an attitude. I like keeping my mind open. I also know that "missing the bus" is a reality.  I hit the sophomore slump with my revised calendar. It's time to get back to the fundamentals, and start over. In the past I have said  that I would give anything to hear my Dad repeat the things I ignored as a kid. If he could talk to me again I know he would say, "Good job kid." I would look back and say, "Thanks Dad. I gave it my best. I couldn't have done it without you." I think about you every day...



SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Look At All This Cool Stuff....

I collect things. Between my albums and CD's, there are at least a thousand. Three walls of my office are covered with celebrity autographs and movie memorabilia. I often find myself gazing at the objects I have amassed with great pleasure. In reality I only listen to a quarter of the music. There is a lot of money invested in my Hollywood shrine.

Last week I was cleaning pictures out of my gallery to speed up my hard drive. There are just over a thousand photos chronicling my life with, and without, my family. From childhood birthdays, to family adventures, there are only a couple of thousand. In forty six years of living, I have a few more priceless images, than replaceable objects.

I spend more time staring at my "stuff," than I do on those precious memories. Somewhere along my journey I decided that things were a sign of success. Maybe you do too. I have attached part of my identity, and success, to things that don't have the capability of reciprocating feelings back to me.

If the collections burned in a fire, I would be hurt. If the photos were lost I would be devastated. Yet, I only open those albums a few times a year. I stare at my stuff daily. Most of the real memories are packed away in the basement. I do that so they don't get damaged.

It is peculiar that I don't hide my stuff of little value. I want the world to see that. My mind has been wired to think that what people see, is more important than what they don't. We do have twenty, or so, portraits hanging on walls around the house. The rest are tucked away until the semi-annual dust off. I will take more pictures. I will buy twice as much stuff.

Last night I was making deliveries for my job. I was in a rotten mood. The heat was unbearable. My allergies were attacking me. People were rude and inconsiderate. I went on automatic pilot. I was more than happy to share my foul mood with anyone that crossed my path.

Half way through my shift I was taking a delivery to the far side of town. For a moment I was plucked from  Grumpyville and saw how beautiful the sunset was. I promptly pulled over and snapped a shot of God's beautifully painted landscape. It was breath taking. I am glad to share it.

I jumped back in my car so I wouldn't be late with my delivery. I flipped on the radio and was bombarded by the latest news reports out of Aurora, Colorado. It turned my stomach. The carnage left by a twisted coward was sickening. I prayed for the families of the dead and wounded.


I thought of the innocent people who were out for a night on the town to enjoy the latest summer blockbuster. They were oblivious, and anticipating a night of fun. Some said when the massacre began that they assumed it was part of a staged stunt. They thought it had been part of the show.  Three years ago I was in Aurora, Colorado for corporate training. My hotel was just a few blocks from THAT movie theater. I remember the view of the Rocky Mountains. It was awe inspiring. Now memories of that visit have been forever altered.


The title of this blog is Every Day Is A Gift. A lot of readers glance over the title. Some say I write about corny themes with predictable outcomes. I NEED to be reminded of of the fragility each waking moment offers. Life isn't scripted. Death is certain. The timing of it is even less predictable than living itself. We can change our approach to living any day, hour or minute. We can not avoid the moment our ticket to eternity gets punched. I don't want to spend my last moments shuffling this mortal toil full of anger. It is easy to take each day for granted. I control my attitudes and emotions. 


On my way back to work I saw a hawk flying in the distance. They are fascinating and graceful. I can watch them for hours. The wonder of their magnificence never lessens. My mood instantly snapped from attitude to gratitude. I realized how blessed I was to be granted another day of life. I walked into my workplace and shared my gift of humor with my coworkers. Making them laugh gave me great joy.


When I got home from work I passed my mountain of music. I did not gaze upon all the notable faces staring down at me. I went up the stairs and into the kitchen where my wife and two of the kids were eating. I grabbed a plate and sat with them gobbling up the few minutes of laughter and story telling.  I love them more than any THING can offer. I took a mental snapshot of the moment and realized that this is what life is about. It's not about marveling in the things that can't share life with me....



SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

With drug abuse behind him, Plainfield actor’s career takes off - PhotoGallery - Herald News

With drug abuse behind him, Plainfield actor’s career takes off - PhotoGallery - Herald News


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Grandma's Fat Black Typewriter

I have loved reading for as long as I can remember. As a kid my favorites were "Where The Wild Things Are," Encyclopedia Brown," and any book about baseball. I imagined I was the kid in the boat heading for Wild Thing island in his tiny sailboat. I helped Encyclopedia Brown solve the latest neighborhood caper. I read to escape the real world and disappeared between the pages. My love for reading has never left me.


I measured each book between my fingers. I slowly removed my hand, then stared at the gap between my pointer finger and thumb to review its thickness.I was fascinated that someone had cobbled all those words together. I felt a sense of achievement as the the space grew between my digits. The bigger the book I consumed, the better I felt. When I zipped through "The Hobbit," it was ecstasy. I never let my buddies know I was a reading fanatic. Back then it meant you were a geek. I was one, but was not ready to lose my place in the cool club.


I decided I was going to become a writer when I grew up. It was going to be a fat book, with lots of words. People would gobble it up. They would measure it's girth with their fingers and be amazed at my work. I set out, at once, to achieve my goal of literary greatness.


My grandparents lived in the city. It was on the South Side of Chicago, on Karlov Avenue, just east of Harlem and Pulaski. I adored the predominantly Irish neighborhood they lived in. As kids we didn't ring the doorbell when we were seeking out a playmate. We stood on the porch and would call out, "Yo, Johnny can you come out and play?" Our singing pleas were repeated endlessly until someone came to the door. If they didn't come, you moved on to another house replaying the same song with a new subject.They didn't do that in Mokena where I lived. I thought it was the coolest. 


In the summer time the ice cream man would cruise the streets in a white painted cube truck that blared out "Pop Goes The Weasel," to announce his presence. I thought that was the coolest too. My heart would race as the sounds of the droning song got closer and closer. Grandma would pull some change from her tiny clasped purse. I would barely have my hand clinched around the coins before I dashed out the door. We would sit on the curb licking away at bomb pops or the latest Good Humor treat.


Grandma had an old Smith-Corona typewriter in the basement. A ribbon was stretched between two spools. The top half was red. The bottom half was black. The red served as highlighting back then. When you got to the end of the spool, you simply rewound it back to the left and continued with the task at hand. I loved plunking away on the fat round keys. When you wanted to capitalize a letter you would hold down the caps key. The heavy rubber roller would rise up from the black machine as the keys hammered at the paper like piano hammers hitting the strings stretched taunt inside.  When you released the key it would fall back into place with a thump. I worked feverishly as the slender arms slapped the ribbon to the page.

My first work was called "The Monkey and the Eagle." My mother still has it. It was a simple paragraph. The plot revolved around a monkey who steals an egg from an eagles' nest, then returns it after he realizes the mother eagle was sad. I went through pages of paper, and rewound the spools a few times, before I got the story just right. Inevitably I would near completion of my masterpiece and hit the wrong key. The spindle whizzed and whined as I ripped the botched up paper from the machine and replaced it with a fresh one.

I presented it to the world with glowing satisfaction. I was an author just like the ones' who pecked out my favorites. I wrote story after story. I was the hero of course. Sometimes I would type out a sad theme. In those works I tried to save a person or animal from doom. My heart fell to pieces when I couldn't. Now I see that people pleasing, and my desire to save the world, crossed into my reality.

I feel blessed and grateful that I reached my goal of becoming a published author. Writing SOUL PAROLE was a cathartic journey. As a kid I thought my works would be about safaris and daring rescues. I never thought I would pen the recounting of years of self destruction. I hope someone finds it as intriguing as Encyclopedia Brown.

When I got the first proof copy I stared at it for a few minutes. I flipped through the pages in disbelief that I had pecked out the words. I measured the book between my fingers. I slowly removed my hand, then stared at the gap between my pointer finger and thumb to review its thickness.I was fascinated that I had cobbled all those words together. I felt a sense of achievement as I carefully removed my fingers to keep my measurements true. I sat in awe, fixated on the space between the two. I was bathed in a sense of accomplishment. I have come a long way from "The Monkey and the Eagle."


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of this page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

FEAR! Don't Get Licked by a Sucker.....

I write all of my posts from the pit of my heart. I hope you do not think the themes are just about addiction and depression. You can plug any fear or obstacle impeding your journey in to those blanks and it will instantly be pertinent. Someone who bought my book recently was taken back by my brutal honesty in the pages. I took that as a compliment. I did some pretty dark things and kept on plugging away. Face your demons. They always look and feel like giants, but if you face them I guarantee they're not as big as you think. A sucker gets smaller when you lick it. A person who lets fear lick at them become suckers.

Depression makes me laugh. What? You thought I was going to say it makes me sad. Right? It does sometimes. There are times it makes me cry, get obsessive-compulsive, angry or giddy. On other occasions it makes me isolate or dread being alone. I dislike the word depression "sufferer." There are few moments that I suffer from my depression. There are trying times. Every so often I have a difficult day or two.

I usually speak about the triumphs and tribulations of sobriety, addiction and recovery. I don't speak enough about the world of depression and fear. I'm not an expert on it. I live with it, and in it. A friend of mine, who's a county politician, messaged me recently on how stigmatized addiction and depression is in our society. I told her I was going to be addressing that very thing soon.

I was first diagnosed bi-polar in March of 1999 when I checked myself into Hinsdale Hospital for rehab. I have since been rediagnosed as having an anxiety and panic disorder with bi-polar tendencies. My work in recovery, and a therapist has been effective in helping me MANAGE my CONDITION. I have a chemical imbalance that requires medication to stabilize my mood. I am grateful to say that over the last three years I have gone from four pills a day, to two at bedtime. I hope I get to a point when I need no medication at all. The chemical imbalance is a part of life as ME. It's kinda like the fact that I'm left handed living in a right handed world. I have learned to MANAGE and ADAPT.

Bi-Polar used to be called Manic Depressive. That's a beauty! To define what I have is difficult. Simply stated I am attracted to both male and female Arctic people.  Traditionally defined, I have really high-highs and really low-lows emotionally. Most folks spend their time in the emotional middle and spike up or down. I tend to be at one of the polar extremes and have to work towards the emotional middle. My chemical receptors and plugs have a problem lining up just right. It's a bit like a car that needs a new set of wires. The car runs but it misfires.  A lot of addicts use because they have some form of depression or chemical imbalance. We self medicate because we can't cope with racing thoughts, mood swings or can't process our feelings that aren't fitting the picture. This is me.

I often have the wrong emotional response for the situation that is occurring. The world sees my actions not my intentions. When my Aunt Dora died we drove down to Carlisle, Indiana for her funeral. I was about 15 or so. My grandfather was cracking jokes about her in the family lounge. I was laughing like George Carlin was sitting next to me. Tears were rolling down my face. I was clearly boisterous and obnoxious. I didn't KNOW HOW to cope with my feelings over the death. I vented through my laughter.

As White Sox announcer Ken " Hawk" Harrelson says, "right size, wrong shape." It was inappropriate behavior for a funeral. I was depressed and was in a high on my emotional meter. I was in a manic moment. Rightfully, my mother scolded me for my actions. I retreated into a corner feeling as if I had done something horribly wrong. It wasn't that my feelings were wrong. Our feelings are OUR FEELINGS, and are neither right or wrong. My actions were improper for a wake. I couldn't find the middle on how to react to my Aunt's death. When my HIGH reaction was inappropriate I slipped down to the low. Emotional Middle Earth was elusive for me.

I started to drink and use because I couldn't cope with my thoughts and feelings not aligning, and my irrational fears paralyzing me. I was afraid to talk about them. I thought I was crazy for having them.  I felt misunderstood all the time. Sometimes I still do. It's been said that addicts are overly sensitive people. It's not surprising to me when I see us dually diagnosed. It does sting a little when I hear people say addicts have no feelings. WE FEEL EVERYTHING! That is a large part of our problem.

We feel compassion when a butterfly farts! When you mix a chemical imbalance into an addictive personality KABOOM! Catastrophe is down right inevitable. It is a perfect recipe for self-destruction. However, once we get armed with the facts about WHAT WE ARE and WHO WE ARE there's hope in overcoming ANY obstacle, or at least coming to peace with it.

The key to SURVIVING addiction, depression or facing any fear is reaching out for help. As an addict and a person who has wondered if I was going out of my mind I know that is a bitter pill to swallow. The thought of approaching someone about being crazy is nuts! No it's not. It's your only hope. You have to have hope. Even when your sitting under that rock. You're not crazy! You're just a little nuts!

When I addressed my alcohol and addiction issues I was having multiple panic attacks daily. Once I found out my wires were crossed I felt better. I WAS NOT ALONE. Panic attacks suck! The ones' Tony Soprano had were a party! I felt like I was gonna DIE every day! DAY AFTER DAY! That's not living. That's existing until you're finally right!

I saw a couple of noodle professionals. I  eventually found one I was comfortable with. This is not like picking out bagels! Take your time. DO RESEARCH. LEARN. EDUCATE YOURSELF. The more you learn about your melon the less you'll feel your losing your seeds! It isn't the end of the world. It opened me up to my life again. I have not had a full blown attack in over a year. I now recognize my symptoms and know I'm not going to die. To be safe I also don't let ducks raise their young in our backyard.

General public, earthlings and pundits, PLEASE don't judge what you do not understand. Chemical imbalance doesn't mean crazy. An addict doesn't have a morality problem. If it were as easy as "just stopping" ...we would. When it comes to depression and fear, if it were as easy as, "just snapping out of it"...we'd do that too....






SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

"Signs, Signs Everywhere There's Signs"....

I love the song SIGNS. We sang it in Mr. Lamb's music class when I was in grade school. The original version was written by The Five Man Electric Band. A lot of people think it's a Tesla song. It reminds me of the sixties. The lyrics that revolve around accepting change, and seeing the signs around us, are profound.

For the better part of my life when the world said zig, I zagged. It was intentional. I hated conformity, and being one of the crowd. I was fiercely independent. My definition of independence meant defiance. I thought rules were suggestions. If I liked a rule, I followed it. If I didn't care for it, I dismissed it because I knew better.

Recently, I was issued a ticket for pausing at a stop sign. I paused. No one was around, so I interpreted the sign as pause instead of stop. It was clearly marked. I know what a stop sign means. It means stop, not pause. I had my reasons for the infraction. My wife was in mid-flight on a trip to Germany to visit our daughter. I was praying for a safe flight. I was making deliveries and needed to get back to work. My reasoning for committing the violation were my perceptions, not the reality. It was not what the sign read.

We all have a small still voice inside of us. Before I have said or done anything hurtful or wrong, the small still voice warned me for a split second before I acted. I used to dismiss it. Sometimes I still do. Once again, I knew better. The voice was wrong! Some call it conscience. I call it GOD.

My third marriage was a disaster. My ex wife and I were toxic together. In our abbreviated  marriage we never lived together for a week. We were very much alike. That's what made things so volatile. I was trapped deep in addiction. She had a violent temper. We were not on the same page. I dismissed our troubled beginnings. I thought they were growing pains.

There were signs all over the place before we got married. I saw her instantaneous anger rear its ugly head towards her two year old daughter at Christmas. The little girl opened a present and didn't like what was inside. Her mother became enraged and tossed all of her gifts into a garbage dumpster. After I left the house I returned to the dumpster to retrieve the toys and wrapped packages.

I figured I could change her. I felt as if the insanity is what I deserved. My addictions, and low self esteem talked me in to, what I knew I should run from. I ignored the signs. I jumped in to marriage with her against the advice of my friends and loved ones. I drew closer to her because I thought people were attacking her. Nobody knew her like I did! They were right. I reacted in spite. I knew in my heart that it was a mistake. My drive to zag overtook me. It was going to be me and her against the world. She threw my belongings out into the street the night we were wed.

If I had listened to the voice, heeded the signs I witnessed, and listened to the people observing the situation from the outside, I would not have made the choices I did. Nobody needed to tell me. I knew it, but tossed it, out of the window.

When I get into an argument with someone, in that split second before I say the words I'm going to regret, the tiny voice warns me not to do it. In my younger days I told the voice to SHUT UP and out spilled the venom. On some occasions it still does. I pay the price, often after wounding someone I care for deeply. Then I ask myself why I didn't listen.

As I mature, the tiny voice has gotten louder. I don't ignore it anymore. I realize that the voice is my gut feeling. If I went with that early warning system all the time, I would find myself in better places, with more positive outcomes. I realize the tiny voice is usually right. I can not recall a time when it was wrong.

There are signs everywhere, inside and outside of us. From getting a new job, to buying that shirt I can't afford, there are always signs I can follow or dismiss. I am glad that I can see, and hear, them now. I listen to them when I am unsure. Acceptance does not mean that I am compromising my independence. It proves that I am growing in it.

I now know that zigging doesn't mean I will always like doing it. The outcome is usually to my benefit. Now, I halt at stop signs, and look both ways. The cost of the ticket was enough to teach me it's a stop sign, not a suggested pause. There will be a price to pay...If I don't read the signs....

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW  on Amazon and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

I had Amnesia...What was I Just Saying?

When I share a post about day to day life, I try to keep it real. I have done a fairly good job of that to date. I have been candid about my journey to today. I report my triumphs and tragedies, as well as the silly and the insane. In every entry I try to give a piece of myself to my readers to identify with.

When addiction is active in a household, roles are formed and the family adapts around the sick. Mom or Dad steps in and makes decisions on their own to cover for the user. Enablers are confused when the user gets sober because they no longer have a codependent partner. Kids who were pushed into becoming  grown ups prematurely, are suddenly given their chance to be kids again. The whole family dynamic is thrown into flux. Roles are redefined, and there are growing pains that go with that.

Early in my recovery I had the emotional I.Q. of a young adult. I will turn 47 shortly. Thirteen years ago I began a relationship with a woman who came equipped with three beautiful children. I instantly became a stepfather, a word I loathe. I dove in to my new position head first. For the first few years, there was no water in the pool. It was as if I decided to become a brain surgeon and started doing operations the next day. I was suffering from untreated alcoholism and had lots of issues to work through. I did not handle my new role very well. I have done my best with the job, but quite frankly, I don't really know what I'm doing sometimes.

When it comes to being a good husband and father consistently, I often slip into old thinking. That is an honest assessment of myself. I didn't have a traditional upbringing. I grew up in a single parent home. My mother worked very hard. My father had a family of his own. My sister went her way. I went mine. My grandparents were our neighbors. They were caught in the middle.From my late teens on, we were pretty much on our own. That's not a knock on anyone. That's just the way it was.

My first 3 marriages were not even marriages. I was so far gone. I was barely human. The loss of two children made the relationships impossible to mend. The losses fueled my anger at God and the world. My addictions deepened.  Now I AM a husband and stepfather. I love my kids as though they were my own. Some days I am a champ and on others am clueless, jealous, thoughtless and selfish. I sometimes wonder if I'm fit for either job at all. I am just learning what I am all about, and I seem to make mistake after mistake in the "other people" category. I don't do it intentionally. It just happens.

I have grown in my relationship skills over the last 45 months of recovery.  I still have gaping holes in my "big boy" abilities and skills. There are moments when I see my wife with the kids and feel left out. I understand they are her babies. They will always be held in a different light, as they should. When they disrespect me because "I'm not their Dad," it burns me up when she says nothing. I am her husband. I feel she should demand my respect from them. Now, I understand that respect is earned, not an entitlement. She says it's me. I say it's me against them. Our lives can move from, "A deluxe apartment in the sky", to "Funky Town," in a flash. Not knowing where my youngest daughter Mouse is, makes it all the worse.

We both have expectations. Sometimes we don't meet each others. Sometimes others don't meet both of ours'. I know I have a big mouth. I am learning to keep it closed more often. It shrinks with each day in recovery. It doesn't open as wide as it used to.  I have said, and done, many stupid things as a husband and stepfather. I will again. This is still new to me. Each day I learn positive and negative things about myself and the world around me. Getting sober is truly like being reborn. It is like I had amnesia and am being reintroduced to my life. I really don't know how I feel or which way is up. The old me says run. Just run. The new me says go ahead and run. You can help yourself unpack when you get there.


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW  on Amazon and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

"I Need Serenity." - Sully-Godsmack

Serenity is one of those words that has the feel of the word wrapped up in itself. Words like agitate, make my tongue live the definition as it lurches uncomfortably through the three syllables. Caress soothes my mind and body as I utter the invitingly crafted letters. When I say the word serenity I feel the lightness of the elusive word barely hovering on my lips. Tranquilly means contentment with who I am and where I'm at.

I have known moments of serenity. I bathe in it when stuck right dab in the middle of it. I get chaotic chasing after it. The feeling of being completely at peace with myself, my creator and my universe is like nothing else. The paradox is that serenity is like a drug in itself. Now that I have had fleeting glimpses of it I want more. My whole problem with myself, and my conflict with the real world, is my desire for ME and MORE and NOW!

The harder I seek serenity, the farther it seems to be from me. I remember when I was a kid I would gaze at the clouds endlessly as I sat in the backseat. As the car would be going along I would pick out a cotton candy cloud and wait for the car to catch it. No matter how fast we went, or how long I stared, the cloud was always just out of reach. Then suddenly we had passed it by.

I also watched the races between the corn row runners. If you lived in corn country as a child, you know the corn runners. When you drive by great spans of cornfields and stare at the rows of corn, they seem to come alive. The rows begin to take the shape of legs and begin to run. No matter how many fields you pass, corn runners never tire. They just keep on going. The corn runners are either are just in front of you, or right along side of you. They can run all day and into the evening, as long as the shadows and light, are just right.

It's like paper pad animation. You start on the first page. Draw a circle and turn the page.As you flip from page to page you move the circle up or down. Continue page by page until the circle hits the bottom, and you reach the end of the pad of paper. Now flip the pages through your fingers and the bouncing ball comes alive. I used to do this for hours, through many pads of paper.

Serenity is defined by the American Heritage Dictionary as, "Clear," "Tranquil," "Unruffled" and "Unclouded." I was surprised by the definition when I read it. I though it would be much more mystical and Dali Lama-like. That is how things tend to go for me when I pre-decide how outcomes should be. They rarely live up to the billing or grand notion my mind has erected. People and their lives, feelings, choices and reactions keep messing up my paper.

I have come to realize that serenity isn't a chosen conscious feeling or experience. It happens when it happens. Usually, when I go with the flow and let things be. What I shoot for now is "surrenderty." I can make that happen by letting go.When I force things to happen I end up feeling agitated. The situation at hand, usually gets worse.

I choose to be happy today. The same can be said for unhappy, angry, resentful, unforgiving and all the negative emotions that are produced through human interaction. I don't have to take the bait. It's like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die.

It's all in how I decide to accept and surrender to the people and circumstances who are in my reality that are going to determine my serenity or lack of it. I look forward to when it comes again. For now I am grateful to have moments of serenity, and a philosophy of "surrenderty." 


I will still chase clouds and dreams. I will still watch the corn runners keeping pace alongside my car. I don't waste the paper I used when I was creating my crude animations. I know one thing for sure. If I think I can control outcomes, run other people's lives and worry my way to serenity, I'll never even catch a glimpse of it. Thanks God for giving me the wisdom to realize how little I know. I appreciate the insights finally realizing I don't need to.


 SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW  on Amazon and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.