A Shameless Fan of William H. Macy

Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself (Available NOW on AMAZON-KINDLE-soulparole.com . Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health services.

Shameless...William H. Macy, Me, and Addiction Flashbacks!

I was blessed to have the opportunity to work on an episode of the new Showtime series "Shameless," starring William H. Macy. I was cast as his neighbor and when the episode airs you will definitely see me. The show revolves around a father with alcohol issues trying to raise a brood of kids in the working neighborhoods of Chicago. It is well written and sure to be a hit.

It was an unseasonably warm November day for Chicago and the scene was taking place in the dead of winter. Temperatures got up into the 60's that day and we were dressed as if it were January. Snow trucks were brought in to create the winter scene, complete with a guy who had a spray can to dirty the snow on the street. I can not say what the episode was about specifically in respect and confidence to the Showtime Network and professional acting courtesy.

In both "Shameless" and "The Chicago Code," great pains are taken to make details and authenticity as accurate as possible. From regional dialect and slang, to the casting of locals in the neighborhood providing background, no detail is too small to overlook. When a shoot is in progress, lights, semis, cameras, wardrobe, trolley rails, productionassistants, actors and extras litter the street. Curious neighbors sit on their porch or on the sidelines taking in the magic and technical wizardry that makes Hollywood so cool.

If a civilian is brought into the production they must sign a waiver and are often paid for their appearance in it. On this particular day we were on the west side in one of the more blue collar, urban neighborhoods for the shoot. As we rehearsed our scenes and repeatedly returned to our marks for another take or camera angle change, a woman kept walking onto the set. After a few interruptions, one of the best production assistants I have ever worked with took her to the side and signed her up to be an official player for the shoot for that day.

The woman was haggard and seemed a bit nervous. She was in clothing that seemed worn for a few days in a row and was skittish and tweaky. She was obviously withdrawing and jonesing for whatever candy kept her going. An addict can pick out another in a stadium full of strangers. It is just a skill we pick up in case we need to commiserate or score. We are always scanning and defining the people around us. That one is uppity. That one is a push over. That one is full of themself. That one is weak. That one will buy my story and give me a few bucks. We move from character to character and are usually dead on in our predeterminations of our fellow man's weak spots.

I was lucky enough to play an integral part in a scene with William H. Macy. He is a consummate character actor and professional. I was in the middle of asking the director how she wanted me to play the scene and she walked away to put out a more important fire. Mr. Macy stopped over and answered my question as to how he felt my demeanor should be in reacting to his actions. He is not an ego guy. He is just a guy. He presented no pretension or condescension, only a desire in doing the scene as perfectly as possible. I thanked him and played my part as he suggested. I was surprised when he later joined the extras in the holding area for chit chat and a picture or two.
In the scene some money is thrown up in the air in celebration of a joyous event. Prop money was used for the rehearsal and actual cash when we were ready to print. Each of us were given a set denomination of moola and responsible for returning it at the wrap of the scene. I was drawn to the woman as after each scene was "cut" we would retrieve the amount we were given and prepare for the next "take." When the call came to "check the gate and print", the scene was over and we returned our money to the PA handling the bankroll. The amount of money distributed was less than what returned.

I returned my portion and looked around for the skittish woman but she was gone. I scanned the streets of the restricted area and saw her smiling ear to ear and shouting into her cell phone. She was a block away and through all the confusion and chaos that is business as usual on set, I could hear her pleas drifting to me from so far away. She waited by the corner and was picked up by a car that stopped just long enough for her to jump in as it lurched away.

My first urge was to tell the PA about the lady and be a hero and doer of good deeds. I didn't say a word though. As I returned my share, the old street code of not ratting out a fellow user came back to me as clear as the days when I was using. It was not my business and I was probably doing her a favor. There were a few more scenes that required my participation as camera angles were switched and slight changes to the scene printed, just in case they wanted to alter something later.

The woman returned shortly after she left on the 14 hour long shoot. She was a different person. Her speech was slower and clearer. She didn't twitch or itch and looked like she had found the medicine she needed to feel normal again. I felt for her. As I looked at her she smiled back, eyes glazed over and content. I knew how she felt. I had been there. I knew what it was like to go to any means necessary to get the chemical cure to what was ailing me. I said a prayer for her. I don't know if she took the money but I know what addicts are capable of. I thanked God for his grace that it wasn't me. I looked back once more at her euphoric grin and was grateful for another day of sobriety. But for the Grace of God there go I.

(The episode is #4 season 1-the baby kidnapping. Thank you Jon Kinnas for casting me in 3 of the 5 seasons! I love you man!)

Thank You! No! Thank You

I usually start out the blog welcoming the latest country to visit the blog in to my readership. Today I welcome an old friend back. Argentina. Welcome back. I am dressed like Evita right now as I hunt and peck my way through this blog but we'll save that story for my therapist or another blog. The thing that is really weighing upon my heart and mind this morning is old habits and new ones, the old and new me, and how I grow and slip back into unhealthy thinking patterns.

 I'm just a messenger. So are you. Before I dive into the 700 mile an hour salt flat speed testing site known as the inside of my mind I want to say a few HEARTFELT, "I'm Sorries." The first to my wife Kris, the second to my good friend LT in AZ! I'm sorry and Thank you are the focus of today's trip into Tommy's recovery and depression fun house. Please put your seat belt on. Do not stand up while the ride is moving and you must be taller than Frodo to take the trip.

An addict, a depression sufferer a human will say "I'm sorry," and/or "I thank you," for many reasons daily. I will speak for myself. I hope you can relate. When I was drinking "I'm sorry," and "I promise" were the two phrases that came out of my mouth most. That is after I had poured booze and whatever down my throat and hurt feelings and did rotten things. I used "I'm sorry" as a way to get out of things, to avoid shouting out how I really wasn't sorry or because "it's the right thing to say," after a disagreement or when we are wrong.

"Thank You," and "Please," are two beautifully simple phrases with a lot of power packed int a syllable or two. I used these to appear grateful, look good, show temporary superficial happiness and put on a good show. Of course there were occasional times I meant all of these phrases but they have now become so over used that they are losing their power. I/maybe we just say them because we are supposed to? I can honestly say that I have had a girl spill my coffee all over me at the gas station at checkout and thanked her for it! I have been conditioned into some of these responses. They have lost their heartfelt, soul based meaning that they are intended to partner with. I have also said "THANK YOU!" in an almost demonic tone to some rude register lady to show her how civilized I am. HUH? Earth to Tom!

There are so many of these phrases in the English language, American style has the best, that we have beaten down into meaningless innocuous, droning reactions instead of feelings. When my kids come home from school and I ask them how their day was, when they respond, "it was great." or "it was cool," or "it was fine," in all honesty I am relieved because I think to myself that I am glad that there won't be a crisis to settle that evening. That should be the time I jump up and ask them what made it "great," or "cool." I don't do that nearly enough! Why because I accept the simple word of contentedness as affirmation that all is well. When they come home and say their day was "horrible," rotten," etc.,. I won't lie. In my head I think, "oh no, here we go..." Shame on me!

For those of you who follow the blog regularly I went through a few weeks where I was very down and depressed. My depression medication had run it's course and was no longer working at an effective therapeutic level for me. I switched to a different medication. When you switch medications that are manipulating the wiring in your melon there is a transition. The switch is accompanied with yet more depression, mood swings, sleep problems and a list of symptoms unique to the med and the patient. Depression, like alcoholism and addiction is never cured, it is merely arrested, controlled and managed.

My new meds are evening out now and I feel great. I feel motivated again and have put my NIN Cd's back and gotten my Ramone's back out. I have had some moody out bursts with a few friends and especially my wife over the last few weeks. I know it's the meds. They know it's the meds. As always I must remember the world judges me by what comes out of my mouth not what goes into it.

I learn more and more about me each day and it is getting much easier to live with me, and within me. I find the more sober I get the more alcoholic I realize I really am. I have come to accept and surrender to the fact that I have some conditions that are real and forever. It ain't so bad. I am growing and happy for the most part. I make mistakes and can admit them. It sure is nice not having to be right all the time. As for those words we use like hello's and goodbyes.

I am truly sorry to my wife and my friends for shooting off my mouth, new meds or not. The best solution for big mouthitis is keeping it closed. As for thank yous. I thank you for taking time out of your day to listen to my ramblings. I hope it helps you. I know it helps me. I know I am getting somewhere down the road of life because my prayer life is less frantic and more grateful. I don't seek comfort in things I can wear, drive, eat or drink or show off. I have a prayer list. I have friends that I pray for daily. When I hit my knees at the end of the day I thank God for giving me another day of life, even if it was a rotten one by human standards. You see, it wasn't too long ago those same prayers were begging him to not let me wake up the next day. Now when I do wake up. I jump up and say "What are we doing today!"

That is after I say....."Dear Lord, please get inside my head before I do......Have a Day!

COMING NEXT WEEK!   PROCRASTINATION!

Insert Fear HERE!

FEAR is a four letter word. I believe it carries within it the same power as love and hate. It is usually the divider between the two. Sometimes they are intertwined and inextricably separable. FEAR is at the root of all hate. My fears of success and failure have left me paralyzed into doing nothing at all. For years, my fear of being hurt by loved ones made me a dark and demanding lover. My insecurities led me to dive into the bottle and a plethora of self destructive behavior.

When I speak about the isolation and insanity of alcoholism and depression, fear is at the center of my speech. You may not be an addict but I don't know of a single person who is fearless. If you say you are, you're probably afraid to talk about what's really eating you.

Some folks self-medicate with food, work, shopping, gambling or chaos. I know that chaos and drama were an essential part of my insane behaviors. When things are going along just ducky I like to toss a monkey wrench into the whole works and gum it up with some drama!

For some reason, when something good or bad happens to me I feel like I don't deserve it. Either the cosmos are dealing me a bad hand, or the big guy upstairs is rewarding the wrong fella. It's not exactly an emotional roller coaster. It's more like a hamster wheel! My mind is a switch hitter between the darkness and the light.

As I have grown in my sobriety over the last six years I've gotten much better. I don't beat my self to death with a Louisville slugger anymore. It's more of a NERF Bat. Old habits are hard to break. My 28 years of alcoholism and undiagnosed depression days were more than half of my life on this crazy spinning ball.

My fears led to isolation. Not solitude. The more time I spent alone, the bigger the fear grew and the farther I dug down into my own abyss. I can;t afford to do that these days. I need to surround myself with people who really know me. My wife can instantly see when my clock ain't ticking right. The more I educate myself about my conditions I can think my way through them instead of sulking in them or running away.

Whatever FEAR that is controlling you won't move out until you reach out and face it with a friend and your God. I'm still a hot mess, but I'm able to function without chemical courage. It really is a choice. Beyond Fight or Flight our fear instincts are self created. But I see now that conquering them is a team effort. Take it slow. Take it extra slow. But I hope you take the shot.

This is my first new blog in over a year. My fears had quieted me to mute. I'M BACK!

FAITH not fear!

The truth does set you free.

SOUL PAROLE: MAKING PEACE WITH MY MIND, GOD AND MYSELF

 
(CLICK) SOUL PAROLE is now available at AMAZON.com, AMAZON EUROPE and on KINDLE by September 15. Proceeds benefit Chicago Area Addiction, Homeless and Mental Health facilities. Click the link for more information.

  

Dumpster Diving in an Armani Suit!

The more time I spend in sobriety, the clearer my mind is becoming. My using days created huge blank spots that are starting to fill back in. I blacked out EVERY time I drank. That's the whole idea right? I have mentioned that I don't remember the early nineteen-nineties. I have little recollection of my first year and a half at Illinois State. I do remember being arrested twice and being placed on academic probation for all three semesters.

I also had a radio show on WZND, the campus radio station. In a bit of Irony the show was called "The Happy Hour." It opened with the Ramones, "Rock-n-Roll radio. I never did a show sober. Not one. After I split for Columbia Chicago, out of necessity, and a harsh warning from the judge in Bloomington, I graduated in 1992. I don't have a single photo from my days at Columbia. I do have the sheepskin. I guess that's all that really matters.

I loved that there were 2 bars next door to the college back then. I would drink or smoke between classes and made few friends. They didn't drink like me so I had no use for them. I was so desperate to get high that during renovation of the original Michigan Avenue campus, I would sneak up to the construction area and use. I would return to class out of my mind and only half conscious.

Not long after I graduated I got a job in the gaming industry. They had opened up the first casinos in Joliet. I conned and schmoozed my way into a position in group sales. My job was to go to bars and organize bus trips for gamers. I spent more time in the bar drinking than getting groups signed up.

The job was a suit and tie gig. I felt like a big shot. I was really gripped with fear and a hundred insecurities. The chemicals just dulled the self-loathing. As my production in the department faded I knew my days were numbered. As an alcoholic I always had another job, and woman, on back up if things didn't work out when they discovered I was an addict.

One of the memories that has returned was the first time I ate garbage. The casino sent me on a tourism road trip through Michigan and Ohio with a bus company that promoted tours. There were speakers from the other area casinos and attractions. During the days we would travel to a city hotel and do presentations on why groups should visit our area. I was always able to pull off a funny presentation with a massive hangover. Every moment that I was on the job I was either recovering from, obsessing about or using alcohol. It consumed me until I consumed it.

After we would wrap up our presentations the group would meet for dinner. I was on a tight budget. Purchasing alcohol was my priority. Food was optional. As dinner hour came I would have a few drinks with the group and dismiss myself stating that I wasn't very hungry. I was. It was for alcohol. I would high tail it to the nearest liquor store and slink back to my room.

As I made my way back to my room loaded with liquid courage I noticed all the room service trays that had been placed in the hallway. The thought dawned on me that this is where I could find food! Booze first! I only wanted a small amount of eats as not to kill the buzz. My disease created enough denial in me that the thought of eating someones leftover garbage was easily overcome. I thought I was a survivor.

I would move with stealth, from floor to floor carefully lifting the aluminum food covers from the delivered plates. I didn't want to be caught with the occupants left overs in my hand! I carried napkins or the tiny garbage can liners to carry my bounty. Rolls, a piece of uneaten chicken and crackers were major scores. Taking a potato peel that had its' delicious center devoured was not below my station. I took them.

I was careful not to be seen. I was wearing a suit. When a passerby sauntered by I would merely smile and continue back to my room. Once there I would eat my leftovers and gnawed on bounty with smug pride, proud that I had saved my money for more booze. As the next day dawned I would slip back into a suit and feel invigorated that I had eaten garbage while they dined like respectable people.

This week I auditioned for 2 casino commercials. One looks pretty promising. I think those experiences are what triggered my flashbacks. I have been to casinos with Squeaky. I enjoy our time together there. Gambling addiction is one of the few I didn't fall into.

Looking back at my past is important. It helps me to remember where I was, and where I pray not to return  to. I learned a lot. It is just another chapter of the insanity that ruled my life for 28 years. It also helps jog my memory to anyone I may have wronged or harmed so I can seek them out and try to amend the situation. I learn from pain. It makes me stronger.

Today I am catching my dreams. It is only through the grace of GOD and those who helped me that I am sober today. I thanks the heavens for every day of living I am granted sober. Now I pass on my experiences to those who are fresh in recovery. That is how the circle works. I am grateful to share my story of pain to happiness to those newcomers. I see their pain and get further reinforcement that I don't wish to return to that misery.

I don't leave any regrets on the table now that I have been granted this new life. My motto is go for it. There are no such things as dreams, only unmet realities. I have to say goodbye because I have a recovery meeting now and there may be a newcomer who can relate to someone who has already fought the war. God Bless you all! Thanks for giving me a reason to live...sober. Every Day IS a Gift!

In The Navy and Outta My Mind!

Shortly before turning 40 in 2004 I joined the United States Naval Reserves, based out of Great Lakes Naval Station, Great Lakes, Illinois. Assigned to command NPSTRU 1326, Unit 87740, I came in at a Rank of SA(SN). The unit is made up of men and women who did not serve in the NAVY or RESERVE. Once you are trained you are attached to a unit and the ships, bullets and wars are the same. I had almost joined the Army at 18 but my family convinced me to try college first. At forty the Navy was the only branch that took an enlisting man of my age. This has changed as the wars of Iraq and Afghanistan have stretched the regular troops and Guard thin.

I scored very high on my ASVAB test and rushed for entry. I was not attached to a specific job specialty as my test score was so high. I went in general classification. I was in the complete grip of my over indulgence for booze and depression and was hammered when I signed on the line for Uncle Sam. My recruiter was a good man. His job is to recruit sailors, not smell their breath. I answered his questions honestly about the many broken bones, mishaps and dark spots I had encountered along the way to that day. He helped me fill out the paperwork in an acceptably worded manner.

I was in no physical or psychological shape to be a sailor. My heart was! I was not pro-war. In fact I was anti-war and pro-freedom. I do love America! At that time I thought we were spending too much treasure on Iraq and not enough on Afghanistan. After all, that is where those responsible for the 911 attack had come from. I also knew that there was oil and strategic advantages to a war in Iraq. That is one of the sad facts of war. They are fought for ideals and additional contingencies. No matter what you think about it, we all like to drive cars and Iraq is right next to Iran, a genuine threat under the current regime. I was joining to help protect the freedom of my son's sons.

I reported and was thrown head first into military life. Most of the officers were younger than me. A few of them saluted me thinking I was an officer in my Civies. The base was like a self contained town. You didn't need to leave the gated area to find a pizza, bowling alley, bar or a bottle. I found a few of those. They put you up in hotel-like rooms instead of barracks for monthly training. I would drink enough to get my nerves satisfied but not too much that I couldn't handle PT or classroom study the next day.

Running was almost impossible. I have broken my right ankle 3 times and my left knee is shot from sports. My panic attacks were occurring regularly and I was realizing that although my patriotism was that of a 25 year old, my body was that of a 50 plus year old. That was due to the abuse I had put it through. I stuck it out for a year. At some point along the way I realized I could not handle it physically or emotionally. I also didn't want to put a brother sailor or soldier at risk because I wasn't up for the mission and was falling apart upstairs and downstairs.

I called my recruiter and explained that the ankle and physical ailments that plagued me were really taking a toll on me. The unit allowed for an administrative separation. It broke my heart. I am still technically under contract until April of 2012. This is the first time I have really spoken or wrote in detail about the experience. For a long time I felt like a failure, like I let my country down by not being able to cut it.

I know if I had been more forthright in my application they never would have taken me in the first place. To this day I am still uncertain if I am supposed to check off "veteran" or "military service" on applications. I have never tried to take advantage of any program the government offers veterans because I did not complete my contract. I left the service "honorably" by the paperwork but not by my "code book."

I am proud of that year now. I owe it to Fred Tormey, a high school friend, former U.S. Marine and current Arizona police officer. I still gave a year. I still gave it my best for that year. I took a risk that many will not or could not. My family thought I was nuts. My wife knows how I feel about this country now and forever. America is the greatest place on Earth. Our freedoms can lead us down some destructive paths but we are free. I can write this book. I can go where I please. I have the right to be me.

In my year I learned why guys re-up and go back for another tour in Hell after they just got out of it. They have left family there, dead and alive. When you are with your unit, your family becomes everyone in the units' family and vice-versa. You literally have each others backs. When one falls or leaves it creates a break in the chain that makes it feel strange or wrong for a while. I never saw action but I did see the brotherhood.

Do me a favor, not just this weekend. I do this every time I see a Vet. I don't care if you hate war. If you like your freedom, Starbucks and the right to say f**k the president, then follow my instructions. Pass this on to your kids. When you see a Vet, walk up to them no matter how young or old they are and say "Thank you for serving our country." That will mean a lot to them. Shake their hand and feel the rough grip of war. Look into the tired eyes of combat. Stop and realize that these fine young men and women are part of an all VOLUNTEER military. They are part of the greatest fighting force protecting the FREEDOM of not only the USA, but giving hope to millions around the world.

God Bless America and the World.

How are YOU?

3:30am. I'm painfully awake. My head is pounding with dehydration and demons. They're not the little red guys with horns and a trident tail. They jab at me though. They never stop.They are my demons, created by my fears and wrong choices. They were forged from broken hearts and failures, pains of my making, and agony handed to me by everyone's reality. They never sleep. 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 daily. They are a constant in my life beyond the 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 must hate me. Cleaning my room must be the job for the new girl. The tiny transient motel I know as home is the litmus test for 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 into 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 wall mosaic.

I have become one of them, crawling from the darkness, feeding on the garbage people have left behind. Poison has no effect on my body. I ingest it nightly. I sometimes run my fingers through my thinning hair convinced that the tiny feelers are sprouting from my head. They are survivors. I am a survivor, if not a hanger on. They are immune to the barely lit room I inhabit. Light hurts my eyes and lightens up the darkness of my world too much for me to witness. They scurry about ignoring me. I am no threat to them. I am either drunk, working, passed out or too sick to care about their invasion.

I slip in my own vomit as I move 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, like my gratitude for a sale on vodka or cheap beer. Bloody knuckles usually mean I was shooting my mouth off the night before, or punished someone for shooting off theirs.

Sometimes I find a woman in my bed. 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 stumbled back to my palace. I am useless as a lover when I'm drunk. 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 do also find comfort in sharing a bed with someone as lost as I am. I dread it when they wake up. I hate morning conversation, especially with people whom I don't know what to call or where they are from. I usually kick them out before I pass out to prevent the uncomfortable morning chit chat.

I turn on the cold shower and rinse the piss and puke from my body. The freezing water dulls my headache and offers a brief taste of sobriety. I watch the roaches enjoying the mess I have left on the floor. I wash my self scrubbing and tearing at my flesh. No matter how hard I try I can't wash myself off of me. I shave with shaking hands and aching soul in the cold water. The cheap razor tugs at my face. When I feel the dirt of the day is gone I dry off. First my hair, then my back, then my front and legs. There is only one more thing to do, comb my hair. I squint through blood shot eyes like two piss holes in the snow. I neaten my thinning hair and look away. I don't like mirrors, and won't look at another one until morning. I hate what I see. I know what I am. I don't like seeing the reminders a mirror offers the onlooker. Today is just another dose of yesterday.