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.

When Love Is Not Enough!

The pain and despair that comes with addiction is excruciating. Every day you wake up you feeling like hell and you know you are going to do the same thing that day. It's like there's a guy with a sledge hammer standing behind a door and even though you know he's there, you choose to open the door any way. The power of addiction is merciless, deceitful and doesn't care who you are. It just wants you to submit to it's every command - and you do.

Being through addiction, part of my recovery is trying to help others to recover and make it to the other side. As a recovering addict I have done the lying, cheating, stealing and manipulation that makes addiction possible. Being an alcoholic or addict is a 24 hour job. You are either trying to get high, getting high or suffering from the last high. The paradox of addiction is that it convinces you that you are not an addict. It also twists your mind into thinking that your family and the world are against you. It reassures you that giving in and getting high is your only path to peace.

There is a person very dear to me who I see slipping into the jaws of addiction. She is a daughter to me. Knowing the signs and games an addict plays is both a blessing and a curse. It's like you know the fastball is coming and you still strike out. The person I am speaking of is a beautiful girl. She is bright and intelligent and only 20 years old. She is completely lost.

When I used "checking out" of myself was required. I had no choice. For over 20 years I continuously opened the door and let the guy with the sledgehammer beat my brains in. I lost everything from my self respect to my family. Those losses just added fuel to the fire and more power to the addiction's constant reminder that it was my only friend. It wasn't until I truly thought I was losing my mind and going to die that I got help. Friends, family, strangers and God Almighty can't help an addict until they get tired of the guy with the sledgehammer beating them to death. I was thrown life preserver after life preserver and my denial let me drown for years.

It is so sad for me to look at her and see the patterns I am so familiar with. There have been threats, sob stories, broken promises and I'm sorries. The patterns are all the same. Only the faces and places change. I see the pain in her eyes and the self hate she has for herself. The self hate is the ultimate master of destruction and obsession for an addict. As life gets more chaotic, the greater the drive is to escape. It is hell on earth.

As a loved one you can make threats, try tough love, beg, spoil and play every game you can think of to get an addict to see reality just for that one second. Sometimes it works. Other times it doesn't. Alcoholism and addiction are the only diseases that tell you you're not sick, that you can quit at anytime. An addict thinks they know all the answers and everyone else is full of shite! Prayers are important. Setting a good example is right thinking. Loving the addict who is suffering is vital.

The reality check is that all of the solutions, combinations of them, love, anger, compassion and punishment, may or may not work. It's a crap shoot. Some times you roll a 7. Sometimes you roll box cars. There is no perfect solution. All of us suffer from terminal uniqueness. You can do your best and keep the faith. That is all.

I am going to see this lovely girl tomorrow night. I can share with her my love, experience, strength and hope. I can pray for her. I can tell her the stories of living on the street or having cockroaches crawling all over my body. Maybe something will stick. Maybe it won't. We can control our actions but we have no control over the outcomes. When she walks out the door she will be left with my love and words of support and the knowledge that I will always be there for her. Once she hits the streets it's just her and her addiction. Until the scale tilts from misery to recovery I must accept I can only do so much. I must also face the fact that her life is out of my control. Sometimes love is not enough to save a friend.
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When she walks out that door I will say "Sunny, I love you and I'm here for you."


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.

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

Silly Putty and Ramen Noodles

I am grateful to GOD for giving me a sense of humor. I am more grateful that HE has one too. As an actor, comic and writer, part of the gift of that humor is that I verbalize the things that people are thinking but don't have the nerve or need to spit out. That's great because it keeps guys like me, philosophers, pundits and poets in business. Tom Dreesen told me that Carl Reiner advice to him early in his career was to "show people your pain." I have always done that in my act. I poke a lot of fun at myself. People identify with the daily mishaps of just trying to get by.

The distance between the frontal lobe (MY MELON) and the voice box (MY BIG FAT MOUTH) is only a few inches. I have seen many pictures of the brain. It looks to me like chubby Ramen Noodles mixed with Silly Putty all smushed together and placed in an airtight bonehead container. It's quite a fascinating looking machine. When I am told that we use less than 10% of it I am appalled. What the hell is flying around in the other 90% of the noodles that we don't use?! The few I am trying to get a rise out of are driving me and everybody around nuts!

I need to call the people who design filters for water or furnaces because I have a bit of a problem. In my personal life those same skills that make me a funny comic or good improv actor sometimes make me a poor communicator. That's PC talk for sometimes I say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time and I can't help it! I want a filter between the Ramen Noodles, The Silly Putty and my pie hole!

As a recovering alcoholic/addict the problem is doubled because we learn to use words as weapons of mass destruction like fists, knives and passive aggressive napalm! We find our loved ones' tender spots in passionate moments of weakness, trust or sweet confession and BAM! If we get pushed the wrong way we will pull that sweet secret you never told a soul and spit it in your face like rattle snake venom. 

In recovery that doesn't just disappear. It slowly goes away but I still have my moments. I'm not beating myself up right now. Don't worry I'll do that when I get to my rant about procrastination somewhere down the line. I am just becoming more self aware of some of my character flaws. Some of the time I am hilarious. Yet other times I can be critical and hurtful and not even realize I am doing it.

The power of a word is more damaging than a fist in my estimation. Both are violent. A sore chin will heal. The wounding of the mind through criticism and demeaning can be crippling. A perfect example is that there were many times my wife called me an alcoholic and every swear word her Berwyn upbringing could conjure up, and they meant nothing to me. The day she called me PATHETIC was the day I took my last drink. Why THAT was the word that pushed my "get sober" button GOD only knows. 

The point is that a few simple letters put in a prearranged form said at the right time, under the right conditions had a life changing impact on me. The biggest argument my wife and I EVER had was about...wrapping paper! Yes you heard it...WRAPPING PAPER. Left to it's own proper use wrapping paper is associated with joy and gift giving. In the context of the argument it was connected to my ex-wife and it was a hot button for Squeaky. We were screaming. There were attorneys involved in the uproar. She shouted that I was an "Oedipus Complex!" I spat back that she was an "unclean female dog." It really got ugly. By the time we got home we had pulled over and stopped to laugh at the fact we were going to divorce court over...Wrapping Paper.

The most frequently mentioned subject in the Bible is our words and how we use them. The second is fear. Usually the two go hand in hand. I have a tendency of shooting my mouth off when I am scared of losing something, someone getting hurt or someone hurting another person I love. At that point the Ramen Noodle-Silly Putty-Tongue is connected. That is dangerous for me and something that I am working on. The quick wit and snarky comment work great on stage and for hecklers. Not so for family and friends.

I am trying to incorporate a few new rules into my personal behavior for rules of engagement. These help me with human relations and how comfortably I live with myself. They are as follows and are not all my creations. Most of them were taught to me:

1. I do not have to be right nor have an opinion on everything. 
2. It's okay to say "I don't know."
3. I refuse to have arguments with people unless they are actually there!
4. The phrase "hold your tongue"... can actually be done.
5. When I am unsure of what to do, phone a friend is good. 
6. When I react emotionally so do other people!
7. Doing NOTHING when I am unsure is acceptable.
8. I do not have to jump into every conversation I meet.
9. Whatever dress I want my wife to wear... pick the opposite one so she wears the one I like.
10. Turn to GOD more often Tom. When you lean on his words you need less of your own...


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is available on AMAZON and Kindle. Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, mental health and homeless facilities....

Belief In GOD Is Personal...Hypocrisy Is Universal...

Recently I had a talk with my son. It was a talk where we take off the labels of "dad" and "son," We just rapped like a couple of dudes. I didn't tell him that he messed up mowing the lawn, taking out the trash or blowing his curfew. We just talked about girls, driving, jobs, life..and God. I told him whether he believed, or how he believed, was his choice. It was a decision I could not, or would not, make for him.

I call my boy Bro. It is my nickname for him because his biological father calls him son. When he was little I chose not to call him son and add to the confusing "STEP Parent" thing. These days I call him son. I also call him "Biggie" and he calls me "Smalls." That's fine because the size between us make the monikers fit quite well. He is a big man. He fully understands that when it comes to the law of the land I am Biggie, and he is a resident of the land.

There are times when I have to talk to him like the sheriff, and sometimes like Smalls. Sometimes talking to him as Smalls makes for a  deeper conversation. He opens up more. He hears me. He shares his feelings. He is honest and we both walk away feeling good.

When it comes to being a Christian, I state with conviction that I am one. I will do so until the day I die.. That is what works for ME. As soon as soon as you read that statement, some of you rolled your eyes and thought "Oh man here we go..."  Your ears probably began to close. Your mind drifted to preconceived notions of Christians gone by. The word hypocrisy rang in your head. I don't blame you. I feel the same way about self righteous Christians. Religion was created by man. God is undefinable. To assume that I am like EVERY other Christian, is just plain wrong.

You see, where many of us go wrong, as Christians, is that some exude an air of superiority to the non-believer, spiritualist, agnostic, atheist or members of other religions. I am no better than anyone. I am not worse either. We will all meet our maker. What God is, is open to interpretation. How people choose to address their maker, is optional and personal. Some can not, or will not, consider the concept of there being an architect of the cosmos. That's cool with me. Ranting on me because I am a Christian is no different than a Christian ranting on others. The intolerance is equal. The hypocrisy shouters are spewing intolerance at those they accuse of being intolerant How is it different? Hypocrisy is a universal shortcoming.

I have never told anyone to convert or burn! I have never called a man a heathen. I have friends who are Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu and Agnostic. I don't check their Spiritual Identification Card before deciding if I want to continue our friendship. My GOD! I have friends who are Muslim! What a Christian who breaks bread with a Muslim? I don't consider other religions, no religion, or agnosticism wrong. It's not up to me. IT"S UP TO YOU. I respect people based on how they act, and treat others, not based on their politics or ideologies. I search the content of a person's character. The connection we make with our higher power is one on one.


I post a positive message on my Facebook page every day. The themes usually focus on hope, catching dreams, and the power of growing with each other. If I post a Christian themed message, the wolves come out and rip me to shreds. They find it offensive. I see posts that are vulgar. Inappropriate photos are often offensive. I do not turn on those who post things I dislike. I say nothing. What is the difference? Last time I checked the Constitution, free speech made the "Top Five Countdown."

I talk to God daily. I do it on the toilet, on my knees and in my car. I do it in short sentences and long diatribes. I ask Him to talk to me through other people. He does. I know He speaks through me sometimes. I am grateful when He does. I am humbled when I am of use to Him. I am grateful when someone says I have inspired them, or given them hope. I kick the compliment upstairs. I am a messenger. That's it. We all are, wittingly or unwittingly.

To the reader: I ask that you not lump everyone into one big pot. To the Christian on the mountain of righteousness, please look at the log in your eye, before pointing out the splinters in the eyes of the masses. God is not a marketing tool, a campaign slogan or a political platform. To use Him, as such, is just plain wrong.

For years I had a hole inside of me that I couldn't understand. Something was missing. I see now that the hole was a PERSONAL relationship with MY GOD and Creator. I have a "Bat line" to him that is always open. I don't know if it's red, and under a glass cake cover, like on the TV show. I do know he's always there when I call.

Jesus works for ME. Worship works for ME. I did have to reassess the one I grew up with. He seemed really mean. The church I attend leaves me feeling love, not guilt. I am not pummeled with guilt and dictates that I am on a one way ticket to hell. However, buildings are not a requirement. Before Jesus left he had two instructions for man. Not 374 rules, and who to vote for. They were, in paraphrasing, Love God with all your heart, mind, soul and strength, and LOVE your brothers as yourself.

There was no color, orientation, party affiliation, caveats, "buts" or "except those people" in his statement. That is where the trouble begins. When man twists God's plan of love for power, greed, personal and public agendas and condemnation he goes against those two suggestions. Shame, shame, shame! Those who do will have to stand in front of the maker just like the hippies, artists, atheists, liberals and tree huggers.

God is love. Go out and share some Good Orderly Direction with someone today, no but's about it. He loves you! If you choose not to embrace GOD, being nice to the people in your orbit is good karma, and a decent way for all of us to live peacefully on this big ole' ball we call EARTH! 

My book, SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon .com. Personalized copies bought through PAYPAL are available at tommyconnolly.com. Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

I Hate Intolerance

There is nothing that get's my panties in a bunch more than intolerance. It is the politically correct word for hate. I hate... hate. I am having a hard time watching all the hate and intolerance, that is so prevalent in America, and around the world these days.

Yesterday,during the course of my day, I was bombarded with it. As I was driving around on my night job it was everywhere. Impatience is the evil twin of intolerance. The two create anger and ultimately unhappiness.

Now that NASCAR has become so popular, it seems like every male driver thinks he's Tony Stewart in the last lap of the Daytona 500. I have nothing against racing. For many years my second mother raced in the men's division at Santa Fe Speedway. She held her own. When she won races her male counterparts couldn't stand it.

As I sat at a stoplight, and it turned green I didn't push the pedal to the metal fast enough for the guy behind me. After less than two seconds he layed on his horn like I had fallen asleep at the wheel. It was ridiculous. I have experienced it more than once. If you are one of those drivers I can assure you that the two seconds you are trying to make up with your impatience, is not going to get you to your destination any faster.

When I pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall a driver was waiting to make a left hand turn. She did not leave enough room for the driver behind her to turn right. He promptly drove up on her back bumper. He was less than three inches from it. She was startled by his actions. I was too.


 I headed out on my next delivery. A Good Samaritan paused to let another driver into traffic. The soccer mom behind her layed on her horn to voice her automotive distaste at the drivers kindness. Everywhere I go bumper stickers preach hate with vile slogans designed to shock the car behind them.

What the hell is wrong with people? Why all the anger? I understand things are tough, and we are all facing new pressures and anxieties. It seems to me that impatience and intolerance only feeds an already distressed society. It has grown to proportions I have never encountered in my forty-six years on this planet.

Religious intolerance is growing to the point of evilness. Followers of the same beliefs are infighting between themselves to the point of physical confrontation, lies and the distortions of facts. We are all entitled to our own opinions, but the facts aren't open for interpretation.

I really don't think GOD cares the way I vote, or if I vote at all. I have not seen him/her or it come down from the cosmos to endorse a candidate or agenda. There is a little good in the worst of us, and a little bad in the best of us. That is called humanity.

I believe his message to be that we love each other like we love ourselves. Using his name to admonish or condemn a proposal or policy they don't agree with is hypocrisy at its worst. I believe the Bible, and most spiritual themes is to promote peace, love and truth. They ALL speak of honesty peace and watching what we say.

It is saddening to see people who preach righteousness while spewing hate. Whether you are spiritual or not, I think that living life in a positive, peaceful coexistence with our fellow man is a good way to live. The more we hate, and intolerable we become, the more destructive our words and actions become.

There is much talk about Armageddon coming in the near future. I am certain that the earth, as we know it, will experience a cataclysm that pushes humanity into extinction. That could be tomorrow or in ten thousand years. I don't think a calendar will determine it. I do not think the weather will do it. I think it is more likely that we will destroy ourselves before then. If hate and intolerance continue to leach its way on to, more and more, people it is inevitable.

Every Day IS A Gift. Why spend it hating? I hope to die peacefully. I'll start by being tolerant and patient today. My day will be more enjoyable. I would HATE to think that if today is the day I take my last breath I spent it it ticked off. Let's all give it a try. You just might find your day, and life, more peaceful....

A Handsome Prince, The Love of the Lyons and Beautiful Queen Misty!

At midnight, my son Scott turned 16. I call him Bro, he calls me Da. He has a father named Bill and a Da named Tommy. I am very proud of him. That sentence is really pretty stupid! It's like saying a rainbow is pretty. My son is funny, good to his mom and sisters, respectful and a laundry list of the things that make a man a good man. Happy Birthday Bro. I love you. One of the most humbling and gratifying moments of my early sobriety was on my first 
anniversary when my SON took me to the side and said he was proud of me. The world says that speech is supposed to go the other way around, but I'll take it.

Lately, my passion has been reduced to a pilot light, due to life and the things life does to all of us. All along I have stated that there are no coincidences, as far as I'm concerned. We are all a part of a grand chess match that the great creator plays out daily in our lives using events and people to create our next move in the game. My passion was rekindled today.
I've always said that if I help one person avoid or get through the agony of self destruction, self abuse and self hate I went through for 20 plus years, it wasn't a life lived in vain. Today I found out it wasn't lived in vain. One down and I hope many more to go. A friend reached out to me in a message saying I gave her strength through my honesty. She gave me passion to write again and tears of joy flowed with inspiration from hearing her story. Don't you see the chess game? God moved her pawn in front of my rook today just when I needed it. I cried. It felt good letting off some of the steam of being me. She gave me permission to share this story. It is true but not told in her words.

In Mokena there were jocks, rockers and geeks. I was all three because I had 3 parties to go to, but was kind of a straight. Kerry Lyons was a rocker. We were friends. I remember her most starting freshman year of high school. She had great teeth, an amazing smile and a quick sense of humor. We didn't hang out but were always comfortable together when we were around each other. I know I hit on her because she was a "fox" in 80's lingo, but she just laughed at me. I pretty much hit on the whole town of Mokena that was female! She was always in a great mood and I really liked her, like a friend.

After high school Kerry got a job in the family business and got a party pad with Kim Martin, another old Mokena friend, and life was starting out pretty good. The work was steady, she was with the family. It was party hearty on the weekend. I was away at college getting arrested and doing LSD thinking I was going to write the next Tolkien series. Soon Kerry met prince charming. He was handsome, well respected, had a great gig and it seemed like they were on the road to the "American Dream." By now Kerry had begun working with kids with disabilities and other mental challenges. Between the two of them they were doing life right.

They bought a cottage in Wisconsin, so it was work, work, work all week and then shoot up to the summer digs in cheese land on the weekends. A little booze and beer, some weed, nothing too crazy. Then it was back to work 
Monday to start all over again. The marriage was great. They had friendship, love, comfort and it seemed like God had dealt them straight aces. But it's not cards, it's chess remember?

On a weekend, 8 days before their 2nd wedding anniversary, Kerry's husband was killed on the way home from the Wisconsin summer home. She had decided to stay home and do laundry. God changed the game for both of them and one more forever that weekend, not counting the many more lives he had touched.

More than 2000 people attended Kerry's husband's funeral. Hundreds of motorcycles and police escorted him to his final resting place, a reflection of what a truly respected and decent man he was to those who knew him or knew of him. Family, friends and loved ones comforted Kerry for a month, then came the crushing sound of silence and isolation. Being a hard working responsible man, her husband left behind a tidy sum of money to keep Kerry going. It wasn't long before she was REALLY going! Anyone who has been drunk does it for the instant relaxation, the freedom from fear and the escape from reality. In a healthy environment and clear state of mind, that is a fun and a common release. In a time of guilt, loss, emptiness and self-loathing it can set up a time bomb.

Soon Ms. K was downing a fifth of brandy a day to even out the copious amounts of cocaine that fueled the nightly parties. Big payouts bring out the zombies and hangers-on that stay around as long as there is a party, some booze, or dope or money to keep things going. When those things go, so do they. Kerry was spinning out of control and didn't know where to turn. She spent her nights trying to get high enough to finish the job permanently and join her prince and dreading the mornings waking up to see that she hadn't completed her mission. She had faith in God, but with the loss of her husband, the questions of why were pounding in her mind and soul.

Kerry continued to party, but less so, and some friends who were involved in Easter Seals introduced her to a young princess named Misty. She visited the fair princess who was the product of the fostering system on a few occasions. She was still hurting but drawn to this beautiful girl who suffered from serious learning and physical disabilities. Why did she keep going to see her? She couldn't answer the question herself. God was moving in for check mate.

After several visits Kerry decided to take the beautiful Princess Misty home with her. She was still struggling with her own demons. Misty was 2. Her mother gave birth to her drunk and high on angel dust. She was an IV Heroin user. Sweet Misty was born a Junkie. While Misty struggled with her new life, and physical and special needs learning challenges, Kerry began to see things differently in the chess game God laid before her. One night, while the now Queen Misty slept, Kerry questioned her ability as a mother, but knew she would not be an addict like Misty's birth mother. In recovery we call this a "spiritual experience."

Kerry weened off the poisons she was killing herself with an inch at a time, WITH THE HELP OF A FRIEND. She reached out for help and it was there. She worked it a day at a time as both mother and sober person. Queen Misty was soon reevaluated as "normal" and moved to regular classes. She went from the short bus to the long one. Kerry began to work with others in need of help in recovery and assist with special needs children. The love of this mother Lyons was fierce in her pride.

Through the love of a kind, patient, sober mother and gracious God and a fearless hard working daughter, Queen Misty graduated Valedictorian of her grammar school, graduated from Providence Catholic in New Lenox and now attends Illinois State University. She is studying to be a speech pathologist. The death of Kerry's husband is impossible for me to comprehend. To endure that and then turn around and take on the responsibilities of motherhood are mind blowing. She could have fallen apart and given into addiction and just melted into nothingness. She could have just shuffled through life in a fog. But she didn't. She jumped back in and did so with two feet and fists flying. She saved a child and a child saved her. Throw in the fact that the child was severely challenged, mentally and physically, seems like a storybook.

The happy ending to this story is not a fairy tale. It all came true and Queen Misty is passing on more of God's grace to those in need through her career choice in speech pathology. I cried when Kerry told me this story today. I am proud to call her my friend. I hope to meet Queen Misty soon. I have never met royalty. The problem with life is when we try to figure out God. It's like trying to measure the sky with our thumb and our pointer finger. It can't be done. Kerry, you are full of Lyons! Misty, you are a queen! I am honored to be court jester in such a noble kingdom. Thank you for sharing your story and making this world a better place for all of us. Every day is a gift!

I Know We've Just Met....Will You Marry Me?

This is a flashback to "I Don't Like Myself Very Much...But I am All I Ever Think About." I get crazy when I'm watching a movie that has flashbacks and I get lost. I usually turn to my wife and ask in an uneasy tone 'Is this NOW or then?!" She shoots back a wry smile acknowledging that she is aware that I hate flashback films but should shut up and let her enjoy it.

I have jumped around in telling my story of addiction, hope, faith and recovery. I thought that I needed to share some hope after laying out a lot of pain. I have had more feedback on my addiction stories than my "life philosophy," I see the connection between the two, but pain is juicy, hope only warm and fuzzy.

I have had lots of crushes and have been in love a few times. I adore my wife Kris more and more with each passing day and had 3 failed marriages before meeting her. This blog will obviously not veer off into "how to meet the perfect mate." I do know that I hurt a lot of women and some hurt me. All knew I had addiction issues but I was able to convince, or con, them into dating or marrying me anyway.

My first wife was, and is, beautiful, funny and kind hearted. Looking back at the courtship and marriage, after 18 years, I have a clearer idea as to what was wrong from the start and why the marriage was doomed from the beginning. The courtship was stormy and lurched along for 2 years. She left me after just 4 months of marriage. She knew I drank too much. Like lots of people, she didn't realize how bad it was.

When we lived together I would walk to the corner for a paper and a bottle nightly. I would chug the bottle on the short walk back. After arriving home I would thumb through the paper and promptly announce that I needed the "other" paper and repeat my booze cruise again. There were hidden bottles and strange trips I had to take. Sometimes I would say I needed to "clear my head and go for a walk." The trip wasn't to clear my head. It was to check out of it. I would repeat this over and over until the day I arrived home to find our apartment cleaned out. Ah! More reasons to justify continuing the insanity.

I had an opportunity to talk to her in the last year and apologize and clear the air about the past. I can not say that she has forgiven me but she didn't stab me when we spoke. She is still as cool as ever and is touching a lot of people's lives in amazing ways. I am grateful that I had that opportunity.

My second wife was much younger than me. She also knew I was alcoholic but thought she could save me. We had very little in common. Personal tragedy and pain was the tie that bound us together. During a short whirlwind hook-up I got her pregnant. A pre-existing medical condition made it impossible for her to conceive. But I got her pregnant! It was divine intervention as far as I was concerned. So we married quickly and set up house. I married her to "do the right thing" and raise our miracle baby. The child would snap me out of my alcoholic fog and make me a responsible, sober man. We were "in love". She lost our child shortly after we were wed.

My drinking and drug use spun out of control. I was now mixing speed with weed and booze to be able to use more. She threw me out after about 5 months. I have tried to reach out to her but have been unsuccessful. The time isn't right now and I pray for the day when we can talk about those times and apologize for my obnoxious behavior. I know how sick I was inside but the outside world only saw the destruction and anger I left in my wake.

My third wife and I met at a singles dance. She needed a green card and I needed a child. We never lived together more than a few days at a time and I got her pregnant about 3 weeks after we met. In my "do the right thing" alcoholic morality, I married her. I remember taking her to the doctor for her first ultrasound. I was giddy and proud to be there. As I stood by the monitor I could see MY baby's amazing tiny head, hands and feet. The only thing missing from the most beautiful thing I had ever seen was a heartbeat. After a few moments and several doctor/nurse whispery consultations, they confirmed that the baby was dead.

I was 32 and I had been married 3 times in 6 years. I had lost two children and I was pissed at God and the world. How could he do this to me? He knew I wanted so badly to be a daddy. This is when my homeless period began or continued. We were absolutely toxic to each other. We married as a business deal, i.e, green card her, baby me. The relationship did end but I ended up getting her pregnant again. The marriage would never have worked but she gave me one of my greatest gifts.

Kelly was born in January 2000. She has her old man's zest for life but didn't get my schnoz. Thank God! She is brilliant. I am not just saying that because she is mine. Her grades confirm it. I was sober the day she was born. I held her at the hospital and was alcohol free for the first 5 years of her life. I support her mother and see her when I can. It is still complicated but I get through it a day at a time with God's help and guidance. I couldn't get through it or anything anymore without him.

Lord! Please Don't Let Me Wake Up Tomorrow....

On that Christmas in 1998 I was 3 months from entering rehab at Hinsdale Hospital, a guest appearance in the "Nutty Bin." I started drinking by about 7am that morning. I had stocked up on Christmas Eve because I knew the stores would be closed on the holiday. My Christmas meal consisted of Jim Beam, cheap beer and cheaper vodka. That was accompanied by some chips and lunch meat to keep the booze down. A seasoned drunk learns the right combination of booze to keep the drunk going and just enough food not to kill it.

I hadn't talked to my family in months and I imagined what they were doing while I sat alone in the dark. My mom was probably scurrying around the kitchen making a shrimp platter or some kinda cheese ball with nuts. My sister and brother-in-law were knee high in shredded wrapping paper, the torn up remains from the wonderful gifts my niece and nephew were giggling about and dancing between. My dad and my second family were just rising and preparing for a feast later in the day. They were only a few miles away in La Grange but they were done with me.

I hated them for not calling me. It didn't dawn on me that they had done all they could to get me sober. Ultimately I knew I would either stop by some miracle or die. I was nearly dead already. My body was beat, my emotions were spent and my soul was dead. When I did see them it was to borrow money or ask for help out of my latest jam. When I was invited to join the kin I got drunk and funny, then wasted and wicked. I had no consideration for other peoples' lives or what problems they faced. My addiction only had room for thoughts of me and my next high.

I drank more and ate less and began to feel my mind slowing down. The rage was subsiding and the sadness and self-pity were stirring. Why did life always deal me the bad hand? Gulp! Why did everyone hate me so much? Slurp! Where did all my dreams go? Swig! I wasn't afraid of dying at that point in my life. I already was. The machine that contained my agony and called my body was just going through the motions. I knew I was an alcoholic and was okay with that. The fact that I knew I was going insane, literally, was where the panic came from. A couple more beers and I would pass out soon. A couple more hours and my family would be sitting down to a delicious feast.

I woke up with my head pounding and my stomach rumbling. I squinted through the slits of my eyes and saw it was 5:00. The thing was that I didn't know whether it was p.m. or a.m.! I jumped out of bed and saw that it was dark outside. Being December the darkness gave no clue as to whether it was night or morning. My fears were realized when I turned on the TV and a Christmas show danced on the screen. I had not slept Christmas away.

By then my family had finished up the food and treats and were enjoying a belly-stuffed nap or heading back home with boxes and bags of Christmas cheer. I rang the front desk to see if anyone had left a message for me. But how could they? Nobody knew where I was. I still had seven hours until the blessed holiday would finally be over for another year.

That morning I reflected on the horror and despair I was stuck in. Then and there I decided that I had enough. I took the slug out of the freshly cracked bottle of vodka and promptly dropped a cigarette into the top to pollute its contents. I tossed it in the tiny plastic trash can and swore off the drink forever.

Seven hours to go until midnight. My stash was gone. My snacks were eaten and my nerves were shot. I compare it to that cartoon where the mouse nails the furniture to the ceiling and the cat wakes up thinking he's sleeping on the ceiling. Frantically he jumps up and down to reach the floor. He runs to the medicine and promptly downs a bottle of nerve tonic. He jumps to the "floor" holding on with his nails and every bit of his strength only to fall again.

I made my way to the dresser that held my socks. I removed a white sock and rinsed the empty bottle of Jim Beam. Placing the sock over the lip of the empty bottle I slowly poured the tainted vodka over the sock into the fresh bottle. It caught the ash and butt from the cigarette but the tar and toxins from the smoked butt turned the once clear liquid a vile shade of brown. Marlboro vodka was my brand for that night.

I was at a new low at the bottom. I knocked back the ashtray cocktail and chased it with a soda. I got drunk enough to sleep and numb enough to dismiss the depths I had fallen to in order to keep the buzz going. I wept as I collapsed into the filthy bed. Taking the corner of the sheet I wrapped myself up to ward off the roach parade that would be marching over me when the lights went out. Then I prayed. It was a real prayer, a prayer of desperation. It was a prayer I felt to my empty soul. Between the tears I mumbled to the heavens...Lord! Please don't let me wake up tomorrow...