We're Just Two Lost Souls Swimmin' in a Fish Bowl, Year After Year..Pink Floyd

I have spoken in recent chapters about being emotionally unavailable or incapable of having functional, healthy relationships with people when I was drinking and using. In my experiences an addict doesn't have the capability to connect fully with another human when they are in the midst of active addiction. The disease creates an obsession, so strong, so uncompromising in its demands, that even when we are with our loved ones, we are not "all there." We are thinking about the next drink, hit, high or escape.

I have had an inability to connect with my mother over the years of my addiction, undiagnosed depression issues, or more specifically, before I ever picked up and learned to live with my depression. Take a moment and think about the people in your orbit. There is somebody who you just can't reach. It's someone you love and you feel that your efforts at making them happy are never good enough. There is someone who you desperately want approval from and a deeper relationship with but that just never materializes.

My mother is a fiercely independent woman, who prefers isolation and solitude over "lovey-dovey" chats. Deep heart felt conversations are rare, if ever, and I accept that. She was never the PTA, go to the game, "rah-rah" type of mom. She had work and her own issues to work through. My grandmother wasn't exactly warm-n-fuzzy. My grandfather, I can tell you very little about, even though I spent a lot of time with him. I know he enjoyed his beer and wasn't much for conversation. I don't know what she has lived through to make her who she is. Nor have I walked a mile in her shoes.

This is not meant as a finger pointing session, but a deep confession of frustration. I don't hold resentments towards her or anyone. Resentments are where we drink the poison and wait for the other guy to die. Any person you hold a resentment towards, probably isn't sitting in front of the fire thinking about you right now. Plain and simply put, I do not let people live in my head rent free. She is who she is. That is a simple statement of truth. That doesn't make it any easier but I am amazed that at age 45 I am still waiting for a magical day that just isn't going to come.

For years I blamed my drinking and addiction on my folks and found myself dialing them up drunk and telling them what complete failures they were as parents. That worked for a long time until the day my mother responded to my berating with a cool reply of "Maybe you're not the son I wanted to have either." That really hit me between the eyes and ended my drunken calls. It was a true statement. I couldn't argue with her. Addicts drink "AT" people. When I quit using it was pointed out to me that I hadn't lived with her in 20 years and continued to use. My excuse was rendered ridiculous. She also never poured it down my throat. I am responsible for my addiction. There was always someone to blame for my woes. I was the one who got me high.

My mom and I are a lot alike. We are sensitive, deep, dark and brooding. I know that plays into the difficulties over our connection. We are like rams butting heads, not in a fight for territory, but because that's the way we are. We go through some good patches and then go on the skids. It's a pattern we have repeated for years. I chuckle to myself, in an unhappy way, that I am a grown man and am still craving love from my mommy, like a 5 year old child.

It has gotten to the point that phone calls are excruciating. I don't know what to say after we have covered her health, her dog and the weather. After that it is like I am forcing conversation that is awkward and difficult. I know one thing for sure. After the phone call is over, I am left feeling sad. There is a hint of bitterness in her goodbyes. My mother can let me know what a disappointment I am just by the tone of her voice. When we see each other it is pleasant, but I always sense that I have treated her inadequately or am on her icky list and don't know why. She always seems to look at me like all I do is let her down. I certainly know I did horrible things as a drunk but this vibe has been there since I fully comprehended that she was my mother.

In the 5 years I have done comedy she has never seen me perform. Her response to my acting and film work is "Do I have to call you Mr. Hollywood now?" She hates FOX so won't see me on "The Chicago Code" and has never heard of "Shameless" or Showtime. I am auditioning for a full feature film thriller. She has already said she won't see it because "she doesn't like films like that." I know I sound bitter. I think this chapter is more for me than you but I know some of you have to share these same frustrations.

I am not some diva or movie star who wants her to "ooh and ah" over my profession. I am pleased with my work and have great passion for it. I just want to be recognized as making her happy or proud or at least not a gaping wound in her life that will never heal. That is what I have wanted my whole life no matter what profession I was in. But why? I know I haven't been the greatest son in the world, but it seems like when I get two steps ahead in our relationship, something happens, and I slip back three.

I know the key is acceptance. I do accept her for who she is but that doesn't make it any easier. When I feel bad or insignificant, the self assuring thought of "oh, well that's just the way Mom is" doesn't cut it. Actually if she suddenly changed and became interested in my life and engaged fully in it, I would probably be even more uncomfortable at this point in my life. I would think she went soft.

In my sobriety, I am really starting to see that we are all messed up somehow, someway. I avoided "feelings" for years through self-medication and drowning in my own depression. We are all just trying to get through this life as happily as possible. I love my mom with all my heart. She is who she is. That is the fact. I am the goof who dreams of a chicken suddenly turning into a peacock. I am sure there are people in my life who feel these same things about me.

I will continue to make the awkward phone calls and choose my words carefully when we speak. My wife, family and friends give me great support and I am grateful for that. I can pray for her to change but the outcomes are out of my control. I will take our relationship like all of life, one day at a time. I will keep the faith, and do what I gotta do.

Thanks for the session. I will leave a check on the credenza and I will schedule another appointment with the lady in reception. Be safe. Do your best. God Bless you all.

My Dad, Bear Fan, Husband, Bear Fan, Father, Bear Fan...He was Da' Bears!

In the previous chapters I have written about my dad and his passion for the Chicago Bears. They were his Juliet. They were the very oxygen he breathed. Quite literally, my dad could wear something with a Bear logo on it daily for months without repeating an outfit. He bled orange and blue. To Joseph Robert Connolly the Bears were the one thing that always gave him happiness. Sometimes to a point of distraction to life itself. I say that with understanding, not resentment.

Through frustrating losses and pathetic seasons my dad was a Homer, a loyalist! If the team didn't win a game for an entire season he would be there to cheer them on.To an Irishman, loyalty and commitment to a cause is as thick as blood itself. He took that loyalty to heaven with him. While he was here he taught me that loyalty to friends is unshakable and unbreakable. I live with that loyalty to those I love, almost to a fault.

I may repeat some bits and pieces about my dad here, but forgive me if I do. He is heavy on my heart today. The game against the Seattle Seahawks is more than just a playoff game in my world. It is part of the final act of the season he lived and died in. He is also a permanent part of the Bear's legacy and Soldier Field itself, as you soon will know. The Bears were a part of our last conversation before he went to meet Walter, Halas, Piccolo and all the other great Bears that have long since past.

My dad was a season ticket holder from the days when they played on Pulaski Street, Wrigley Field and Soldier Field. I started going when I was a wee boy. It was a frigid day at my first game and we ate bologna sandwiches in the parking lot. We always had great parking at the games. My dad always "knew a guy." The Bears were no exception. It was Porky, a city of Chicago event employee, who would bend the rules and move a sawhorse to allow my Dad to park right next to the stadium. As a kid I was amazed as Porky let us drive right through. My pops gave him a special "handshake" to thank him for the favor he had done.

Our seats were in the north end zone in the 130's section, straight between the goal post and about 30 rows underneath the giant scoreboard. I would be dressed in a snow mobile suit provided by my dad that was packed with about 12 beers. I was a mule, a runner at the tender age of 6. I would waddle up to our seats, heavy laden and lumpy. I was a miniature beer Michelin Man. As I approached our section the cat calls would begin. "Oh No! It's the kiss of death!" This was a nickname I held for years because every time I went to the game the Bears would lose! After the first few losses I really began to think I WAS A CURSE! They were right! I was too young to realize they just plain stunk.

It was at these early games that I tasted pepperoni for the first time. An Italian buddy named Lou always brought a huge bag of the stuff and I couldn't get enough of it. When I would come to games in my young days, Lou would shout out to me as I climbed the stairs, "Hey Tommy, I brought you some pepperonis!" After I plunked myself down in my seat the beer stash would be unloaded from my overfilled winter wear and distributed to the "crew." In those early days the seats were wooden planks, scaffolding actually, and if you dropped something it fell 3 stories to the gravel below. This was perfect for cleaning up the evidence of our smuggled contraband.

Transistor radio tucked in pocket, and ear piece shoved in ear, my dad would escape into football heaven. I was just learning the game. I would watch my dad during the game and see his face light up at a rare touchdown or turn beet red at a fumble or interception. I enjoyed just staring at his contentment at where he was in the moment. His love for the team transferred over to me easily and we enjoyed many, many games together.

By the time I got older, tailgating was a ritual my dad reveled in. There were multi-grill cooking stations and a seemingly endless variety of meats and snacks for all to enjoy prior to the game. He would later be known for the "Bobby Burger", a hamburger mixture that was accented with a ring of pineapple on top. He would invite brother fans into our camp to enjoy a burger or beer at will. He loved anyone who loved his team.

When he was nearing the end of his season here, I told him that I would take some of his ashes back to Ireland and also sprinkle him on Soldier Field. He cried at the thought. They were endearing tears, filled with the love of his team and thanks for the permanent gesture. He passed on July 21, 2010. His last intelligible words to me were "Don't forget the Bears game is on tonight..." They were not playing but I just kissed him on the cheek and said, "I will Dad." It hurt thinking about his words for awhile after he passed. Now I hold the deepest gratitude that those simple words were his last to me and a testament to his love for me and his team.

On November 17, 2010 the Bears faced off against the Seahawks. I had 2 vials of my dad's ashes with me. One was to be sprinkled where we tailgated, the other on the field. I knew that it was against the law to sprinkle ashes on the field, but a night in county jail was the price I was more than willing to pay for making my Dad a permanent part of the place he loved so much. That Irish loyalty to my dather would not be broken, no matter what the consequences. He laid his ass on the line for me a million times. A night in jail was not foreign to me and his final tribute would be completed at any cost.

My uncle Bob took his seat inside while I made my way to the museum parking lot where so many memories live. A bus staging area now inhabits our original tailgating land claim. Over the years we sometimes had to move to another spot if an earlier bird staked claim to our spot before our arrival. A small row of trees lines McFetridge at Lake Shore Drive. I went over to a spot we once used for our pregame party and introduced myself to the revelers there, announcing my intentions. They found the tribute poignant and held hands around the tree as I gingerly poured my father's dusty remains under it. I said a prayer. They took a picture and cheered in my father's honor. Now for the complicated part, the field mission.

I made my way into the stadium and down to the field. Security staff lined the sidelines and end zones, spaced out about every 30 yards. I told a gentleman my plan and he said I should work my way down the aisle centered between 2 of the field security agents. I was shaking and knew arrest was possible, if not likely. As I made my way through the front row, honing in on my drop point, I kicked over the beer of an already drunken fan. I apologized and explained my intent. His reply was, "That's illegal you know." I was shocked and angered by his insensitivity and shot back, "So is drinking and driving!" I gave his buddy 10 bucks to cover damages to his friend and continued on.

Now situated between the two field watchdogs I was thrilled to feel the wind at my back coming off the lake. God was lending me a hand. I darted my eyes back and forth between the two gentleman and uncapped the second vial. When they were both looking away I tossed my father's ashes, letting the lake breeze do the rest. My mission completed, I said an I love you to my dad and ran up the aisle into the crowd. Certain that I may have been seen, I removed my coat and put on a cap to change my look. Irish cunning at it's finest. I slipped into the masses and made my way back to my uncle Bob and sat in my dad's seat. I was overcome with elation and adrenalin.

As the F-15's roared overhead my uncle Bob and I hugged. My dad was a proud Vet. I looked around for security closing in but they never arrived. I remember little of the game, beyond the fact that we lost by a few points. I spent the game reliving the many memories I had shared with my dad in the beautiful stadium and pictured him smiling down from heaven at a job well done.

I knew we would make the playoffs this year. It was the year for my dad. Many FB friends can recollect the predictions my dad was sending me from beyond during the regular season. He was right most of the time. The game tomorrow against the Seahawks will be won by the Bears. It is as simple as that. They may not make it to the Superbowl but in my heart I truly think they will. The line from my Pop on the game: Bears 24, Seahawks 17.

As I finish up here I am sitting in my dad's favorite robe, wearing a pair of his many Bear pajama pants. He is with me always. The tears have spilled out and give me relief. I don't cry often and when I do it seems to relieve a mountain of pent up stress. Win or lose, I know my Dad is enjoying his new life above and hanging with the "Bear Crew". Remember, I said this is HIS season.

On one last note always remember that we really only have today. Our family and friends can be gone in an instant. So can we. If there is a family member or friend who you are on the outs with CALL THEM. It may be your last conversation. Life is too short for anger and resentment. The years of not talking to a friend or loved one can most likely be traced back to a silly or insignificant disagreement. You may have even forgotten what the disagreement was about. Don't leave this earth with "I shoulda's and coulda's!" Forgive! Live! Living life free of enemies and resentments is liberating and contenting. Pick up the phone now! Remember today is a gift, that's why it's called the present! Go Bears! Dad, I love you! Thanks for taking me to all those games and sharing your passion with me. I am a proud Bear fan and your grateful son!