Marriage 3...I Created My Own Prison...

Earlier I wrote about the once unthinkable euphoria I had on my first professional commercial shoot. The memory I am about to share isn't as rosy as yesterday's giddy description of life on a production set. It is quite the opposite. I flashback to darker "yesterday's" along with my "today's" to illustrate what we can endure and overcome in the challenges of life. I am not a martyr, nor feel sorry for myself. I understand that my todays were crafted and shaped from those yesterdays. God's plan was written for me exactly how he wanted it. My addictions and pain are my reality. If you take anything away from this chapter, I hope that it is that we are all haunted by yesterdays and fearful tomorrows. Today is the day to live. Through pain comes strength, wisdom and appreciation for what we have. Not what we have not.

I have written that between 1992 and 1998 I was married and divorced three times. My alcoholism and speed addiction were running my life. My third wedding was March 13, 1998. It was not the sweet romantic storybook ceremony like the one Squeaky and I had in Las Vegas. It was quite the opposite. It was filled with chaos, pain and confusion. Let the ceremony begin.

I have said that my marriage to my third wife was a business deal. It sounds cold but that's the way it was. I know I told her I loved her. I was always the first person to say I love you in a relationship. I have really only been in love a few times, but I said it to all the girls I dated. I also meant it when I said it. I didn't say it to be deceitful. I was a "love" addict. I craved the excitement, butterflies, favorite songs and giggly walks that come with love. The endorphins of love created a high for me and got me out of myself. I could direct all of my attention onto my significant other. That way I could forget about hating myself so much and ride the psychologically manufactured fantasy for awhile.

She was an illegal alien from Poland and needed a green card. I wanted a child. It was simple. I thought that a child would provide me an opportunity to right the perceived wrongs my parents made and raise a healthy, open minded mini-me. She didn't realize that the documentation process took more than just marrying an American. There is a several year waiting period and piles of bureaucracy to climb over before becoming legal. As for a child, I was unable to manage my own life. The good Lord new I was not prepared to shape the young mind of a child. Nor was I responsible enough to care for them. I thought that having a child would be like getting a puppy.

I was working nights as an ad room supervisor for a weekly car publication and she did what she did. I didn't know for sure. She was pregnant and that was all I needed to know. I had slept at the YMCA the night before and packed my bags to move in to my soon to be bride's apartment in Elmwood Park. I took a handful of speeders and drank a half pint of vodka on the way to her place from Lagrange. I was dressed in a sweater and slacks. What she wore I can't say. I don't remember driving to the Maywood Courthouse, the vows, the "I do's" or returning to her place. I do have a flash memory of being in the judge's chambers realizing I was actually getting married again. I was a 3 time offender and should have been banned from ever marrying again. I am glad there was no such rule or I wouldn't have Squeaky today.

I unpacked my plastic bags of belongings in a drawer in her apartment and laid down for awhile to get some rest. Yes! I worked on my wedding night. There was no party or family celebration. My family knew I was nuts. Her family was in Poland. I woke up, kissed the little lady goodbye, took some more speed and headed off to work. My hours were from 7pm to 5am. I had picked up a bottle of booze to calm me after work and loosen me up for my trip home to the latest Mrs. Connolly.

During the night, the first night of wedded matrimony, my wife called and asked me how much money I made. I told her and she said that wasn't enough. I assured her that I would look for another job. She called again and again berating me and anyone else who picked up the phone in my office. I was the "boss" and her barrage of calls was making for some juicy office gossip. I knew she had a temper but thought there would at least be a slow transition from miffed to rage. Not a chance. In fairness to her, she was getting a drunken, underachieving speed freak with an inferiority complex. We were a match made in hell.

I made it through the night and drove from Addison to Elmwood Park. I turned the key to the outer door of our 6 flat and was greeted with a wedding surprise. All of my belongings were smashed back into my disposable luggage and piled by the door. My knocking came with no answer. I retrieved my things and headed back to my car/mobile home. My plans of consummation were dashed. I was married less than 24 hours and it was already over.

I opened the bottle of vodka in front of her apartment and put in a CD. The band was Creed. They were edgy and heavy on the lyrics. I am a lyric guy when it comes to music and Scott Stapp could write about pain like nobody's business. One particular track, "My own Prison," captivated me. It was my biography neatly crammed into 4 minutes of emotional confession. Without quoting lyrics the song revolves around a man trapped in a prison of sin and being sure of his conviction and sentence to hell. I listened to the song over and over. "I created my own prison" played endlessly in my racing mind.

I felt sorry for myself and took a gulp. I realized I was a prisoner inside my own body and took another. I cried out to God as if to ask Him why He was putting me through this. He didn't answer me right then. Years later I found out that the song is actually about finding peace with God, not being trapped in the prison of our minds. On my wedding night I passed out in my car and headed back to the YMCA as dawn broke. If you have a moment, go to YouTube and enter Creed My Own Prison Lyrics. The pain I identified so perfectly with in that song was misinterpreted. It was just one more experience in my life when I chose pain instead of looking for hope.

Mama I Love You, Sister I Love You, and You Love Me! It's All Crystal Clear!

It's a funny thing how events look so different when you look back in the rear view mirror of your life. The distortions and distances of relationships, both real and imagined, become clearer and focused. On the side mirror of my car it reads "objects may be closer than they appear." Life truly is like that, but sometimes those distances and distortions have to be trudged through before we can look at them and gain their proper perspective.

Squeaky, Ange and I went down to my sister's house for my family's Christmas in the quaint town of Dwight. My mother, brother-in-law, nephew, niece and her husband spent one of the nicest, most joyful holidays together I can remember in a long time. It started with a Bear victory and a variety of tasty snacks and treats. It ended with me relating this story of how different things look in that rear view mirror now.

Growing up in Mokena it was just me, my mom and my sister in our tiny apartment on Wolf Road. Mom worked a lot, sometimes more than one job to support us. We were not poor as there was food on the table and clothes on our backs but Christmas gifts often included underwear, socks, belts, sweaters and other types of clothing. There were toys too. I remember opening the boxes by the corner and if I saw there were clothes or socks inside I would quickly chuck the box to the side in search of G.I. Joe, Big Jim with Kung-Fu action or Vertibird, my all time favorite toy. When I had tossed the boxes to the side my Mom would make me retrieve them and hold up sweaters and pants or even worse, try them on to see if they fit. Oh how I hated trying clothes on knowing that I had left G.I. Joe behind with my sister's Barbie.

Mom went through some tough relationships after the divorce from my father. My sister and I lived through the same pain she did. My mom was private and hardworking and handled her job as mother and father for a good part of my young life. When she would get home from work we would have a simple dinner and she would crash on the couch, exhausted from the hard day she had just put in. There were factory jobs, paint store jobs, Amway and real estate just to name a few.

My sister and I weren't close coming up. I really don't know why. We shared a room in our tiny apartment and the whole floor of a house when Mom got remarried when I was 6. Even though our beds were a few feet apart or our rooms next to each others we didn't talk life. It seemed like we had a mile in between us. We rarely shared our feelings about those challenges that our youth seemed to throw at us left, right and center.

I was active in sports and I wanted my Mom to go to every event. I would run home chattering like a record on 78 rpms until she would shoo me away because of my nonstop jabbering. I wanted my sister to dote on me like I was her sweet baby brother. Those things didn't happen THE WAY I WANTED THEM TO and I resented it. My friends had two parents doing things. I had one Mom trying to be everything all the time. My sister was navigating her way through life's difficulties, as I was, and I didn't understand the realities of daily living.

In my teens I did everything I could to avoid feelings and realities. I would morph into different "me's" hoping to reach my mom or escape the confusion of our complicated family dynamic. When I began to drink I drank "AT" people. It was THEIR fault! I didn't DESERVE this! I had a million reasons to use and a lot of painful material to draw from. As I got older the distances became chasms of misunderstanding between me and these two extraordinary women.

When I got into recovery I regurgitated my life story seeking confirmation that I did indeed have the worst young life a boy had ever encountered in the history of mankind. They asked me a few simple questions. "Did any of these people who cause you so much pain pour booze down your throat?" Well no. "If you won the award for having the worst life ever what would you do about your life starting tomorrow?" There is nothing an addict hates more than logical, sensible responses to our desperately manipulating bullshit!

Today everything became crystal clear to me. My mom sacrificed her life physically, mentally and emotionally to provide for our simple existence. She would have been everywhere for my sister and I if she wasn't going to or coming home from work. She had her own personal dramas to deal with but always made sure that my sister and I had food, clothes and shelter. I do remember she would say "I love you" every day as I left for school.

There was nothing but laughter and love in that quaint house in Dwight today. My mom is healthy and my sister is an amazing mother and sister. We ate, took pictures, told stories and reminisced about days gone by. The past is gone but it can be put in perspective now. When a seed is sitting in a pile of shit it doesn't realize that after it makes it through that shit, only sunshine and beauty await. I saw only sunshine and beauty today. It was a perfect family get together.

For all of you single parents, thanks for what you sacrifice for your kids. They will understand some day. For all you addicts, all the excuses are gone. You use because you are an addict. You will quit when you stop running. For any of you sitting like a seed in a pile of life shit, be confident that when you get through it there is a lot of sunshine and beauty awaiting you.