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.
Showing posts with label Son's of Italy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Son's of Italy. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Daddy and Me... Part One..
My sincere wish for all of you dealing with the troubles and obstacles life heaps on us is that you don't lose hope. I have said before that the most beautiful flowers start out in a little pile of shit. Write it down and tell your kids at the appropriate time. I also tell my kids, "Show me your friends and I'll show you your future." I am the 4 times married Irish Confucius and don't you forget it! Don't worry, I won't let you!
I can also say without wavering that I do not believe in coincidence. Have you ever been thinking about someone you don't speak to regularly and they call in that instant? Have you ever been feeling down and some complete stranger says how pretty or kind you are? You may share my belief. If you don't that's fine too. One thing I am truly grateful for is that I don't have to be right all the time anymore. That was a lot of work for a lot of years. Even when I was wrong I would verbally beat you until you took my side out of pure exhaustion. Sometimes it takes a little distance between a preconceived notion of coincidence and "time" to see it really wasn't a coincidence at all. Huh? Read again slowly!
My father was my idol. That is as plain as I can state it. I hate to use that word but I spent a large part of my life seeking his approval. I did things hoping to push his approval button, and usually missed the mark by a mile. I built up grandiose dialogue in my head of me saying this and he's gonna say this and then everything will be just grand. I did this over and over, year after year almost to the time of his death. I always thought I was missing something from him, that was there all along. Once again because the approval package wasn't delivered in the box I expected, I mistook it for something else completely. That is, that he thought I was a loser and a failure.
My dad was a self-made guy, funny, hardworking, loyal and rich in friends. He was a staunch Republican, proud Vet and true Irish-American. He was strong willed and never let the facts get in the way of his opinions. Growing up I was an earring wearing, music freak who cried for world peace and shouted for equality among all men. I spoke in idealism, not reality. I was a punk rock Hippie, everything my father disdained. I am a liberal in theory but a centrist in practical application. Our polar extremes made agreeing on issues tenuous and sometimes strained.
He grew up on the Southside of Chicago around 63rd and Western in an Italian and Irish neighborhood. He did not embrace his Irish heritage until later in life. As a young man he wanted to be an Italian. Back in those days there was a street gang called The Son's of Italy. My father was the only Mick initiated into this band of Paisans. They weren't like the gangs of today. They were more like social clubs who dressed alike and had fist fights with other social clubs dressed alike. As he grew into a young man sporting pinkie rings, shark skin suits, Italian horns and driving fast cars was his thing. He ran the streets with his buddies and the babes. Italian was his modus operandi. He held onto some of his Italian wannabe ways until the end. Being married to a feisty, beautiful Italian woman might have helped him keep the meatballs running through his veins to the very end.
He grew up with my grandmother and her husband, Grandpa Bill to me. His father had split for Toronto when he was a young man. There he was a high class waiter in a swanky hotel who managed investments on horse racing on the side. Maybe it was the other way around. Either way, my grandmother was stern, sometimes cold and not exactly the nurturing type. I mean no disrespect. That is just the way she was. She worked endless hours leaving my father to be raised by the Southside way. The neighborhoods were his family and the streets his mentor.
Dad and Grandma were very much alike. I see that as a man but was confused and hurt by his distance as a boy. We never once played catch with a baseball or football. I resented that back then, but now realize he had very little interest in playing sports due to a lack of athletic ability. I, of course, took it as a personal disregard for my love of both games. I always seemed to look for what was wrong instead of what was right. When the little father-son scenarios didn't match my pre-written script I blamed it on him and was certain he didn't care about MY feelings!
On a baseball note, I was a Sox and Cub fan for years. It was perfect for a kid with a mind that raced at a 100 miles an hour. I loved Rick Monday and Richie Zisk. It wasn't settled until someone asked me who I would pick if they played each other in the World Series. Who would I want to win? That's when I went straight Southside. I am not a Cub hater though. I have enough chaos scrambling my noodle to add to that debate. I am a Chicago guy. If my guys don't make it I am not gonna bet against my city! I do, however, think that the philosophy of the lovable-loser is an oxymoron and sets a bad example for future generations. It encourages kids to accept failure and mediocrity as being cute. "Don't worry Son. You're only 32. Maybe you can move out next year." KIDDING! Now back to our story.
He married my mother and was so scared of his that he didn't tell her for a few weeks after the wedding. Both of my parents went home at night to their parent's homes instead of one of their own. I told you, Grandma was a doozy! After they did take up house together, as man and wife, my father dove into his car selling career. The long hours of work followed by nights out with the guys and "whoever" took a toll on my mother. They were oil and water, unless they were on the dance floor. There they were liquid silk. My dad loved to dance and he was damn good at it. My mom could cut a mean rug too. Both of my mothers, were and are, terrific dancers. My pops was the Tony Romero of his time.
They had a beautiful daughter, my sister Chris, in July of '63. We called her Chrissy. To this day that still gets the hair up on her neck when I call her that. I do every once in a while to be the pain in the ass little brother. I was born 2 years, 2 months and 2 days after her arrival. I weighed in at 4 pounds 4 ounces. I will let you figure out that word problem to arrive at my birth date. We had a cute little bungalow in Evergreen Park and our little family unit began in earnest. Dad worked all day and night. Mom dealt with my sister and I all day and night. Everything seemed to be going along just fine. It was a "Family Affair." My sister was Buffy and I was Jody. The only thing missing was Mr. French and Mrs. Beasley...or was that it?
I can also say without wavering that I do not believe in coincidence. Have you ever been thinking about someone you don't speak to regularly and they call in that instant? Have you ever been feeling down and some complete stranger says how pretty or kind you are? You may share my belief. If you don't that's fine too. One thing I am truly grateful for is that I don't have to be right all the time anymore. That was a lot of work for a lot of years. Even when I was wrong I would verbally beat you until you took my side out of pure exhaustion. Sometimes it takes a little distance between a preconceived notion of coincidence and "time" to see it really wasn't a coincidence at all. Huh? Read again slowly!
My father was my idol. That is as plain as I can state it. I hate to use that word but I spent a large part of my life seeking his approval. I did things hoping to push his approval button, and usually missed the mark by a mile. I built up grandiose dialogue in my head of me saying this and he's gonna say this and then everything will be just grand. I did this over and over, year after year almost to the time of his death. I always thought I was missing something from him, that was there all along. Once again because the approval package wasn't delivered in the box I expected, I mistook it for something else completely. That is, that he thought I was a loser and a failure.
My dad was a self-made guy, funny, hardworking, loyal and rich in friends. He was a staunch Republican, proud Vet and true Irish-American. He was strong willed and never let the facts get in the way of his opinions. Growing up I was an earring wearing, music freak who cried for world peace and shouted for equality among all men. I spoke in idealism, not reality. I was a punk rock Hippie, everything my father disdained. I am a liberal in theory but a centrist in practical application. Our polar extremes made agreeing on issues tenuous and sometimes strained.
He grew up on the Southside of Chicago around 63rd and Western in an Italian and Irish neighborhood. He did not embrace his Irish heritage until later in life. As a young man he wanted to be an Italian. Back in those days there was a street gang called The Son's of Italy. My father was the only Mick initiated into this band of Paisans. They weren't like the gangs of today. They were more like social clubs who dressed alike and had fist fights with other social clubs dressed alike. As he grew into a young man sporting pinkie rings, shark skin suits, Italian horns and driving fast cars was his thing. He ran the streets with his buddies and the babes. Italian was his modus operandi. He held onto some of his Italian wannabe ways until the end. Being married to a feisty, beautiful Italian woman might have helped him keep the meatballs running through his veins to the very end.
He grew up with my grandmother and her husband, Grandpa Bill to me. His father had split for Toronto when he was a young man. There he was a high class waiter in a swanky hotel who managed investments on horse racing on the side. Maybe it was the other way around. Either way, my grandmother was stern, sometimes cold and not exactly the nurturing type. I mean no disrespect. That is just the way she was. She worked endless hours leaving my father to be raised by the Southside way. The neighborhoods were his family and the streets his mentor.
Dad and Grandma were very much alike. I see that as a man but was confused and hurt by his distance as a boy. We never once played catch with a baseball or football. I resented that back then, but now realize he had very little interest in playing sports due to a lack of athletic ability. I, of course, took it as a personal disregard for my love of both games. I always seemed to look for what was wrong instead of what was right. When the little father-son scenarios didn't match my pre-written script I blamed it on him and was certain he didn't care about MY feelings!
On a baseball note, I was a Sox and Cub fan for years. It was perfect for a kid with a mind that raced at a 100 miles an hour. I loved Rick Monday and Richie Zisk. It wasn't settled until someone asked me who I would pick if they played each other in the World Series. Who would I want to win? That's when I went straight Southside. I am not a Cub hater though. I have enough chaos scrambling my noodle to add to that debate. I am a Chicago guy. If my guys don't make it I am not gonna bet against my city! I do, however, think that the philosophy of the lovable-loser is an oxymoron and sets a bad example for future generations. It encourages kids to accept failure and mediocrity as being cute. "Don't worry Son. You're only 32. Maybe you can move out next year." KIDDING! Now back to our story.
He married my mother and was so scared of his that he didn't tell her for a few weeks after the wedding. Both of my parents went home at night to their parent's homes instead of one of their own. I told you, Grandma was a doozy! After they did take up house together, as man and wife, my father dove into his car selling career. The long hours of work followed by nights out with the guys and "whoever" took a toll on my mother. They were oil and water, unless they were on the dance floor. There they were liquid silk. My dad loved to dance and he was damn good at it. My mom could cut a mean rug too. Both of my mothers, were and are, terrific dancers. My pops was the Tony Romero of his time.
They had a beautiful daughter, my sister Chris, in July of '63. We called her Chrissy. To this day that still gets the hair up on her neck when I call her that. I do every once in a while to be the pain in the ass little brother. I was born 2 years, 2 months and 2 days after her arrival. I weighed in at 4 pounds 4 ounces. I will let you figure out that word problem to arrive at my birth date. We had a cute little bungalow in Evergreen Park and our little family unit began in earnest. Dad worked all day and night. Mom dealt with my sister and I all day and night. Everything seemed to be going along just fine. It was a "Family Affair." My sister was Buffy and I was Jody. The only thing missing was Mr. French and Mrs. Beasley...or was that it?
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