The Dough, Ray and Me....

THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM A FICTIONAL PIECE I STARTED WHEN I BEGAN WRITING SOUL PAROLE CALLED "THE DOUGH, RAY AND ME." I might as well have called it non-fiction. IT WAS... ME....

This is the original unedited copy from March, 2011. It contains crude language, grammar and spelling.....


3:30am. I'm painfully awake. My head is pounding with dehydration and demons. They're not the little red guys with horns and trident tail. They jab at me though. They never stop.They are my demons, created from my fears and wrong choices. They were forged from broken hearts and failures, pains of my making, and the agony handed to me by everyone else's reality. They never sleep. They're relentless. 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. They are the only constant in my life, beyond  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 hates me. Cleaning my room must be how they break in the new girls. The tiny motel box, I know as home is the litmus test to check 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 to 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 victims.

I have become like them, crawling in the darkness, feeding on the garbage people have tossed aside. Poison has no effect on my body. I ingest it nightly. Sometimes I  run my fingers through my thinning hair. I am convinced that tiny feelers are sprouting from my head. They are survivors. I am a survivor, if not a hanger on. They are oblivious to me while I exist in oblivion. I am a creature of the night too. Light hurts my eyes and attempts to brighten up the darkness of a world too much for me to witness. I am no threat to them. I am either drunk, working, passed out or too sick to care about their take over. They are the only family I have left.

I slip in my own vomit as I fumble into the mold covered bathroom 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. It's like my gratitude for cheap vodka or cheaper beer. My fingers and knuckles are painted in cracking blood. I was shooting my mouth off the night before, or punished someone for shooting off theirs.

Sometimes I wake to find a woman laying next to me. 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 staggered back to my palace. I am useless as a lover when I'm drunk. I'm a useless drunk when I'm in love. 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 find comfort in sharing a bed with someone as lost as I am. I dread it when they wake up. I hate morning conversation. I loathe it with people whom I don't know. I have to guess what to call them. It's rare to find them next to me. I usually kick them out before I pass out, to prevent the uncomfortable morning chit chat.

I turn on the shower. The cold numbs me further. The piss and puke slide from my body. The freezing water dulls my headache and offers the closest thing to sobriety I'll feel that day. I see my roommates are enjoying the mess I have spilled on the floor. I scrub my self like an animal is tearing at my flesh. No matter how hard I try I can't wash myself off of... me. I try to shave with shaky hands and aching soul. The cheap razor tugs at my face. When I feel yesterday has been washed away I dry off. First my hair, then my back, then my front and legs.

There is only one thing left to do, comb my hair. I squint through blood shot eyes like two piss holes in the snow. I try to neaten my thinning hair. I quickly look away. I hate mirrors. I won't look into another one until tomorrow. I will do the same thing tonight as I did the night before, and the hundreds before that. I will try to drink my way out of feeling. I hate how I feel drunk or not as drunk.. I don't need the reminders a mirror offers. I know what I am.


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Squeeze the Trigger... or Walk Away...

It's been a few days since my trip to the dentist and the pain is easing. I am getting back to my grateful, hopeful, yet cynical self. I have landed a small role in the Joliet Drama Guild production of "Meet My Husbands."  I am grateful for the opportunity. My blog was also voted one of the "Top 100 Addiction Blogs" online. That is a trip. But for the grace of God, there go I. I give the credit to God, my recovery friends and those of you who inspire me to continue with sharing my life story.

We all know what the trigger on a gun is. It is the lever we squeeze that causes the gun to fire. To an addict a trigger is similar to that of a gun. It can have the same consequences of destruction or or even death. One of The American Heritage Dictionary definitions of a trigger is "An action that precipitates another." For the gun, the pulling of the trigger precipitates the discharge of the weapon. What happens after the gun has been fired is the wild card.

In recovery, active addiction "triggers" are emotional, physical, visual, auditory, or psychological cues that make us want to use, or remind us of when we used. In simple terms when you smell chocolate chip cookies being baked you suddenly have the urge to eat one. As addicts we have used in so many places and under so many circumstances that almost anything can be a trigger. When I would keep my mind and finger on that trigger long enough I eventually found the denial and justification to squeeze it. Then it was off to the races.

As you move into recovery it becomes a daily practice to recognize our triggers and stay away from them, or at the very least, not to dwell on them. Sometimes they are unavoidable but get easier to dismiss as we grow in sobriety. Getting high doesn't start at the crack of a can or the opening of a bag. It begins earlier in the mind. Addiction is a mental compulsion, obsession and allergy that becomes "The Trilogy of Terror." As a matter of fact my addiction used to chase me like that little demon Indian who chased Karen Black around her house with that tiny knife in the 1970's movie, "Trilogy of Terror."

As a comedian and actor I am faced with booze, drugs and temptation whenever I work. The final film shot of a day on set is called "The Martini Shot." It is a cue that the day is over and time to relax. In comedy clubs booze is where the money is made. Drugs are a part of the background scene and all the other "stuff" that happens there are work hazards I face regularly. It is vital to state that my sobriety level is strong enough to handle the situation. If you are new to sobriety, hanging out at the bar sipping a Coke or chilling with your boys while they roll one up is an invitation to disaster. All such situations should be discussed with your mentor FIRST. My work is in these places. I have a reason to be there and I have the tools to combat any strange urge that comes my way.

What? I have urges? Heck yeah! If you played hockey for 25 years and retired, the occasional thought of those good ol' days on the ice pop in your head every once in a while. The hockey player doesn't grab his skates and head for the stadium. When an addict is in recovery we need to find new thinking to slide into when the bad thoughts linger. I would be a liar if I didn't say that when a TV commercial for some new fangled blue vodka that turns yellow when you mix it with a lime, the thought crosses my mind that that might be tasty. But I let it go.

I know if I drank the blue vodka shown in the happy love-filled party scene, I would drink it all and search out more. It's not number 43 that gets me drunk. It's number 1! If I avoid 1 I don't have to worry about 43. Active addicts and alcoholics have the ability to tune into the fun parts of the high and dismiss the horror that surrounds the during and aftermath of using. That is one of the mysteries of addiction. In recovery we think about the fights, DUI's, pee pee pants, fights and misery. That keeps us sober. We flip the fantasy of using into the reality of the disasters that occur once we pick up.

The other night I did a comedy gig on the West Side. This is an old school tavern with great food and filled to the rim with tough, no nonsense working folks. I went out for a smoke break because it was an "Open Mic." That means lots of comics and a long night. As I stepped outside to prepare for my set I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of weed. I took a couple drags of my smoke and went back inside.

The crowd was drunk and tough on every comic. I ended up in a fight on stage with a heckler and cut my set short. I was pissed off. I went outside to regain my composure and have another smoke. One again, I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of doobage. I took a couple more drags of my smoke and watched them with curiosity. I returned to my can of Coke and watched the next 4 or 5 comics.

By now the place was packed and I couldn't breathe so I went out back to get some fresh air. Once again, I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of mary jane. I smoked my cigarette and made small talk and then it happened. The average earthling has about 6 or 7 thoughts swirling in their minds at once. An addict has 6 to 700. Our minds work on warp speed. They asked me if I wanted some. My whole life of homelessness, addiction, pain, happiness, hope and fear flamed through my melon in a split second.

If I took a hit no one would know. Right? Wrong! I would. It was all natural and not full of preservatives right? WRONG! I politely declined and did not return outside again. The difference in that split second of CHOICE, for a using addict and recovering addict, is the key to happiness or misery. Back in the day I would have hit the joint and then went in and bought a beer. Recovery has taught me I can never use chemicals safely like normal folks. It is an impossibility. I may be able to control it for a short time but it will return with greater destruction than ever.

I see the beauty and serenity of sobriety in life now. There was a time when I thought living sober was NOT possible. I have gotten my family and respect back. I have begun an exciting career in show biz, and most importantly, I wake up being okay with me. It is hard to live inside yourself when you hate yourself. Sobriety removes that hate and replaces it with self respect and love for others. That dark hole I tried to fill with booze and dope and escape has been filled with faith, friendship and hope. I wouldn't trade my sobriety for all the God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes grass in the world.

Marriage #2.....Robbing the Cradle....Arrested The Final Act!

When I left off on the story of losing the baby with wife # 2, we were married for only a short time. The only thing that connected us was the baby and after it was erased from the picture, we had nothing left between us. The physical connection disappeared as neither of us wanted to experience the moments of pleasure that lead to the creation and loss of our child. It is in this chapter that I am going to make a confession that haunts me. I have spoken with the people involved in my confessions and taken responsibility for my actions.

I have reached out to wife # 2 to no avail. I do know she is remarried and as beautiful as ever. I hope to make my reparations to her face-to-face one day. Only time will tell. After the loss of the baby and knowing the marriage was going to end, my boozing, weed and speed use was at an all time high, or low depending on your perspective.

I was working for my father and it was a Sunday afternoon. The store wasn't open and my wife and I could not stand to be in the same room together. She was young and full of fire. I was older, addicted and had a short fuse. I left for the store to drink and use in peace, bemoaning my dead child and horrified that I was in a 2nd failed marriage. Addiction loves pain, misery, anger, conflict and general chaos. They make the excuses to use a short list to sort through, before justification is reached.

I drank and smoked weed to calm down. I took speed to make my tolerance for the two higher. I was trapped between tweaking, freaking and sleeping. I used all day and headed back to my dark, marital nest. It was her place. I wasn't even on the lease. I hid a pint of vodka under the couch and she was in our bedroom. I turned on the Bull's game. They were in the championship that year. When she went to the bathroom or if I knew she was busy with something, I would hit the bottle and pop a few more prellies.

When it comes to using, the addict becomes ninja-like in his stealth. I could sneak up on a lightly sleeping copper and take a shot of whiskey off his forehead without even waking him. Bottles were strategically placed around the place so I could "settle my nerves" at will. She knew but really didn't care. Her loathing for me was as great as mine was for her, but not close to the loathing I felt for myself. She could hear the twisting cap and rattling pill bottle coming from the living room. Slamming drawers and closets made a clear statement to me that she was not a happy camper.

I watched the Bulls in a chemical fog, hair tingling and heart racing. She entered the living room and stood between me and the television set. I acted as if she wasn't there, like I was looking through a window. She hated to be ignored. It was a hot button. As a good addict I pushed that button with glee.
She yelled that I was a drunken loser and all the usual stuff I had heard so many times before. I just watched her stomach, as if it was the TV itself. The more I acted like she wasn't there, the madder she got.

She lunged forward and grabbed my face with one hand shouting that she had things to talk about and I was going to pay attention to what she had to say. That is a censored paraphrase of her rantings. I swept her hand away from my face and pushed her away from me. She fell on her bottom and got up angrier than a rattlesnake with a toothache. She demanded that I get out. I told her to get out. She said she was going to her mother's and I waved bye-bye.

About twenty minutes later the police arrived at the condo. I let them in perfectly calm, knowing that I was the one with fingerprint bruises on my face and that I had just pushed her away from me. I did not start it. I did not hit or hurt her. I felt assured that justice would prevail and that truth always wins out in the end. The officer asked me to recount the events that had transpired and I regurgitated the events of the argument. He could see that I was bruised and she stood behind him looking as pretty as ever.

The officer asked me to place my hands behind my back. I asked why. He said I was "under arrest." I asked him to look at my face and knew I hadn't struck or hurt her. I just pushed her away from me. It wasn't like I flung her into the TV. She just sat down on her butt in front of me. He went on to explain that in that county the male was always the one placed under arrest. It was a county law. I reviewed the story again and he said I would have my day in court.

It was unbelievable. I was telling the truth. I spent the night in county jail and my father bailed me out the next morning. When I read the police report it said that I had beaten her with a telephone in our kitchen. We didn't even have a phone in the kitchen. I had been set up and very well at that. An order of protection was issued for a short time and I was given a date that I could retrieve my belongings. I asked the police to be there when I removed my belongings, fearing another fabricated incident. I asked the officer to note that we had no phone and the story was bogus. He told me to tell it to the judge.

I hired an attorney and planned on fighting the "Domestic Battery" charge. He instructed me that I had no record and could take probation and anger management classes and I would get off scott free. I was incensed, demanding justice be served. He said that although I had a good case and an excellent chance of winning it, the risk of losing could mean steep penalties and jail time. I couldn't believe it. I took the plea knowing that I didn't hit, hurt or do the things she stated in the official report. My second mother went to court with me for every appearance. I was grateful for that.

Here is where the confession comes in and the realization that justice had been served. I did not do the things I was charged with by wife #2 but there were two events in my life prior when I did lay hands upon a woman. The first was in a tequila drenched haze when my girlfriend punched me in the face and I backhanded her by reflex. She called the police and no report was filed. I should have been arrested. Ironically the police officer who came to our apartment was our neighbor and is her husband today.

The other time I laid hands on a woman was when I was 20 years old. I actually hit my girlfriend's head against the ground. The police were not called but the relationship was over. The three times that I was involved in domestic issues booze and drugs were involved. I have spoken with the two ladies I laid hands on and have made amends and taken responsibility for my actions. That is so not me, and I still remember those events vividly.

I have some belief in Karma and "What goes around, comes around." Justice was served that night I was arrested for something I didn't do. It was the "come around" for what I had done in those years before to my 2 former girlfriends. I make these confessions to clear my conscience and tell another human of my shame and horror at my actions. You may glance away thinking I was a thug. I know I was in those two instances. I am glad that I made my peace with them and they accepted my genuine apology for my gross actions.

I have not done anything like that in 19 years. It still haunts me and drove my addiction for awhile. The key thing is that those incidents happened while I was loaded. Sober, those actions couldn't even make it to the front of my mind. If you are a potential addict, or wondering if you have substance abuse issues, take a look back at your life. Were you using when you had your biggest argument with a loved one or friend? Were you drunk when you got into a fist fight with someone? Were you under the influence of something when you lost control of your emotions? If you answered yes to these questions you might want to look at yourself and your substance use.

I can honestly say that there were good times when I partied. I can say with absolute conviction that EVERY time I got into trouble or had a bad argument with someone, booze or drugs was involved. Booze+Drugs+Anger=TROUBLE. I will never forget that night in jail and have never had to experience it again since that day so long ago. Justice was served I just paid for the events of my past.

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.

Excuse Me? Is There an ENABLER In The House?

I've told you bits and pieces of my family life in previous chapters. There are happy stories and tragic ones, but all of them have a message. That message is don't give up hope! Keep the faith! If you haven't found God, not to worry, he isn't lost. Start out with a simple hello. He already knows who you are. Then pray and talk to him with the deepest of sincerity and you will find the more you turn to him, the more you will feel his guidance and presence. I know I would not be sober or writing this blog if it wasn't for the relationship I have with the Lord. The comedy and acting skills he blessed me with are to be used to glorify his touching my life. He is, "I am."

I skipped from the beginning of my father's life with my mom, sister and me to the end of his life. Now we take a stop in the middle.

I was the only boy and baby of the family with a combined sister count of four. Being the only son had its advantages with my father. I went to my first Bear game at age 5 or 6. I vividly recall Dick Butkus hitting a guy so hard you could hear the crunch from our seats in the north end zone. As a youngster I saw Joe Namath and O.J. Simpson at the end of their careers and all of Walter Payton's. I was with my dad for the 1985 Superbowl season and 1988's loss to the Niners. I truly don't know how many Bear games we saw together but it was quite a few and it was a place I could tell my dad was truly happy. There was the snow falling from heaven during the NFC championship against the Giants and the "Fog Bowl" against the Eagles. The first game after 9/11 was the heaviest. We both cried like babies as they unfurled a field sized American flag across the stadium while F-15's roared overhead. When the new stadium was built our run ended with the personal seat licensing and my dad passed the tickets on to my Uncle Bob.

I missed a few seasons in between. I couldn't pay for the licensing seats because I was too busy spending my money on booze, dope and whoever wanted to do booze and dope with me. I have spoken about the lengths an addict will go to to keep the run going. Please remember when I say the addict I am the "THE." It doesn't mean we don't love people or care about their feelings. It's just that the power of addiction over our minds, bodies and souls is so domineering we often turn off our morality button to reach our goal of getting high.

The key player in the perpetuation of alcoholic or addiction insanity is the enabler. The word enable implies the weak and timid, easily manipulated and a complete pushover. It means in brief  "to supply the means," as listed in the American Heritage Dictionary. Enablers are usually the ones who love the addict the most and is filled with the most hope that someday things will be different. They are moms and dads, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, friends and neighbors. They are sometimes obvious in their efforts and sometimes stealthy, dealing under the table.

Their intentions are pure but can be destructive in the end, not to just the user but the one who enables them. The pain of letting someone they love down, hurts them so they give in knowing it is wrong. The anger of withdrawal is frightening so they pacify. The hateful words or disinterest of the user makes them try to buy their approval and love. They hand out money, food or shelter not knowing if that hand out is going to be the one that kills or saves the user. Ultimately it is just another time in a merry-go-round of negative encouragement.

My dad was my enabler. He was there when I needed him. Whether it was for some cash or a car, he was the guy who saved my ass over and over. I took it for granted that he would always be there to clean up the shit I left behind. I worked for him on and off while crawling through 9 years of college. I didn't go 9 years straight. That was impossible for my addictive nature. I went for a year and a half to ISU. When the heat was ready to come down on me from the law or Academic Probation I skated back to Daddy. I transferred to Columbia College Chicago and attended, on and off, until graduating in 1992. I paid my ticket through student loans. I thought it was free money. I have paid the government back the $18,000 dollars I borrowed for my education. The $26,000 I owe them in interest, for all my years of neglect, won't be forgiven. Student loans come with no deal making. The government does not enable, at least where student loans are concerned.

If I was short of cash I would hit Dad up for a "loan." Those loans were rarely, if ever, paid back. He helped me move when a marriage or 3 failed. He did whatever he could to help me because of his love for me. I didn't see it that way. The addict thinks family and society owe them the money for injustices real or perceived from our earliest recollections. We had it coming! Suckers! That seems crass but when we need to use our hearts and minds focus on getting high. The kindness of the enabler is overlooked instantly by the obsession of the score.

By 1996 I was a fall down drunk and my father's good spirited giving ended. He arrived at my apartment after a girlfriend couldn't rouse me from a stupor. He slapped me awake, crumpled up a $100 dollar bill and dropped it in my lap saying, "That's it! The end of the line. You are no longer my son!" The words hurt long enough for me to realize I had a Ben Franklin and could get more vodka. We didn't speak for quite awhile after that. Messages were past from family or employees to check on each others well being.

In March of 1999 I called him begging that he take me to rehab. Initially he refused. I don't blame him. I was a drunken liar and thief. He did call back an hour later saying he was on the way and his charity got me to the hospital I so desperately needed. He didn't visit me in detox or for my loony bin stay, but Mom #2 stopped by every few days to bring me smokes, magazines, socks and undies. She was amazing. On family night none of my family came. I had used and abused them to the point of disconnect. Funny thing is that my dealers and bartenders didn't show up either. They had always said we were family.

My father and I built our relationship back up again, but he no longer enabled me. He helped where he could, but if I slipped off track he let me fall right on my face. It was tough love until I got the picture and started to fly right. There were ups and downs like any family dynamic, but I was able to make reparations toward the end of his life for the damage and manipulation I had laid on him. We spoke of my specific wrongs and I cleared away the damage of my past behaviors.

Toward the end, during one of his stays at a home, he made the comment that he had saved my ass now I was cleaning his. We both laughed but I was grateful that I had the chance to right my wrongs. If you enable, the choices are tough and there is not a one size fits all explanation on how to handle it. I was lucky. I had a chance to make peace and be useful to my father at the end of his life. If you are a user your time may be running out to make things right. Think about it. I was one of the lucky ones who got a chance at redemption. You can have it too starting one day at a time. Today looks good!

New Years Eve 1997, Some Drinks, Some Tears and a Popsicle!

I don't remember the 90's. It seems like such a simple sentence when it rolls off the tongue. When it rolls off of mine it stings. By the end of the Nineties I was nearly dead and in a 10 year blackout. I missed a lot of Bill Clinton, who I liked, and a lot more of Nirvana, whom I thought were overrated. Mother Love Bone, Pearl Jam, Alice-in-Chains and Soundgarden were the true pioneers of the "Seattle Sound," or "Grunge" as far as I'm concerned. Nirvana was at the right place at the right time. Sorry to my Seattle area mates, Ian McLennon Shipp and Angela Kirby, if you disagree. A Mick has an opinion or several of them on any subject.

One of the things I do to deflect feelings of discomfort is to tell a joke to redirect a conversation. When my emotions take a turn I don't like, or that create fear in me, a quick witted comeback or smart ass comment is immediate relief. It works great as a comedian and actor, but not so well when I am in a serious conversation with a friend or loved one. I use it as a defense mechanism. I would rather feel laughter than "feel" others pain because I get frustrated when I can't help solve their problem. By making them laugh I have given them a moment of relief...but I digress.

At the end of the 90's I was in my third failed marriage. Although married a year we never spent more than a few days together before my booze and her temper broke up the bliss. I was living in my car part time and in sleazy hotels the other half. New Year's Eve was on a Wednesday in 1997. My on and off wife and I went to a prepackaged dinner party. I drank, she yelled and the night was over before the prerequisite confetti, horns and warm hearted kisses.

I dropped her off at her apartment and should not have been driving. I headed back toward the strip of transient hotels on Lagrange Road in Stone Park. As I approached the corner of Grand Avenue to turn onto Lagrange I could see a police road block set up in the middle of the street about a quarter mile from where I had just turned. I was absolutely over the legal limit and switched into survival mode. Spotting a familiar dumpy motel I had stayed at before on my left, I pulled into the drive smooth as silk. I had out smarted the law and savored the familiar adrenalin rush one experiences knowing catastrophe had been averted.

I had little money but not enough for the innkeeper. He knew me well and in a pathetic nod said it was okay for me to sleep in the parking lot. I assured him I was going to get paid Friday and would check in respectably. I was instantly taken back to Wimpy from Popeye. "Can I borrow a quarter for a hamburger, for which I will gladly repay you on Tuesday?" I navigated my car into an empty spot, or two, and set out for the liquor store across the street. An addict always makes sure, that when choosing a place to rest his head, that there is liquor, an ATM, a laundry mat and fast food within stumbling distance. All of the necessities a gentleman of my station needed.

I bought enough booze to help me pass out quickly. It was well below zero and my car had no heat. I was dressed in a business suit with no coat. I recrossed the busy roadway laughing at the suckers getting hauled away by the coppers a few blocks down. Not me! It was party time. I had a pair of sweat pants in my car and a blue U-Haul blanket. I was cock sure that I wasn't a drunk. I was a SURVIVOR! I wasn't homeless. I was just camping in my car.

I guzzled the pint of Vodka in a few deep, burning gulps. I chased it with a grape soda for sophistication. The late night radio talk show host, who talks about aliens and UFOs, was a familiar companion. I slipped my sweat pants over my now wrinkly tailored suit pants, wrapped myself in the greasy blue blanket and wept in desperation that I couldn't take much more. I always thought I would die before 40. Now the horrifying realization that my madhouse life could continue infinitum was seeping into my fragile psyche.

As the windows frosted up inside, the warmth of my flammable breath was the only source of heat the car provided. I passed out for an hour, waking to more UFO talk. I slept another hour and awoke to a new voice. The third time I woke up the sun was cracking its way through the New Year dawn. It was now 1998 and I was sure things would be different.

1998 did begin a new twist in my alcohol abuse and chaotic existence. As I flipped the driver seat back to upright I scratched at the heavy frost to peer out at the New Year. My crotch was so cold. I felt as if I was naked. I leaned into the door to nudge it open and immediately discovered why I felt so naked. During the course of the night I had unknowingly pissed all over myself and it had frozen! As my head pounded I shivered uncontrollably I picked the yellow ice chunks from my once lovely suit. I tried to exit the car but was also frozen to the seat and couldn't move.

I had reached a new low in wetting myself. I would do it hundreds of times later. This first time horrified me. I hadn't peed myself since I was a kid! As I worked myself back and forth I could hear the sounds of carpet tearing, but it was my pantsicle unpeeling from my portable home. I was demoralized, broken and the Mr. Freeze of Piss! I had a solution though! It worked for me many times before and after that. I slithered back across the street and bought a bottle of booze and got some quarters for the laundry.

After downing my liquid potato breakfast I was ready for the new day. I slipped into a pair of gym shorts I had in the back seat and set my sails for the laundry mat. The disgust of my new bottom was gone. Denial was a welcomed mate. I had escaped the police and me again. I sat in the filthy laundry mat watching my clothes go around and around. My life was like that. I was just going around and around, but a dryer shuts off after a few minutes demanding another quarter. My body kept the cycle going and going, around and around. It didn't stop because I kept feeding it the booze it demanded.

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...