Great Expectations!

There are few things sweeter than when people, places and things meet my expectations. I make the plans and sit back, waiting for the universe to meet my deadlines. When they aren't met, it can be crushing. Sometimes things work out better than I had planned. Trying to predetermine what they will be, is a mistake.

My mind races. My melon becomes the Daytona 500 of anticipation. I picture myself taking the victory lap, before I have even gotten in the car. I know I only need to make left turns, put the pedal to the metal and wait for the glory. Ah, There's the rub. I can't control the race, only my driving.

My expectations are that everything will go EXACTLY as I want it to. I know I have everything carefully mapped out. I wait with confidence that the players in my model will do what I want. Each new day illustrates the futility experienced when predetermining that plan A is a sure thing.

When it comes to relationships, I often have the dialogue written before I have even met the actor. I am certain that the plot is intriguing. I know that I have carefully considered the blocking, and action that should be followed. I am filled with wonderful intentions, then POW! On cue the actors and action in my grand productions deviate from the script.

Have you ever seen a person at a stop light yelling and they are not on the phone? That's me. I have arguments with people, who aren't even there. That is because I'm rehearsing my lines for the face to face meeting that waits for me down the road. I have even gotten into loud expletive filled rants with myself when things don't meet my...expectations.

One night I planned a surprise romantic dinner for Squeaky. I went to the store and got some steaks and the biggest baked potatoes I could find. I was giddy with ANTICIPATION, delighted by the thoughts of what the magical evening had in store. There were candles on the table set in a center piece that would make Martha Stewart swoon. I made a CD of romantic music, and had placed the player on the counter just a few feet from the mood lighting.

I would lay in wait, with ears tuned in for the familiar sound of the garage door lurching its way up. When Squeaky walked through the door I would light the candles with one hand, and perform a yoga like move to hit play on the music box. It was a scene right out of a Julia Roberts, Hugh Grant film. I could have taken a picture of it for Lifestyle magazine. The caveman would prove, once and for all,  that he was full of mush and cuddly stuff.

She would walk in ravaged by her day at the office. When she passed through the doorway of our lower level she would be greeted with sweet smells and the sounds of Frank and Deano lilting into her tired ears. Her anxieties would melt away. I was dressed in big boy clothes, confident that I was dressed to kill. Everything was just right.

I finished cooking and had considered every detail. As she stepped into the family room I would whisk her off her feet. There would be the sweet, dove like coo's of mutual adoration. I would say, "You look amazing." She would smile and return an equally flattering remark. As the aroma and music overtook her, I would gently take her by the hand and lead her to the Queen's chair. I would become Benson, sans the sarcastic remarks.

I waited, and waited some more. The traffic must have been heavier than usual. I turned down the heat on the oven, to prevent overcooking the culinary delights. I could hardly contain myself as I scanned the grand scene before me. There must have been an accident on the Stevenson. No problem I will sit patiently. The payoff would be worth the few moments of uncomfortable anticipation.

My cell rang. I dashed across the kitchen, scooping up the phone and hitting the answer button with graceful assurance. It was my wife. I had a secret I wasn't going to spill on the call. Tee Hee! In that moment, I was the Don Juan of suburbia. She began the conversation with a tired greeting. "I have got a migraine, a real pounder," she groaned.

As each word spilled from her lips I was suddenly thrown into Charlie Brown's body. All I could hear was the slow motion, "whah, whah, whah," that rang in Charlie's ears as he listened to the teacher drone on. I was a shrinking violet. "I forgot about your appointment," I whimpered meekly. "If your headache is that bad, maybe you should come home." My expectations would soon be dashed, then smashed to pieces.

"I have a hair appointment. Courtney doesn't work any other nights this week. I can't reschedule." She droned on, with a tinge of regret, that she had to honor her commitment. "Well, I'll have something ready to eat for you when you get home," I meekly replied. I was moving in to plan B. "No thanks, one of the vendors brought in subs and I ate at the office. Between that, and this headache, when I get home I'm going to take a shower and go to bed."


"I hope you feel better," I chimed with sincerity mixed with disappointment. I heard her words fade into the distance as she finished our chat with a sweet knock out blow."I'll talk to you later cannoli. I love you." I muttered an I love you and laid my phone on the counter shocked at what I had just experienced. I felt as if  I had  just learned that they were placing a ban on chocolate ice cream.


I sat down with my steak, and wrinkled baked potatoes. I'm surprised I was able to get food past my puckered out boo boo lip. I chewed slowly. I turned on the music that was meant to melt my girl's heart. Sinatra songs can be interpreted as happy or sad, depending on the moment. "All the Way," tormented me as I chewed my cud. How could this have happened?


I cleaned up the table of  plates and circuses, and went up to bed. Soon, I heard the dogs barking as Squeaky pulled herself up the stairs, hair perfectly quaffed. I asked her how her headache was. It had not lessened. She washed up and fell into bed. She remarked that the house smelled good. I told her I had made steak. She returned a weak smile and half attentive nod, then was out like a light.

I stared at the ceiling, as I listened to the lift and fall of her breathing pull her deeper into sleep. Where had I gone wrong? The plan was perfect! The execution was performed with precision. There was nothing left to chance...except life on life's terms. I had failed to figure uncertainty and reality into my grandiose vision.

I could have looked at the calendar on the fridge. She had told me about the hair appointment a few days earlier. I had forgotten which night it was. I could have called her and asked if she would be home on time. Nope. I only counted on my plans and outcomes. I did not consider hers.

I slowly faded into a slumber understanding that I had made the miscalculations. There would be no freeze out the next morning as we drank coffee. Self pity morphed into an understanding of the pains that come with assuming the world is going to do things my way. I was glad she could sleep her headache away. There was a delicious lunch sitting in the fridge. It would be alright. Stupid hair salons....

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

Easy to Remember, Hard to Forget....

In life, everyone has done or said things they would like to forget and can't. There are memories we try to wish and pray away. There are always a few in some dark corner of our minds just waiting for us to wrap our heads around them, and drag them back into the light. Sometimes they are dragged out for us.

Alcohol, and/or anger makes people say, and do things they wouldn't normally even consider when calm or sober. There's the cutting remarks, pushing of hot buttons, dredged up family secrets and reminders of poor past decisions. We want them erased permanently from our memory drive. There is inevitably something we have done or said while drunk, or riled up, that we wish we could take back. This is not exclusive to people like me. Everyone has an incident or remark they remember, or don't, that haunts them or embarrasses them to some degree.

For an alcoholic this haunting presents itself through remorse, shame and self-loathing that eventually becomes overwhelming. It is simple math. Too many drinks, plus several years of too many drinks, equals loss of control, rage, verbal warfare and multiple bad decisions. This beast of burden becomes so daunting that it creates a cycle of more drinking and bad decisions. The equation is more drinks to forget, more for created mistakes, more drinks, ad infinitum.

For the occasional partier or abstainer, there are probably a few silly, or sometimes serious, incidents that happened on a vacation, or at a company party that are uncomfortable when relived. Some of them were serious enough to create a permanent scar on the parties involved. The normal person moves on, or works through it.

Before I ever picked up a drink, things happened to me that I couldn't process as a little boy. The incidents were confusing, and happened at the hands of a person I trusted. The mixed messages created conflicting emotions, and later would fuel my isolation and anger. It twisted my sense of trust and robbed me of my innocence. This "loved" one is no longer here. I have never shared the pain with my family. I know that nothing positive will result from dredging up the ghost of painful past.

That person is not here to respond, and other lives would be damaged by the news. It is my choice to hold it inside. There is no redemption that would result from my soul cleansing. It can not be changed, no matter how badly I want it to. No human can change history. I have forgiven this person. Not for his actions, but for his human weakness, and my own sanity. God has given me so many chances. To hold hatred inside would rot away at me like acid, while he is dead. He has stood before his maker and accounted for his stop here. His fate is up to powers I can't even perceive.

One of the most difficult parts of my recovery  has been facing the past, and those whom I have hurt along the way. By cleaning up the messes I have created, I am relieved of some of the baggage I was burdened with daily, monthly and yearly. We drink to forget. We drink to escape. We try to temporarily erase the massive discomfort we have created through the fog of a hangover.

Remember the Grinch cartoon where the little dog with the stick on his head is pulling that massive sled stacked four stories high with the Grinch's stolen Christmas booty? At one point they slide down a hill to a cliff, the overstuffed sleigh is teetering on the edge of disaster. The cute little dog is hanging over the edge of the cliff looking up at the huge bags that are sure to destroy him if it falls. That is what a drunk in recovery is trying to fix. Active drinkers keep adding to the burden. We try to remove the baggage, a little bit at a time, so that it doesn't destroy us. As we lighten the burden, the urge to escape is replaced by satisfaction in making things right, or at least taking responsibility for our past mistakes.

Setting the record straight with those we have wronged is greeted with acceptance and forgiveness, angry rejection or indifference by the attempted confession. The outcomes, once again, are out of our control but the issue being faced takes one more package off the sleigh of guilt. There are those we can't reach, those who are dead that make taking the responsibility for past wrongs impossible. We do the best we can with who we can, and leave the rest up to GOD'S timing.

The majority of people we have crossed are wives, husbands, loved ones and friends who are still in our orbit. The reparations offered to these people are lifetime repairs. By leading decent, sober well intentioned lives, we show others that we are "new creatures." Our actions, without expecting anything in return, is a lifetime commitment to sobriety, and our sanity. The ultimate goal is taking ownership of our errors and living peaceably with those offended in our darker days.

The selfish, uncaring drunk I was for 20 years, is still inside of me, and a part of my permanent record. It can not be expunged. There are times when people perceive that I have done them wrong. I am accused of things I did not do. The false accusations are understood but create anger and resentment towards our accuser. If a dog has stolen your socks time after time, when one goes missing, the doghouse is the first place you check. Lashing out creates more trouble. An honest appraisal of my past gives me understanding as to why they think I am the perpetrator. I was a sock stealing dog for years. I just don't steal them anymore.

Forgiveness is the key to contented life, whether drunk or sober. Anger and resentment are deadly for an addict. If dwelled upon for too long, these feelings will eventually lead us back to escape through the bottle or insanity. Forgiving myself has been the hardest reparation I have faced. The self-loathing, self-hate, fear, remorse, regret and shame can be relentless as my mind gets clearer in my sobriety. Forgiveness of self is vital, or I will end up drunk and crazy again.

I know GOD has forgiven me for my sins and human failings. By failing to forgive myself and others, I am questioning GOD'S omnipotence. I have been pardoned for my past mistakes by the ultimate expert on forgiveness. If I question my worthiness for forgiveness, I am doubting his authority and grace. It will take time, but with help, I will make it to the other side. I spent 28 years drinking. It may take 50 years before I am forgiven by others, and myself. As long as I am open-minded, and keep GOD centered in my efforts, everything will work out fine. More specifically, they will work out exactly as God has planned.

Forgive yourself and others for shortcomings and their humanity. God has forgiven us if we have sincerely asked for his mercy. Life is too short to live in the past. Remember that every day is a gift, and the days we live with hate and anger, whether inward or outward, robs us of enjoying the "present" of today. If I don't share the grace and blessings that have been freely given to me, I just might lose them all....

Racism, Math Not Genetics, It's Taught Not Caught

THIS IS A BLOG FROM EARLY 2010. IT DOES NOT APPEAR IN MY BOOK SOUL PAROLE: MAKING PEACE WITH MY MIND GOD AND MYSELF AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM AND AT WWW.TOMMYCONNOLLY.COM. IT WAS AN HONEST LOOK AT HOW THE WORLD AROUND US CAN SHAPE US...OR WE CAN SHAPE IT....


Recently I was offered a leading role in an urban film being shot in Chicago by a bright, young film maker.  I had to turn it down due to a scheduling conflict. The script was well written. The production team was well organized. The cast was carefully selected. The marketing and distribution was well thought out, and I'm sure the project is going to be a success. I am honored that they chose me for the role, and disappointed that I could not take the part.

The cast and crew was 95% African American. I was to play a single parent father who has inappropriate relations with his daughter. He is a dark, flawed delusional character.  When I was presented with the opportunity to audition for the part my first reaction was "NO WAY!" I didn't want to be the BAD WHITE GUY! My personal attraction to trying things "outside the box" and a great conversation with the director led me to audition.

The first audition, on film, was an ad-libed "personality" audition. I stepped in front of the camera and proceeded to act like a stereotypical urban white street thug. I "assumed" that was what a black urban film called for. I got a "call back" with a script and did my next audition which was of me talking to a telemarketer after a long day at work. I talked like a blue collar, foul mouthed, white trash idiot stereotype. Shame on me on several levels. I was offered the part because my anger in the scene, and portrayal of the character was what the director had moved me to do. After I had to turn the project down I thought about the whole experience and came away very disappointed in myself.

First of all I was only one of about 5 actors who were not black in the production. It made me uncomfortable. Why? The money was just as green no matter what color the hand was that was giving it to me. Second, I used urban slang and gestures in my "personality" audition. Why? That is not my personality! I let the word "urban film" take me to "New Jack City" and "Boyz in the Hood" (both amazing films) to predetermine my approach. This was before the director even told me how he wanted the role played.

Lastly, when I had my callback and had my scripted conversation with the telemarketer why did I play it like I was a "blue collar worker?" Doctors, teachers, scientists, cops, computer geeks and professionals live in "urban environments!" I defaulted to the steel mill worker or the tire shop guy. Shame on me! I place labels on things I don't fully understand to make them easier to cope with instead of asking questions or researching the other side of the story. I jump to conclusions.

I am not a racist. I base my relationships on content of character. Invariably, I think, we all have subtle or blaring forms of it. It is passed on from generation to generation like a cookie recipe. It is math not genetic. We are taught it and pass it on. We are not born with it. We can continue the cycle, or break the chain. White people have hurt me more than all the other ethnic categories put together.

I can say that when I am leaving a Sox game at 35th and the Ryan after a night game sitting at a traffic light where a group of black teens are gathered, I lock my doors. I also do the same thing at night in Plainfield when a group of teenage white kids are by my car at a light. My fear sees no color, only fear. Where I am disappointed in myself is that I made some predetermined assumptions about the urban project that I turned down.

What a horrible habit! Sometimes, I let media, TV, movies, music, magazines and the internet worm their way into my opinions, instead of learning the facts for myself. What a rotten way to see the world. It's the easy way out and the fast track to stereotyping. I know better.

This doesn't go to just people of a color, it goes to how people live, where they live, what they wear, how they talk, what God they worship, what food they eat, what books they read and so much more.  Who am I to decide what is the good, the bad, and the ugly?


My kids have been raised to treat all people equally. Their cliques are more diverse than when I was growing up. They see the inside not the outside. I guess I have done some things right.When I have contempt prior to investigation on any subject, I am judge, jury and executioner. Then I have failed myself, My GOD and everyone in my orbit....

I Hate Intolerance

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself

Soul Parole: Making Peace With My Mind, GOD and Myself is now available on AMAZON.com and Amazon Europe. Foreword by Tom Dreesen, Epilogue by David Brenner.


Proceeds will benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health facilities for the under served.


It's hard to believe that Soul Parole is finally complete. I have wanted to be an author since I was old enough to read Dick and Jane. I never would have imagined that reaching such a lofty goal would come in the recounting of 28 years of alcoholism, addiction and undiagnosed Bi-Polar Disorder.


My first work was called "The Monkey and the Eagle." I tapped it out, on an old black typewriter, in my Grandmother's basement. It was 1972. There were at least 20 drafts. White out and delete were not invented yet.


Each time I would carefully peck away on the old machine I would near the completion of the work and BANG, I would make a typo and start again. I wanted it to be perfect when I presented it to my Mom. My obsession with trying to do things "perfectly" had gotten a hold of me already.


The book is not perfect. As I read through it, I can say with confidence that it is an interesting read. I also see that I have a penchant for run on sentences, and should use more commas. You can see the growth in my writing abilities as the book progresses. It reflects my growth as a man.


I decided to leave things raw to show my metamorphosis from hopelessness to confidence. Soul Parole (Volume 2)will be more polished. I am grateful to have written all of it. The conception of the book was created, right here. I am humbled by the fact that "Every Day Is A Gift," is read in 62 countries world wide. When I see that a thousand people are reading the blog each month when I am writing so few assures me that I am touching hearts.


I hope people will look at my story from the perspective of overcoming fear. It is not an alcoholic manual. That has been written already. I hope that earthlings see that it is about victory over the things that hold us back from achieving our dreams, or conquering the fears that paralyze us.


Sharing accounts of failed marriages, addiction to darned near everything, and explaining how THIS addict reacts to life was unfurled. It was difficult to put some of those intimate details to paper, but I am glad I had the courage to do just that.


You can do anything with hope, faith and the hand of a friend. Take it from this 46 year old goof who didn't free himself from the bondage of fear until he was 43. I did not do my first film or commercial until I was 44. There are no age restrictions on catching your dreams. Go out and grab what you were meant to do! FEAR is the only thing that is holding you back.


I guarantee that if you put 10 percent of the effort into working on how YOU CAN catch your dreams, versus the 90 percent that you spend THINKING YOU CAN'T, you will be amazed with the results. At the very least, you can walk away with one less obsession and one less regret.


Don't leave any cards on the table. Nobody lays on their deathbed wishing they had made an extra hundred bucks. Many do bemoaning regrets and sadness over the things they DIDN'T do while here. We are all messengers. God gave us ALL gifts to share with the world. I hope people like Soul Parole. The sales will help many.  I have one less regret on the table and another dream realized.


Go out and DO IT! The only thing you have to lose is your fear.


God Bless you ALL for supporting the blog and helping me grow in my sobriety and life. You made it happen. I just wrote it down.

"Listen To What The Man Said" - McCartney

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. I extend those well wishes to the mothers, who have to wear both hats, due to circumstance or happenstance. This past Father's Day was one filled with mixed emotions for me. If the tone of this entry seems rife with self pity, it is not. I am grateful for where I am at on my journey.

Over the last few years, Squeaky and I have made it a tradition to visit Montana Charlie's on Father's Day. Charlie's could be called a flea market. It is different than most, because there are more new items for sale, than used.

Steamy weather has made our visits a tradition as well. Over the last couple of years it has been scorching hot as we walk the aisles of the fair grounds. We search out our favorite spots, haggle over a few items all the while wilting away. Soon after, one of us calls it quits. Then we high tail it to the car for the chilled  breeze of  the air conditioned car.

I started the day burdened by a melancholy that hung around my neck like an albatross. It is the second Father's Day without my Pop. It wasn't easier than last year. My feelings of loss and longing for his company sets itself deeper within me on each passing day.

I was taken back to Father's Day 2010. It was 6 weeks before his death. On that day, as we visited, I knew it was going to be our last together. He would enter hospice just a few weeks later. I don't know if the sudden loss of someone you care about hurts worse than knowing that the end is imminent. It was my  second sober holiday, and the clarity of the situation was hard to process. I was, and am, grateful that I felt all of it. Going to any length to avoid feelings was my M.O. for years.

While we scanned the aisles of Charlie's for spices and jewelry I had another moment of clarity. A couple of years earlier we ran into my Dad, and my Second Mom. He was decked out in a Bears shirt with goofy shorts, and white tube socks that went halfway up to his knees. My Pop was not a fashionista. I guess I'm not either.

On that particular day we weren't talking on a regular basis. We had a disagreement a few months earlier and he had put the freeze on me. My dad was always right, even when he wasn't. He never let the facts get in the way of his opinions. We made small talk, for a moment or two, and went our separate ways. I remember vividly looking down the aisles for him as we worked our way through the maze of people.

I had forgotten about that until yesterday. It fell on me like bricks. The heat of the sun mixed with the flashback sent me reeling with anxiety. Squeaky looked at me as if she was reading my mind. She held me as tears dripped from my burning eyes.

When I sprinkled part of his ashes at Soldier Field shortly after his death, I bought a Bears hat from the 1963 Championship Team. I told Squeaky it was to be my last Bears hat. I never wanted her to buy another one for me again. It sits in my office next to the two Bears hats my dad wore the most.

Squeaky knows me like no one else ever has. I suppose it's because I let her in to my heart. She can read me like flashcards for a third grader. We are connected. As we broke our embrace I looked left and spotted a Chicago Bears mug, not less than five feet away. We gave each other the look and I bought it on the spot. We dispensed of the ritual haggling and simply bought the mug. It was to remember my pop.

Being a step dad on Father's Day is an experience in itself. Even though I live with Bro, see Sunny often and hear from Hemingway regularly I am not DAD. Throughout the day I waited for them to call or text. I reflected on their younger days when I was an angry insecure jerk. I wished I could take every moment back and have a "do over," like when we were kids playing baseball in the school yard.

I tried to shake the darkness from me on such a bright day but it clung to me like plastic wrap on a bologna sandwich. As I pulled free from one side, the other flipped back to cling on again. I knew I had to think my way out of the situation. My feelings were getting the best of me. I took my mug and we headed for home.

When I returned home and switched on my computer there was a message from Hemingway. She said she loved me and I fell apart like a two dollar watch. Out of all the kids, I wish I could have the years of her late teens back to give it another approach. I was unbearable. She is an amazing woman. Later in the day I got texts from Bro and Sunny. My day was almost complete.

Mouse, my youngest daughter, is still AWOL from my life. She is twelve. I am not sure where her mother has taken her to. I have to be patient. I know in GOD'S time it will work out. Maybe it won't. I will endure whatever outcome I face sober. I am ready to take her back into my arms in a minute. My years of alcohol abuse has left her mother angry and I'm sure few positive remarks are made about me to her.

In recovery I have encountered many people trying to repair the damage of their past. I am troubled by those who say, "I will NEVER apologize or FORGIVE them!" Those are hard words to swallow after being so easily spit out. I would pay a million bucks to have my dad repeat all the things I ignored as a kid. I long for his laughter. I miss his stories that he repeated ad infinitum.

Life is short. Wounds can be difficult to heal. Scars remain. I plan on leaving this earth with a few scars and no open wounds. Anger and resentment is too overwhelming. Being right doesn't have to be the end game. I have said it a million times, like my dad would. Don't leave any regrets on the table. Swallowing your pride is easier than choking on your tears. I have learned that facing problems is easier than living with the ones you'll never have the chance to fix....

Soul Parole: Making Peace With My Mind, GOD And Myself, with Foreword by Tom Dreesen and Epilogue by David Brenner, will be available July 7, 2012. Look for it on Amazon, Amazon Europe and Kindle. Personalized copies will be available at soulparole.com.


         Proceeds will benefit Chicago Area Addiction, Homeless and Mental Health facilities

Stop My Mind...I Want To Get Off!

This is a chapter from Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself. It will be available at soulparole.com, AMAZON and on Kindle. Proceeds from the book will benefit Chicago Area addiction, mental health facilities and homeless shelters.

I have spoken openly about being Bi-Polar. Because of my condition, I can never turn my mind. Through therapy I have learned to slow it down. My thoughts only run at 100 miles per hour, instead of 500. My thoughts have no punctuation. The chapter takes place over 2 minutes.

This is a chapter about the night before I was to attend the funeral for a dear friend. If you need help with depression, reach out. You are not alone....

My Thoughts Are Racing And I Can't Catch Up To Them

You are about to enter my mind! If you are prone to motion sickness you might want to reconsider before boarding...

I've fallen asleep on the couch reading a book by Uta Hagen. I am just on the edge of consciousness because I rarely get "deep sleep," and when I do sleep I’m easily woken. The sound of a mouse fart will sit me up straight, wide eyed, and mind racing. Since the passing of my sweet friend Debbie on Christmas, my racing mind is kicking up the RPM's. There is no punctuation in my mind. There will be little here.

I shake from my delicate slumber as my lab is nudging my arm. He needs to go out. What time is it? Only 1:05? I'm not getting up until four! Damn dog!  "LA Woman, LA Woman!" You know he only wakes you when he really has to go! "LA Woman, LA Woman." She was only forty-three! Come on, guys, let’s go out! Why her? Make it quick boys! Come on! "Grace, stay out of the deep snow! They better not wake up my Squeaky. She's getting up in three hours. "Ridin, Ridin...." Hurry up, Grace! I wonder if she was in pain? Don't forget their treats. Am I afraid to die? "LA Woman, LA Woman." Grace needs a grooming. Quiet! Quiet! "I did a little dot about an hour ago..." What should I wear to the service? What should I wear when I've died? I wonder if a lot of people will come to my funeral? She was only forty-three! I'm forty-five! SHHHH, you guys go back to bed. "Ridin, Ridin...Ridin, Ridin.” I wonder if death hurts? I have to mail out submissions tomorrow. Grace, you have snow all over you! Cooter, you're a good girl! What was that feeling in my chest just now? A heart attack! I'm gonna die right here in the kitchen! "Which way the wind blows," Lord, don't let me die here! Not now! Grandpa was thirty-nine when he died of a grabber. I look just like him. Maybe I'll just wear a sweater and Dockers! "La Woman, LA Woman..." Check your pulse. Just put two fingers up to the side of your throat! No more treats! You guys are done for the night. God, I love you! "Ridin, Ridin..." I have got to get more sleep! My pulse seems normal! Wait, was that an irregular heartbeat? Man, I hate this cold weather! She was so cool. I think I'll be cremated. Those submissions should be sent to the agents by certified mail! "Ridin, Ridin." What if the kids die before me? If I do die, Lord, let it be quick! Squeaky is gonna be a mess! How will she get through it? The service starts at three o’clock. I will leave the house at two forty-five. "Well I did a little dot about an hour ago." I still have a couple hours to sleep. I better put an aspirin on the coffee table in case I do have a heart attack! Aspirin is supposed to help. I remember when we went to the banquet with her! "Ridin, Ridin...” I love her and miss her. I wonder if people will miss me? A sweater is cool! I need to pay my respects, not interview for a job! "Woooooooh." Now I think my heart is beating too slow! Check your neck again! "LA Woman, LA Woman. It's only 1:08. Go lay down guys. Grace, you are looking pudgy! I should put you guys on a diet! Maybe it's just her long hair? I think I'll be cremated in my Lennon shirt. No the Dylan! If I have a heart attack now, will I still be alive when my wife wakes? I'm going to take the aspirin now just in case. I gotta get up in a couple hours! "LA Woman, LA Woman..." It's still 1:08!