Facing Fears...Showing up....and facing the Pang's of Life...

Last Friday I did my first stage production in Joliet with the Theater Guild! The last time I was in a play was in third grade when I played a rabbit. Oh, and in first grade, I was Santa! We are doing Fred Carmichael's "Meet My Husbands." It is a comedy and very much like "I Love Lucy". It has been well received. I play Grant Griswold, the spoiler, the guy you love to hate. I haven't gotten one laugh or a peep from the audience so I must be doing okay. THEY HATE ME! The character is crass, rude, vain, smarmy, manipulative and a player. Obviously a complete polar opposite from the way I was when I was using on the streets for twenty years.

Two things really struck me about the part and doing live theater. First of all, on opening night I was absolutely terrified to the point of a panic attack. There were only 30 people in the crowd! Four days earlier I was perfectly comfortable telling jokes and my story of addiction to 300 of the toughest dudes on the planet and it didn't phase me. Now I'm in front of the neighbors and freaking out. I realized that I was out of my element and I had 8 other people on stage with me. If I fail doing stand up, it's me against the world. I can beat myself up and move on. I was afraid I would let the other actors down and it was really freaking me out. Robin Christopher and Mo the Stage Manager, Luke, Yvonne, Michael, Jacqueline, Devon, Laurel and Joe all helped me as a team. They were all there for me.

Saturday, I also did my first real speaking role in a film called "Chasing Hollywood" being shot here in the Windy City. Check YouTube, there are trailers up. My role was a lot of fun. I made my way back to the theater in time for my role as the hated Grant Griswold. I also made contact with an extraordinary woman over the last 10 day that will put this into perspective, I hope. We are all messengers and we all have roles to play. Some, we play unwittingly and deliver the message not realizing we are doing it. Some messages we deliver like diatribes, preplanned and packaged to be dumped on our loved ones, friends or co-workers.

Sometimes we know we have a tough job or message to deliver or road to go down and we face it with dignity and grace as best as we can. Kerry faced the death of her husband with grace and took it farther by taking in sweet Misty, a foster child with truly special needs. They saved each other's lives. Kerry could have walked away. Apathy is humanity's most pervasive sickness as far as I'm concerned. I was an inch away from cancelling my gig with the Comedy/Faith Outreach at Statesville but the reasonable voice in my melon said I couldn't do it. It ended up being one of the most memorable and inspirational days of my life.

Being a messenger can be just being there. Sometimes it's huge. Other times it's just a smile. Sometimes it's adopting a foster child. It might be giving hope and a laugh to some guys who may never see freedom again. It may be being with someone you love, knowing in your heart that the story is going to have an unhappy ending and staying anyway. My wife stayed with me when I was drunk, pissing the bed, screaming, useless and pathetic. She saw something in me I didn't have the capacity to grasp. She calls it an aura. I'll let her explain that in another blog.

Everyone knows that I am a Beatles fan but I'm a John Lennon Freak. His music was light years ahead of its time. His activism unmatched, his complexity noted, his genius real and his passion to the bone. Through some luck and some messages I became friends with May Pang, Lennon's companion and love during the so called "Lost Weekend Years" of 1973-1975. May was hand picked by Yoko Ono to look after John and keep him out of trouble for a while. She did all that, and more. I had a "Lost Decade." May inspired John and was much more than a personal assistant. They were the real deal. From everything I have read, John was playing pretty hard out in California and May kept him growing, writing and getting himself together for creating some of his best stuff.

The point of bringing her up is to first thank her for her generosity in the memorabilia we have spoken of that she is sending me. I truly loved John. I feel her love for him. She had to know there was going to be an end of the line. The proverbial crash into the brick wall was inevitable. I wouldn't dare ask her that but she knew. I feel he loved her too. Look at the pictures from then of him with her and Ringo, George, Harry Nillson, Keith Moon and the whole crazy crew. John looked really happy again. May stayed for all 15 rounds until the knock out and still walks around with dignity and grace, respecting his memory and legacy straight down the line. Her new book "Instamatic Karma" is filled with her photos and cool insights. Hopefully, she will be in Chicago soon. She has also inspired me to launch the "Every Day Is A Gift Radio Blog." Coming soon! Details by May.

From Kerry to May, to you, and you, and you! We all have something positive to add to the world. Sometimes it's saying the right thing or nothing at all. Sometimes it's climbing a mountain or having the cocoa ready at the bottom. It may be building a castle or holding a nail. It can be just being there when you don't want to be. It can be facing your fear when you're dying to run. It can be sticking it out when you know there's a chance you're going to run into a brick wall. Karma is simple. You get out what you put in. If you live in apathy don't be shocked that no one cares what's going on in your world. MAKE LIFE HAPPEN! HAVE A DAY! That felt good. Let's try that again after we go make someone smile.

Marriage #2.....Robbing the Cradle....Part One.

It's been a few chapters since I travelled back to the days when my addictions were completely out of control and I was on the fast track to eternity. I have said that I don't remember the 90's very well, if at all, and marriage #2 is a fuzzy, vodka soaked blur. I can honestly say that I don't remember what day we got married on. I do recall that it was February and it would have been in 1995 or 1996.

In the recovery part of addiction there are actions that need to be completed to reconcile with people and clean up the damage we have inflicted upon those who were around us in our using days. As I have made reference to before, the three stages of drinking are: "How are you," "I love you," and "F#*K you." Obviously the most damage is done in the third stage of inebriation. There were plenty of good memories associated with partying. It wasn't all homelessness and despair. But I can say that the times I did the most harm to the ones I loved, or cared about, occurred when I was ripped.

My second marriage lasted about 4 or 5 months. We had worked together and she was 11 years younger than me. She was beautiful and bubbly and could be called a "trophy wife." She knew I was an alcoholic. Heck, everyone knew I was. I knew I was but was comfortable with the tag. The word didn't phase me, but if you called me crazy or nuts I would go off.  That angered me because it was true. She came from better stock than I did and we had absolutely nothing in common.

The age difference was hard enough to deal with. I like rock and punk. She liked hip-hop and dance. I loved books. She loved magazines. I liked culture and art. She liked watching "Friends." We were "right on" intimately but after 2 hours of work outs there are still 22 hours left in the day. Those times were the only moments we connected. She had a good heart and I think she thought she could "save" me from myself. At that point, Jesus himself couldn't talk me out of drinking and taking pills.

She had some medical issues and had been told she was unable to have children. We took no precautions since they weren't needed. After a few weeks of dating she missed her cycle and we bought a pregnancy test which happened to come up positive. We were both elated. This was our "Immaculate Conception." She had been told it was impossible, and WE defied the odds! She went to the doctor who confirmed she was pregnant. I was thrilled. I was going to be a DADDY! It was the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world.

I pictured us at Sox games and playing catch. We would eat bologna sandwiches at our first Bear game, just like me and my Pops did. It was idyllic and I obsessed about it during all of my waking moments. I was going to do the things my parents didn't have the time, or emotional availability, to do with me. I knew my new baby would give me the motivation to go on the straight and narrow. I would swear off the drink, weed, speed, pills, and all the other stuff I got off on. My little bundle of joy would be my savior from self-destruction.

We flew to Vegas. Yes! Las Vegas, the marriage capitol of the world. She was only 20. I was 31. She demanded that I not drink on the trip and she was too young to gamble. We were in Vegas! It was like going to a girlie bar and making a pact not to look at the girls. I was determined to do the right thing and give the child the Connolly name. My random nobility and twisted morality drove my decisions. This world would not carry the bastard child of Tommy Connolly!

I do not remember any of the wedding ceremony, or that entire day, for that matter. I was in a speed induced blackout. Yes, that is possible. I do remember we ended our wedding night in an argument and slept in separate beds on our honeymoon night. We spent a few days seeing the sights but neither of us were giggly newlyweds. We both sensed disaster in our procreated union. We flew home with plans for me to move into her condo in the western suburbs.

While we cleaned up my apartment in Lockport, Illinois, we found 32 empty vodka and whiskey bottles. I packed a friend's Blazer with what would fit and left the rest behind. My cat "Capone" was all I cared about. To be honest I really don't care much for cats but Capone was my family since the landlord didn't allow dogs. I also packed my album collection. It is a menagerie of classics and iconic albums. The rest was just stuff that cluttered my life. I told my neighbor Frank to take whatever he wanted from my abandoned unit. He too had tried to help me get sober but I was unreachable.

Alcoholics and addicts change boyfriends and girlfriends, we move to new places, and take new jobs thinking that these changes will snap us out of our insanity. We make plans for sobriety but after a few cajoling sips of the sauce, those plans are drank away. Addiction is happy with us no matter where we are at or who we are with as long as we are using. If someone or something tried to get us to change our ways, the disease talks us into ridding ourselves of them instead of it.

We started to play house as boy and wife, and it was rocky all the way. The only bond that kept us connected to our complete disconnection with each other was the pregnancy. 13 days after we were married we went in for her first ultrasound. She was excited and had a gorgeous smile. She beamed as the nurse began moving the x-ray like wand over her stomach. I was directed to the monitor next to her. There was little Tommy Connolly. I could see the finger and toes of my future Hall-o-Famer and his big fat melon. But the picture didn't seem right. The feelings I had turned from light to darkness.

There was only one thing that was missing from that perfect picture. It was movement and a heartbeat. It was the first of two of these scenes that I would endure in my short lived marriages. Being the first miscarriage I had ever experienced, I was crushed. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. My head filled with rage at the doctors and hate for everything crammed itself into every corner of my being. She was inconsolable. The doctors had been right in their prognosis concerning her ability to have children. She didn't see the monitor. That I am thankful for. It is burned into my mind and I can recall the vision as clearly today as that devastating day 15 years ago.

How could God be so cruel? My only wish was to be a drunken, pill popping daddy of the year. Now he did this? My drinking and drug use escalated and the relationship deteriorated by the second. The one thing that held us together had been removed. I had more reasons to fuel my liquid suicide and would soon sink to a level I couldn't conceive of even in my darkest, drunken thinking.

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!