How are YOU?

3:30am. I'm painfully awake. My head is pounding with dehydration and demons. They're not the little red guys with horns and a trident tail. They jab at me though. They never stop.They are my demons, created by my fears and wrong choices. They were forged from broken hearts and failures, pains of my making, and agony handed to me by everyone's reality. They never sleep. 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 daily. They are a constant in my life beyond the 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 must hate me. Cleaning my room must be the job for the new girl. The tiny transient motel I know as home is the litmus test for 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 into 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 wall mosaic.

I have become one of them, crawling from the darkness, feeding on the garbage people have left behind. Poison has no effect on my body. I ingest it nightly. I sometimes run my fingers through my thinning hair convinced that the tiny feelers are sprouting from my head. They are survivors. I am a survivor, if not a hanger on. They are immune to the barely lit room I inhabit. Light hurts my eyes and lightens up the darkness of my world too much for me to witness. They scurry about ignoring me. I am no threat to them. I am either drunk, working, passed out or too sick to care about their invasion.

I slip in my own vomit as I move 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, like my gratitude for a sale on vodka or cheap beer. Bloody knuckles usually mean I was shooting my mouth off the night before, or punished someone for shooting off theirs.

Sometimes I find a woman in my bed. 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 stumbled back to my palace. I am useless as a lover when I'm drunk. 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 do also find comfort in sharing a bed with someone as lost as I am. I dread it when they wake up. I hate morning conversation, especially with people whom I don't know what to call or where they are from. I usually kick them out before I pass out to prevent the uncomfortable morning chit chat.

I turn on the cold shower and rinse the piss and puke from my body. The freezing water dulls my headache and offers a brief taste of sobriety. I watch the roaches enjoying the mess I have left on the floor. I wash my self scrubbing and tearing at my flesh. No matter how hard I try I can't wash myself off of me. I shave with shaking hands and aching soul in the cold water. The cheap razor tugs at my face. When I feel the dirt of the day is gone I dry off. First my hair, then my back, then my front and legs. There is only one more thing to do, comb my hair. I squint through blood shot eyes like two piss holes in the snow. I neaten my thinning hair and look away. I don't like mirrors, and won't look at another one until morning. I hate what I see. I know what I am. I don't like seeing the reminders a mirror offers the onlooker. Today is just another dose of yesterday.

Life with a Drunk or Addict Makes You Feel Like Damaged Goods!

I have spent a lot of time sharing stories about my experiences with the destruction that I created while drinking and using. I grew up in an environment where alcohol was always in the picture so I see things from both perspectives. I have only briefly touched on my wife's feelings trying to deal with my self-destruction and the personal hell that loved ones go through living with addicted people. Yesterday I learned a lot more about her turmoil and frustrations that I was responsible for creating. Two incidents that occurred during the day gave me a direct line into what she was thinking and how she felt during my "lost moments." She has also promised to write a blog aimed directly at those who suffer along with the active user.

I spent my tender years with 3 heavy drinkers. Whether they were alcoholic is not for me to determine. That condition has to be determined by the user themselves. I do remember that I felt like I was always dealing with multiple personalities. I was never sure what "mood" the drinkers in my life would be in and had to be ready to morph into whatever character would upset them the least. I spent my time walking on egg shells and felt deep dread when I stood at the door wondering which personality would be waiting on the other side.

For some strange cosmic reason people who grow up around substance abuse, or over use, are attracted to friends and lovers who suffer from the same conditions. You would think that we would run away from people like me. Before I became an active alcoholic and addict I knew that I was drawn to troubled people. I felt as though I could save them. I felt helpless around my loved ones who "relaxed" too much. So I made it my personal goal to find someone I could "fix." I wanted to save every man, woman, child, dog and a few cats from having to deal with people like the one I became. I inevitably found myself with people who were emotionally unavailable and treated me like crap. Feeling like crap was normal to me and somewhere along the line I concluded that this is what I deserved.

 I was also drawn to the seemingly healthy minded so that I could seek out their flaws and exploit them through criticism and hurtful words. The thought of someone living in a well-adjusted, healthy world was impossible for me to grasp. They had to be faking it. I took the time to find something wrong and point out where the defects were. It made me feel somehow vindicated to tear down people to my level of pain. Even if I had to manufacture it. I sought out healthy people because I was jealous of their well adjusted behavior and felt the need to show them what "real life" was like, that dysfunction was the norm and the apparently well-adjusted were hiding something.

Yesterday Squeaky and I went to a recovery meeting that focuses on relationships. The people who attend are couples that have one person with addiction issues and their significant other. There are also husbands and wives of alcoholics and addicts who were enablers or caught in the cross hairs of the wrath an addict spews at the innocent while they're under the influence. It is the bringing together of the perpetrators and the victims to discuss recovery. Those who love us addicts and alcoholics need and have their own place to heal and vent and get well. I am glad they have these places.

I was a blackout drinker and don't remember many of the things I said or did under the influence. My wife has it worse because she remembers it all. The unreachability, indifference, anguish, helplessness and insecurity of living with an active user creates severe damage to the spectators who have to sit and watch their loved one self-destruct and possibly take them down with them. My wife and some other spouses of alcoholic addicts spoke up about their feelings and accounts of life with an addict. It really opened my eyes. Later in the evening my eyes were opened even more.

I had never considered many of the daily experiences and work that goes into living with an active addict. As a proud Italian, my wife was standing by her man. While I was unraveling she was following behind me rolling up the string of damage I was creating. She was the actor, not me. She had to put her game face on when I didn't show up for family functions or concoct stories to cover for the fact that I was home in bed with yet another brutal hangover. Anger and the discomfort of wondering"What would the the neighbors think?" or "What am I gonna tell Ma this week?" were always facing her. There was the reassurance to the kids that everything would be alright. It was a grand charade that required constant attention, planning, lies, stories and cover-ups on a colossal stage.

She made the comment of feeling like "damaged goods." Her remark hit me like a right hook. While I was going crazy the dedication to our marriage was a constant burden and made her begin to feel as if she was going crazy too. She felt like something was wrong with her, realizing she found herself in a second relationship where alcohol issues were prominent. When I stopped drinking a whole new set of emotional landmines went off around her.

How could a bunch of drunks and junkies keep me sober and she couldn't? There was resentment that I spent so much time with people in recovery after leaving her feeling abandoned for so long. What had she done wrong? The answer is nothing. Addicted people need the help of those who are recovering from addiction. The spouses of the addict need to spend their time with other spouses of addicts. They are both vital to the recovery of the family. If you are an addict and you say you're not hurting anyone but yourself, you're not fooling anybody but yourself. My sickness made everyone sick. My recovery is helping every one recover.

I have recounted times when I wet the bed after drinking too much. My wife endured every painful moment of those disturbing incidents. Trapped in my addiction I was able to justify it and just fixed it by scrubbing the bed. I never realized that our bed wasn't covered with fancy pillows and comforters for a reason. There was. My wife didn't want me to ruin such beautiful things with my late night loss of bladder control.

On the anniversary of my 6th month of sobriety my wife was going to let me buy a drum set, a passion I had in high school. She was glad to have her husband back and eager for me to find new habits to replace the old ones. On the way to the drum store we passed a mattress shop. My selfish side left me at just the right moment and God steered me to the mattresses, not the drums. She picked out the bed she wanted. I could see the happiness in her eyes and relief that the old mattress could be erased from our lives forever. We got our new mattress and today it has pretty pillows and comforters. It is amazing that since I have stopped drinking my bladder control problems have disappeared. It must be the new bed.

A few weeks ago we got our fourth dog. Her name is Fiona Apple Schmutzy Connolly. She is a puppy and full of life. That is a nice way of saying she is a typical puppy and out of her mind. We have been allowing her to sleep on the bed with us and Gracie, our other Pekingese-Chin dog. We enjoy having them up there with us and it keeps "The Schmutz" out of trouble while we sleep. We had settled into bed with our canine companions and I went down stairs for something to drink.

My wife gets mad but usually not loud. As I sipped some Kool-Aid I heard some very bad words coming from upstairs and a teeth gritted command for Fiona to flee the area for her own safety and well being. I flew up the stairs and found Fiona, head down, knowing she had done something wrong and my wife bundling up the pretty bedding. Right between our two pillows was a wet spot. Schmutzy had peed the bed. I yelled at the puppy and took her outside. We do not believe in corporal punishment for our kids or animals. My tone let Fiona know she had made the pack leaders very unhappy. I am the Irish "Dog Whisperer."

At that instant I felt what my wife had felt so many times after dealing with me when I was doing the Fiona-act. She felt angry, violated, inconvenienced and pissed that her beautiful bed had been soiled. I quietly helped unmake and remake our bed and comforted my wife. I expressed to her that I now knew what it must have felt like dealing with that from a grown man. I told her I would do the laundry in the morning and relax. She put her head back down on her pillow and I stroked her hair. She really likes that. Today the sheets are clean and Fiona seems to have learned a lesson, but then again she is a puppy.

What I learned is that all the lying, manipulating, controlling and covering that I did when using, planning on using, or recovering from using is not exclusive to the drunk or addict. Our loved ones have their own hell to face and games to play. I am grateful that my wife didn't leave me. I see her strength and it makes me love her more. I know the I'm sorry's I spit out like sunflower seed shells while drunk won't cut it anymore. I show my sorrow by being a good husband, friend and father daily to the best of my ability. I won't do it perfectly but I will try my best. I drank for 20 years. I won't fix everything I broke in 2 years. It is a daily repair job, like staying sober a day at a time.

For those of you who suffer with an addict or alcoholic, thanks for all you do and endure. We don't mean to hurt you and the sickness of addiction doesn't afford us the ability to see the destruction we leave in our wake. There are lots of support groups out there. Find one for yourself and your sanity. I am not telling you to stay with or leave a person who is in the grips of addiction. That is a difficult decision each person must face. The one thing I want all spouses, loved ones and friends to know about addiction is that it's NOT YOUR FAULT WE ARE DRUNKS OR ADDICTS! Understanding that is your first step to recovering you.

We're Just Two Lost Souls Swimmin' in a Fish Bowl, Year After Year..Pink Floyd

I have spoken in recent chapters about being emotionally unavailable or incapable of having functional, healthy relationships with people when I was drinking and using. In my experiences an addict doesn't have the capability to connect fully with another human when they are in the midst of active addiction. The disease creates an obsession, so strong, so uncompromising in its demands, that even when we are with our loved ones, we are not "all there." We are thinking about the next drink, hit, high or escape.

I have had an inability to connect with my mother over the years of my addiction, undiagnosed depression issues, or more specifically, before I ever picked up and learned to live with my depression. Take a moment and think about the people in your orbit. There is somebody who you just can't reach. It's someone you love and you feel that your efforts at making them happy are never good enough. There is someone who you desperately want approval from and a deeper relationship with but that just never materializes.

My mother is a fiercely independent woman, who prefers isolation and solitude over "lovey-dovey" chats. Deep heart felt conversations are rare, if ever, and I accept that. She was never the PTA, go to the game, "rah-rah" type of mom. She had work and her own issues to work through. My grandmother wasn't exactly warm-n-fuzzy. My grandfather, I can tell you very little about, even though I spent a lot of time with him. I know he enjoyed his beer and wasn't much for conversation. I don't know what she has lived through to make her who she is. Nor have I walked a mile in her shoes.

This is not meant as a finger pointing session, but a deep confession of frustration. I don't hold resentments towards her or anyone. Resentments are where we drink the poison and wait for the other guy to die. Any person you hold a resentment towards, probably isn't sitting in front of the fire thinking about you right now. Plain and simply put, I do not let people live in my head rent free. She is who she is. That is a simple statement of truth. That doesn't make it any easier but I am amazed that at age 45 I am still waiting for a magical day that just isn't going to come.

For years I blamed my drinking and addiction on my folks and found myself dialing them up drunk and telling them what complete failures they were as parents. That worked for a long time until the day my mother responded to my berating with a cool reply of "Maybe you're not the son I wanted to have either." That really hit me between the eyes and ended my drunken calls. It was a true statement. I couldn't argue with her. Addicts drink "AT" people. When I quit using it was pointed out to me that I hadn't lived with her in 20 years and continued to use. My excuse was rendered ridiculous. She also never poured it down my throat. I am responsible for my addiction. There was always someone to blame for my woes. I was the one who got me high.

My mom and I are a lot alike. We are sensitive, deep, dark and brooding. I know that plays into the difficulties over our connection. We are like rams butting heads, not in a fight for territory, but because that's the way we are. We go through some good patches and then go on the skids. It's a pattern we have repeated for years. I chuckle to myself, in an unhappy way, that I am a grown man and am still craving love from my mommy, like a 5 year old child.

It has gotten to the point that phone calls are excruciating. I don't know what to say after we have covered her health, her dog and the weather. After that it is like I am forcing conversation that is awkward and difficult. I know one thing for sure. After the phone call is over, I am left feeling sad. There is a hint of bitterness in her goodbyes. My mother can let me know what a disappointment I am just by the tone of her voice. When we see each other it is pleasant, but I always sense that I have treated her inadequately or am on her icky list and don't know why. She always seems to look at me like all I do is let her down. I certainly know I did horrible things as a drunk but this vibe has been there since I fully comprehended that she was my mother.

In the 5 years I have done comedy she has never seen me perform. Her response to my acting and film work is "Do I have to call you Mr. Hollywood now?" She hates FOX so won't see me on "The Chicago Code" and has never heard of "Shameless" or Showtime. I am auditioning for a full feature film thriller. She has already said she won't see it because "she doesn't like films like that." I know I sound bitter. I think this chapter is more for me than you but I know some of you have to share these same frustrations.

I am not some diva or movie star who wants her to "ooh and ah" over my profession. I am pleased with my work and have great passion for it. I just want to be recognized as making her happy or proud or at least not a gaping wound in her life that will never heal. That is what I have wanted my whole life no matter what profession I was in. But why? I know I haven't been the greatest son in the world, but it seems like when I get two steps ahead in our relationship, something happens, and I slip back three.

I know the key is acceptance. I do accept her for who she is but that doesn't make it any easier. When I feel bad or insignificant, the self assuring thought of "oh, well that's just the way Mom is" doesn't cut it. Actually if she suddenly changed and became interested in my life and engaged fully in it, I would probably be even more uncomfortable at this point in my life. I would think she went soft.

In my sobriety, I am really starting to see that we are all messed up somehow, someway. I avoided "feelings" for years through self-medication and drowning in my own depression. We are all just trying to get through this life as happily as possible. I love my mom with all my heart. She is who she is. That is the fact. I am the goof who dreams of a chicken suddenly turning into a peacock. I am sure there are people in my life who feel these same things about me.

I will continue to make the awkward phone calls and choose my words carefully when we speak. My wife, family and friends give me great support and I am grateful for that. I can pray for her to change but the outcomes are out of my control. I will take our relationship like all of life, one day at a time. I will keep the faith, and do what I gotta do.

Thanks for the session. I will leave a check on the credenza and I will schedule another appointment with the lady in reception. Be safe. Do your best. God Bless you all.

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.

Once Upon A Time Revisited

The definition of insanity has been recorded as "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome." That's a rough interpretation from the dictionary. I lived in an insane existence for 20 plus years as both a homeless drunk to a highly functional alcoholic.

Most people remember their first kiss stolen behind the fat old oak tree in the schoolyard or after the ever awkward first school dance. There was the rush of adrenalin, the explosive colliding of emotions and the warm satisfaction of making it through one of life's rites of passage.

I do remember my first kiss. It was in a church in the tiny village of Mokena, Illinois. I was about 6 and it was done on a dare. No skyrockets, no stars, just pride that I had not only kissed a girl but I also won the bet. Those same unforgettable feelings and warm memories that one normally holds for that first kiss were the ones I felt when I took my first drink.

It was the summer before I entered Lincoln-Way East High School as a freshman. I was 13 and ready to conquer the world. My hormones were that of a jack rabbit and my desire to rush through childhood straight to "Grown-up" was fierce. A buddy was having a sleepover and he had beer. My heart pounded as I rode my bike down gravel-spitting roads to reach the party. Ironically that would ignite something in me that I would come to love, hate and fear. From that day on I was enslaved by the obsession of alcohol for the next 20 plus years...

After a few hours of Kill the Guy with the Ball, King of the Hill and all the other games most of us guys played, the bewitching hour arrived. We went over the checklist:
Parents in bed?
Check!
Booze stashed in the basement?
Check!
Voices turned down to the whisper mode?
Check!
Then let the games begin!

I popped the top of that first beer and was repulsed at the stench that overpowered my nostrils. Of course I had smelled beer before on the breath of other people. Every one of those times I hated it. As I raised the can to my lips for that first sip I was horrified to find out that the taste was even more disgusting than the smell! I had to save face. I couldn't let the guys see I hated the stuff! I tilted my head back and chugged and gulped and gagged on the can as fast as I could. It was the beginning of a long night and troubled relationship. Sadly, it was the only relationship that would matter to me for years...