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SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself

Amazon-Kindle-soulparole.com MARCH-2012

Step Parent? Stepson? There Are NO Steps, Only Parents and kids...

Sometimes I think there should be a recovery program for being a stepparent, or the child of one. I am both. It has been both the most difficult and rewarding experience of my life, more so than my battle with addiction and recovery.

The word "STEP" in front of “parent” or ‘child’ is as ridiculous as the term "holy war," or "amicable divorce,” because it implies a barrier between the parent and child and sets up a preconceived notion of separation between the two. When someone mentions, “stepmother,” I remember poor Cinderella being run ragged by hers. As for "stepfather,” I think of those horror movies where the guy is all cheesecake and smiles when his wife is in the room and pure evil when he's alone with her child.

My first experiences with a "stepparent" happened when I was six. I thought my father’s new wife was pretty and polite, but she brought along three daughters. I was the only boy, so I was either the lucky one or the odd man out. There were feelings of envy and jealousy at the thought of sharing my father, but I think that is pretty normal for a little kid. I also had a "stepfather," for a short time, and he would be a good candidate for the nasty character I described earlier in this posting.

After enduring the loss of two children to miscarriage in my previously failed marriages, I was angry with God for not giving me kids of my own. I prayed over and over, but the answer was always, “No,” or so I thought at the time. Little did I know He had a plan for my life, and when he didn't follow "my" plan, I thought I was getting a raw deal. My father never called his new wife's daughters "step," just daughters. I noted that early on, and it made a lasting impression on me.

When I moved in with Squeaky, I became "instafather." The position has advantages and definite disadvantages. When things were great it was, "I love you DA!" When things weren't so good, the ever popular, "You aren't my Dad!" flew like death darts. I would be less than honest if I didn't point out I pulled the same trump card early in our marriage with comments like, "YOUR Daughter “and “YOUR Son...."

As a parent to my kids, I have made lots of mistakes, both when I was drunk and when I was sober, and I always will because I am human. However, there were benefits from my “dad once removed, DNA-free relationship with my kids.” When they were small, I told them they had a father, and I wasn't trying to replace him. They adopted an affectionate nickname the Irish use, “DA,” instead of the American "Pa.” I told them they could talk to me as a friend, rather than their dad, but that I wanted their respect as the man of the house and their mother's husband.

I have different relationships and memories with each of them. I was there for Bro's first day of school. I will never forget his adorable look of excitement mixed with a touch of terror as I left him behind on that first day of kindergarten. Bro has referred to me as his DA and stepdad, depending on his entourage, and I am comfortable with either title. I know he loves me.

My middle daughter, Sunny was, and is, close to her father. Once, when Sunny and I were at a doctor's office, a man commented that she "looked just like me." We smiled and thanked him for his kind words, then laughed our butts off in the car at the congenital comparison. We had many challenges during our years of growing up together. Now we are the best of friends.

Hemingway, my oldest, calls me, “Dad,” and that makes me feel good. I was proud to take Hemi to the "Daddy/Daughter" dance her senior year. Her father has little interest in her, but I hope that changes some day. I will be happy to share her with him, but she will always be “Daddy's little girl” to me.

Growing up, my relationship with my "stepmother" was up and down. She was patient and always cordial to me, but I could sense her frustration because I always ran to Daddy when I was in a pinch or needed money. She was the “tough love” type, so I’m sure my frequent requests caused disagreements between Dad and her. I am grateful my father assisted me, yet, in my addictive manipulation, I often took advantage of his willingness to help.

During my father's illness (He was in the hospital nine times during the last two years of his life), my second mom and I grew very close. We spoke freely of my addictions and the challenging personality my father brought to their relationship. She loved him, and I could see why he spent his life with her. Today we are close friends, and I love her deeply.

If you are a "stepparent" I feel ya! If you are not, please don't judge us until you have walked a block in our shoes. I do not see my biological daughter as much as I would like to, but that is a story for another day. That will work itself out in God's time. I have two mothers, four sisters and four kids. There are no "steps" between us.

God often gives us what we want; it's just not the way "we" want it. I am blessed to be a second father to my wife's kids, and I have adopted my father's policy of no "steps" when I speak of them. Dad, thanks for the life lesson. I miss you! God, thanks for giving me the children. I have given up on trying to figure you out, but am grateful you understand me….

Parents Just Don't Understand

I remember when I was growing up, and my parents did something wrong, I thought it was high treason punishable by death! If I did something wrong, it was just a mistake and should be forgotten. For some strange reason, I thought parents weren't human. No. Humans went in one column, parents went in another. They were held to a strict double standard.

They were to dismiss my wrongs. I licked up theirs like an all day sucker. I kept a mental diary of all of their faults. Some were hurtful actions and failings, others were just resentments I held against them for not seeing things MY WAY. They had no feelings! I wasn't to be held accountable or judged based on my behavior! I knew everything! My screw ups were different!

As parents we don't keep lists. We have been where our kids are. They think we were hatched, or beamed down from a distant galaxy... just before THEY were born. When we share our experiences with them they look at us as old fashioned, preachy and hypocritical. They say, "times are different now," and that "they just don't understand." Advice burns like hot pokers in their ears. I remember that those hot pokers burnt mine closed for years.

Parents see things from both sides of the fence. Sometimes we are the good cop, on other days the bad one. We too, reflect on things we wish we had handled differently during our kids tender years. We also see where we were wrong in our youth. Some incidents trouble us greatly. We wish we could have a mulligan. Time makes memories clearer when we take an honest look back at what we have said and done. There are regrets for actions taken, and those that were not.

Each of us has a mental time freeze on an age our parents never out grow.  My parents were frozen at around thirty five. When they reached their sixties, I was shocked! I wondered what had happened to their calendars? Theirs didn't match mine! My God! They're old!

 Sometime around thirty, I started seeing my folks as humans. I realized that much of the advice they offered was right. I began to see that my perceptions of their wrongful actions were based on their fear for my safety and guidance. They had not been hatched. They moved into the human column with a parental asterisk. They really did know a lot about life. They weren't clueless.

I understood that they really had already experienced the pains and tribulations of growing up. I had been a bit hypocritical in my assessment of them. They had parents! Grandma and Grandpa had a couple as well!

I did make mistakes as a kid and parent. I still do. Check that! As a human being, sometimes I fail. I know we each share common ground in our victories and failures. I know there is no double standard... we all try our best....

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe and Kindle. Personalized copies can be purchased at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

A Shameless Fan of William H. Macy

Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself (Available NOW on AMAZON-KINDLE-soulparole.com . Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health services.

Shameless...William H. Macy, Me, and Addiction Flashbacks!

I was blessed to have the opportunity to work on an episode of the new Showtime series "Shameless," starring William H. Macy. I was cast as his neighbor and when the episode airs you will definitely see me. The show revolves around a father with alcohol issues trying to raise a brood of kids in the working neighborhoods of Chicago. It is well written and sure to be a hit.

It was an unseasonably warm November day for Chicago and the scene was taking place in the dead of winter. Temperatures got up into the 60's that day and we were dressed as if it were January. Snow trucks were brought in to create the winter scene, complete with a guy who had a spray can to dirty the snow on the street. I can not say what the episode was about specifically in respect and confidence to the Showtime Network and professional acting courtesy.

In both "Shameless" and "The Chicago Code," great pains are taken to make details and authenticity as accurate as possible. From regional dialect and slang, to the casting of locals in the neighborhood providing background, no detail is too small to overlook. When a shoot is in progress, lights, semis, cameras, wardrobe, trolley rails, productionassistants, actors and extras litter the street. Curious neighbors sit on their porch or on the sidelines taking in the magic and technical wizardry that makes Hollywood so cool.

If a civilian is brought into the production they must sign a waiver and are often paid for their appearance in it. On this particular day we were on the west side in one of the more blue collar, urban neighborhoods for the shoot. As we rehearsed our scenes and repeatedly returned to our marks for another take or camera angle change, a woman kept walking onto the set. After a few interruptions, one of the best production assistants I have ever worked with took her to the side and signed her up to be an official player for the shoot for that day.

The woman was haggard and seemed a bit nervous. She was in clothing that seemed worn for a few days in a row and was skittish and tweaky. She was obviously withdrawing and jonesing for whatever candy kept her going. An addict can pick out another in a stadium full of strangers. It is just a skill we pick up in case we need to commiserate or score. We are always scanning and defining the people around us. That one is uppity. That one is a push over. That one is full of themself. That one is weak. That one will buy my story and give me a few bucks. We move from character to character and are usually dead on in our predeterminations of our fellow man's weak spots.

I was lucky enough to play an integral part in a scene with William H. Macy. He is a consummate character actor and professional. I was in the middle of asking the director how she wanted me to play the scene and she walked away to put out a more important fire. Mr. Macy stopped over and answered my question as to how he felt my demeanor should be in reacting to his actions. He is not an ego guy. He is just a guy. He presented no pretension or condescension, only a desire in doing the scene as perfectly as possible. I thanked him and played my part as he suggested. I was surprised when he later joined the extras in the holding area for chit chat and a picture or two.
In the scene some money is thrown up in the air in celebration of a joyous event. Prop money was used for the rehearsal and actual cash when we were ready to print. Each of us were given a set denomination of moola and responsible for returning it at the wrap of the scene. I was drawn to the woman as after each scene was "cut" we would retrieve the amount we were given and prepare for the next "take." When the call came to "check the gate and print", the scene was over and we returned our money to the PA handling the bankroll. The amount of money distributed was less than what returned.

I returned my portion and looked around for the skittish woman but she was gone. I scanned the streets of the restricted area and saw her smiling ear to ear and shouting into her cell phone. She was a block away and through all the confusion and chaos that is business as usual on set, I could hear her pleas drifting to me from so far away. She waited by the corner and was picked up by a car that stopped just long enough for her to jump in as it lurched away.

My first urge was to tell the PA about the lady and be a hero and doer of good deeds. I didn't say a word though. As I returned my share, the old street code of not ratting out a fellow user came back to me as clear as the days when I was using. It was not my business and I was probably doing her a favor. There were a few more scenes that required my participation as camera angles were switched and slight changes to the scene printed, just in case they wanted to alter something later.

The woman returned shortly after she left on the 14 hour long shoot. She was a different person. Her speech was slower and clearer. She didn't twitch or itch and looked like she had found the medicine she needed to feel normal again. I felt for her. As I looked at her she smiled back, eyes glazed over and content. I knew how she felt. I had been there. I knew what it was like to go to any means necessary to get the chemical cure to what was ailing me. I said a prayer for her. I don't know if she took the money but I know what addicts are capable of. I thanked God for his grace that it wasn't me. I looked back once more at her euphoric grin and was grateful for another day of sobriety. But for the Grace of God there go I.

(The episode is #4 season 1-the baby kidnapping. Thank you Jon Kinnas for casting me in 3 of the 5 seasons! I love you man!)

Thank You! No! Thank You

I usually start out the blog welcoming the latest country to visit the blog in to my readership. Today I welcome an old friend back. Argentina. Welcome back. I am dressed like Evita right now as I hunt and peck my way through this blog but we'll save that story for my therapist or another blog. The thing that is really weighing upon my heart and mind this morning is old habits and new ones, the old and new me, and how I grow and slip back into unhealthy thinking patterns.

 I'm just a messenger. So are you. Before I dive into the 700 mile an hour salt flat speed testing site known as the inside of my mind I want to say a few HEARTFELT, "I'm Sorries." The first to my wife Kris, the second to my good friend LT in AZ! I'm sorry and Thank you are the focus of today's trip into Tommy's recovery and depression fun house. Please put your seat belt on. Do not stand up while the ride is moving and you must be taller than Frodo to take the trip.

An addict, a depression sufferer a human will say "I'm sorry," and/or "I thank you," for many reasons daily. I will speak for myself. I hope you can relate. When I was drinking "I'm sorry," and "I promise" were the two phrases that came out of my mouth most. That is after I had poured booze and whatever down my throat and hurt feelings and did rotten things. I used "I'm sorry" as a way to get out of things, to avoid shouting out how I really wasn't sorry or because "it's the right thing to say," after a disagreement or when we are wrong.

"Thank You," and "Please," are two beautifully simple phrases with a lot of power packed int a syllable or two. I used these to appear grateful, look good, show temporary superficial happiness and put on a good show. Of course there were occasional times I meant all of these phrases but they have now become so over used that they are losing their power. I/maybe we just say them because we are supposed to? I can honestly say that I have had a girl spill my coffee all over me at the gas station at checkout and thanked her for it! I have been conditioned into some of these responses. They have lost their heartfelt, soul based meaning that they are intended to partner with. I have also said "THANK YOU!" in an almost demonic tone to some rude register lady to show her how civilized I am. HUH? Earth to Tom!

There are so many of these phrases in the English language, American style has the best, that we have beaten down into meaningless innocuous, droning reactions instead of feelings. When my kids come home from school and I ask them how their day was, when they respond, "it was great." or "it was cool," or "it was fine," in all honesty I am relieved because I think to myself that I am glad that there won't be a crisis to settle that evening. That should be the time I jump up and ask them what made it "great," or "cool." I don't do that nearly enough! Why because I accept the simple word of contentedness as affirmation that all is well. When they come home and say their day was "horrible," rotten," etc.,. I won't lie. In my head I think, "oh no, here we go..." Shame on me!

For those of you who follow the blog regularly I went through a few weeks where I was very down and depressed. My depression medication had run it's course and was no longer working at an effective therapeutic level for me. I switched to a different medication. When you switch medications that are manipulating the wiring in your melon there is a transition. The switch is accompanied with yet more depression, mood swings, sleep problems and a list of symptoms unique to the med and the patient. Depression, like alcoholism and addiction is never cured, it is merely arrested, controlled and managed.

My new meds are evening out now and I feel great. I feel motivated again and have put my NIN Cd's back and gotten my Ramone's back out. I have had some moody out bursts with a few friends and especially my wife over the last few weeks. I know it's the meds. They know it's the meds. As always I must remember the world judges me by what comes out of my mouth not what goes into it.

I learn more and more about me each day and it is getting much easier to live with me, and within me. I find the more sober I get the more alcoholic I realize I really am. I have come to accept and surrender to the fact that I have some conditions that are real and forever. It ain't so bad. I am growing and happy for the most part. I make mistakes and can admit them. It sure is nice not having to be right all the time. As for those words we use like hello's and goodbyes.

I am truly sorry to my wife and my friends for shooting off my mouth, new meds or not. The best solution for big mouthitis is keeping it closed. As for thank yous. I thank you for taking time out of your day to listen to my ramblings. I hope it helps you. I know it helps me. I know I am getting somewhere down the road of life because my prayer life is less frantic and more grateful. I don't seek comfort in things I can wear, drive, eat or drink or show off. I have a prayer list. I have friends that I pray for daily. When I hit my knees at the end of the day I thank God for giving me another day of life, even if it was a rotten one by human standards. You see, it wasn't too long ago those same prayers were begging him to not let me wake up the next day. Now when I do wake up. I jump up and say "What are we doing today!"

That is after I say....."Dear Lord, please get inside my head before I do......Have a Day!

COMING NEXT WEEK!   PROCRASTINATION!

Dumpster Diving in an Armani Suit!

The more time I spend in sobriety, the clearer my mind is becoming. My using days created huge blank spots that are starting to fill back in. I blacked out EVERY time I drank. That's the whole idea right? I have mentioned that I don't remember the early nineteen-nineties. I have little recollection of my first year and a half at Illinois State. I do remember being arrested twice and being placed on academic probation for all three semesters.

I also had a radio show on WZND, the campus radio station. In a bit of Irony the show was called "The Happy Hour." It opened with the Ramones, "Rock-n-Roll radio. I never did a show sober. Not one. After I split for Columbia Chicago, out of necessity, and a harsh warning from the judge in Bloomington, I graduated in 1992. I don't have a single photo from my days at Columbia. I do have the sheepskin. I guess that's all that really matters.

I loved that there were 2 bars next door to the college back then. I would drink or smoke between classes and made few friends. They didn't drink like me so I had no use for them. I was so desperate to get high that during renovation of the original Michigan Avenue campus, I would sneak up to the construction area and use. I would return to class out of my mind and only half conscious.

Not long after I graduated I got a job in the gaming industry. They had opened up the first casinos in Joliet. I conned and schmoozed my way into a position in group sales. My job was to go to bars and organize bus trips for gamers. I spent more time in the bar drinking than getting groups signed up.

The job was a suit and tie gig. I felt like a big shot. I was really gripped with fear and a hundred insecurities. The chemicals just dulled the self-loathing. As my production in the department faded I knew my days were numbered. As an alcoholic I always had another job, and woman, on back up if things didn't work out when they discovered I was an addict.

One of the memories that has returned was the first time I ate garbage. The casino sent me on a tourism road trip through Michigan and Ohio with a bus company that promoted tours. There were speakers from the other area casinos and attractions. During the days we would travel to a city hotel and do presentations on why groups should visit our area. I was always able to pull off a funny presentation with a massive hangover. Every moment that I was on the job I was either recovering from, obsessing about or using alcohol. It consumed me until I consumed it.

After we would wrap up our presentations the group would meet for dinner. I was on a tight budget. Purchasing alcohol was my priority. Food was optional. As dinner hour came I would have a few drinks with the group and dismiss myself stating that I wasn't very hungry. I was. It was for alcohol. I would high tail it to the nearest liquor store and slink back to my room.

As I made my way back to my room loaded with liquid courage I noticed all the room service trays that had been placed in the hallway. The thought dawned on me that this is where I could find food! Booze first! I only wanted a small amount of eats as not to kill the buzz. My disease created enough denial in me that the thought of eating someones leftover garbage was easily overcome. I thought I was a survivor.

I would move with stealth, from floor to floor carefully lifting the aluminum food covers from the delivered plates. I didn't want to be caught with the occupants left overs in my hand! I carried napkins or the tiny garbage can liners to carry my bounty. Rolls, a piece of uneaten chicken and crackers were major scores. Taking a potato peel that had its' delicious center devoured was not below my station. I took them.

I was careful not to be seen. I was wearing a suit. When a passerby sauntered by I would merely smile and continue back to my room. Once there I would eat my leftovers and gnawed on bounty with smug pride, proud that I had saved my money for more booze. As the next day dawned I would slip back into a suit and feel invigorated that I had eaten garbage while they dined like respectable people.

This week I auditioned for 2 casino commercials. One looks pretty promising. I think those experiences are what triggered my flashbacks. I have been to casinos with Squeaky. I enjoy our time together there. Gambling addiction is one of the few I didn't fall into.

Looking back at my past is important. It helps me to remember where I was, and where I pray not to return  to. I learned a lot. It is just another chapter of the insanity that ruled my life for 28 years. It also helps jog my memory to anyone I may have wronged or harmed so I can seek them out and try to amend the situation. I learn from pain. It makes me stronger.

Today I am catching my dreams. It is only through the grace of GOD and those who helped me that I am sober today. I thanks the heavens for every day of living I am granted sober. Now I pass on my experiences to those who are fresh in recovery. That is how the circle works. I am grateful to share my story of pain to happiness to those newcomers. I see their pain and get further reinforcement that I don't wish to return to that misery.

I don't leave any regrets on the table now that I have been granted this new life. My motto is go for it. There are no such things as dreams, only unmet realities. I have to say goodbye because I have a recovery meeting now and there may be a newcomer who can relate to someone who has already fought the war. God Bless you all! Thanks for giving me a reason to live...sober. Every Day IS a Gift!

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.

Another preview from Soul Parole 2: I Was and I AM!

This is a first draft (like all my blogs)

We all have fears! Plug in your favorite....

BLUE......An Addict or Depression Sufferer's Favorite Color!

Just leave me alone! I just want to be alone. I need some time to myself. I'm just gonna chill tonight. I'm just tired today. I don't want to talk about it right now. There's nothing wrong, I just want to be by myself. All of these are favorites I use on family, friends and loved ones when I am in a depression rut. It is also a warning sign, or a cry for help, from someone suffering from depression or addiction and recovery.

"9 out of 10 Addicts and Depression Sufferers favorite color is BLUE! The last one's favorite is Dark Blue!" For the last week or so my favorite color has been BLUE. If I don't stop isolating, it will quickly turn to DARK BLUE! Then I am in the danger zone. There is quiet solitude, and there is also intentional isolation. Suffering from both depression and addiction, isolation is the first "friend" I turn to when I'm feeling BLUE.

Suffering from Depression really makes me sad sometimes. It is particularly frustrating when someone says, "Why are you so down," and I honestly don't have an answer for them. There is no answer because I don't know myself. A person with depression can be sitting on their own private island, with a winning lottery ticket and Beyonce rubbing their feet, and feel like crap. Depression is misunderstood by the sufferer and those around him.

Before I started writing this blog today I did some Internet research on "Famous" people who suffered from depression, or other forms of mental illness. I hate that phrase MENTAL ILLNESS! It implies that my brain has typhoid fever or malaria and I'm gonna spread it around the whole village, or go postal and wipe everyone out! No! I have a "Chemical Imbalance" in my noodle. The feel good chemicals up there just aren't produced as effectively in me as in "Normal" people. Can I stop and say that "Normal" people scare the hell out of me! I always think they're hiding something, like bodies under their "Family" room.

I always hear things like,"You're so funny, how can you be sad?" My favorite is,"How can you be a comic and suffer from depression." Those questions make me cringe, because my guess is as good as yours. Try these ones on for size. Jim Carrey suffers from Depression and Bi-Polar Disorder. Additional "funny people" who suffer from some form of depression are, Drew Cary, Robin Williams, Ben Stiller, Drew Barrymore, Tracy Ullman, Roseanne Barr, Spike Mulligan, Jonathon Winters and Louis Anderson. The Louis Anderson "Funny" reference is subject to reader interpretation.

"Funny People" aren't the only high profile people who suffer from these conditions. It has no prejudice or favorite "type" to grab on to. Beethoven, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Edison, Teddy Roosevelt, Vincent Van Gogh and my favorite Beatle, John Lennon all suffered with depression issues. There were a total of 244 people listed on the celebrity menu of depression sufferers, that I am referencing from Google. Those folks seemed to get around it, and push forward. That is what we must do also. It does give me some comfort in knowing that there is a thin line between artistic genius and insanity. I'm not sure which side of that equation I fall. It just feels good knowing that I'm not alone.

"Alone!" "Now there's the rub!" When I am in a funk I want to be left alone. During those down times, while you see sunshine, I complain about the glare. Where you see a beautiful snow covered hill, I see the filthy slush on my street. While you see the wonders of the Chicago Skyline, I see the garbage in the alleys. The need to be alone occasionally, is important for anyone. To a person like me it can only be implemented for a short time or I will slip from "light blue," to "Dark Blue," to BLACK.

Nothing gets me out of a depression or funk better than forgetting about myself. Sitting alone listening to John Coltrane seems like a good idea but it leaves me alone with me! I have proven to myself over and over again that there are few things in this world that I can overcome ALONE. In recovery it means attending more recovery meetings and calling fellow addicts. It means turning off the Coltrane and turning up the Ramones! It means taking an interest in things outside of my mind intentionally. Sometimes I have to force it. I have to make myself engage with other people.

Knowledge is power, so I've heard, and by golly I believe it! As addicts and/or depression sufferers we tend to focus on the emotional side of our condition, and try to figure ourselves out. Emotions can lie or distort the facts. I have made it my mission to learn about my conditions from a medical and psychologically objective point of view. The more I know about why I tick the way I do, the easier it is to push past the funk. I used to analyze myself to death. Knowing the symptoms, triggers and SOLUTIONS to dealing effectively with my conditions, makes it easier to be me. I can experience negativity or downward depression and be confident that it is going to pass. I don't have to buy into the "whoa is me" mentality and go for the whole miserable depressive ride!

Surrender and acceptance of exactly who I am, is the start to making peace with my conditions. I am not a crazy drunken baby anymore. I am a person who suffers from a chemical imbalance, that I see a doctor for. I take medication to rebalance the chemicals in my melon. I go to places where there are other people just like me, who understand me and can help me through situations I can't handle alone. I have a family, loved ones and friends who I can share my feelings with. I have a God whom I can turn to at anytime and ask him to help me through whatever I am experiencing, and be confident that he will show me the way through it. Every obstacle and challenge I face no longer has to be a catastrophe as long as I am willing to reach out for help from someone else. My condition is reality. Suffering is an option....

The Dough, Ray and Me (Edgebrook Manor)

WrittenWritten 


Edgebrook Manor Home for the Elderly, was situated smack dab in the middle of an upscale residential street. It was stark and square, grey and gloomy. Built in the early 1900's it had once housed an orphanage. It had been a place for children forgotten, abandoned or simply tossed away in the streets, by parent's unable to care for their troubled child any longer. It was sold to the state in 1976, and turned into a long term care facility for the elderly whose memory and recall had left them vacant. They too, like the orphans, had been abandoned, forgotten or had become too much for a loving family to care for at home any longer.

 It seemed so out of place amongst the rows of sturdy, grand Victorian homes and towering oak trees that lined the winding street. The facility looked like it had simply fallen from the sky, a weed grown from a seed strangling out all of the beauty of the flowers surrounding it. The residents who lived on the streets, that surrounded Edgebrook, hardly noticed the thorn in their rose garden like neighborhood.  They had trained themselves to casually look away while passing by to dull the uneasy feelings the living mausoleum created. 

The accuracy that the exterior of the building lent to the period of its' construction was equalled only by the doubly drab interior that Edgebrook welcomed visitors and guests with alike. Antiquated wallpaper and furnishings appeared to be originals. Classic standards, that were once the top hits of the day, crackled through an ancient sound system. It sounded as if an old hand cranked Victrola, stacked with thick 78's,  had been placed in front of a microphone droning out tired muzak for exhausted minds.

Each corridor led to another, looking exactly the same as the previous one. New patients and their families walked back and forth down exacting hallways searching for room numbers that were nearly impossible to find. They could leave a trail of bread crumbs to mark their path, confident no one would sweep them up before they're exodus. Each room, a converted dormitory, provided its' tenant a bed, night table, a TV stand with a TV, if you provided your own, and a shared bathroom. There were no secrets between each room as the bathroom split the two like a bad hotel.

The residence that made up the permanent clientele of the ancient foreboding interior took on the characteristics of their surroundings. Some wandered the maze of endless hallways in search of a destination they never seemed to find. Still others sat stuck in corners, head down like they had been placed there for bad behavior or wanted to disappear into the drab walls that they stared at. Gurneys lined the walls with patients in various stages of sickness and impending death. Some cried out in agony at mysterious pains or called out into the cavernous hallways for loved ones long gone.

At the end of one of the corridors sunshine seemed to find it's way to one of the dorms. It was home to Benny a long time resident and a stark contradiction to those populating his ward, and the whole facility for that matter. Benny looked no more than 50. Even the nurse with the longest term of employment at Edgebrook couldn't tell you his age or how long he had been at the home. He was there since she was a nursing assistant some 16 years earlier and hadn't seemed to have aged a day. The institutionalization that conquered so many of the other residents had little effect on Benny.

Benny was a picture of serenity, or so it seemed. He wasn't prone to excitability like many of the other long term neighbors he shared his home with. He had no visitors, and never seemed to be bothered by it. He was courteous and helpful, and quick to lend a hand of strength or support to somebody in need. His salt-n-pepper hair was shoulder length but held back neatly by a ponytail. The lines in his face didn't appear carved from years of physical work or the stresses of life. They were just lines and wrinkles that seemed to make him all the more handsome. The complimentary etchings that mapped out his face were just an accent to his radiant skin. Benny was slightly browned like the dirty Irish or tribes of South America. In "PC" talk he would be labeled ethnically ambiguous.

While other residents talked of return trips home that would never arrive, Benny just nodded and smiled his support, lending hope for the unlikely trip back out of Edgebrook. His eyes burned blue and almost looked hand painted. They were eyes that saw all of you when speaking with him, and right through you when you weren't. Standing at only 5'7" his a

The Monkey and the Eagle

SOUL PAROLE 2 Preview!
(Draft)


I have loved reading for as long as I can remember. As a kid my favorites were "Where The Wild Things Are," Encyclopedia Brown," and any book about baseball. I imagined I was the kid in the boat heading for Wild Thing island in his tiny sailboat. I helped Encyclopedia Brown solve the latest neighborhood caper. I read to escape the real world and disappeared between the pages. My love for reading has never left me.

I measured each book between my fingers. I carefully removed my hand as I stared at the gap between my pointer finger and thumb to review its thickness.I was fascinated that someone had cobbled all those words together. I felt a sense of achievement as the space grew between my digits. The bigger the book I consumed, the better I felt. When I zipped through "The Hobbit," it was ecstasy. I never let my buddies know I was a reading fanatic. Back then it meant you were a geek. I was one, but was not ready to lose my place in the cool club.

I decided I was going to become a writer when I grew up. It was going to be a fat book, with lots of words. People would gobble it up. They would measure it's girth with their fingers and be amazed at my work. I set out, at once, to achieve my goal of literary greatness.

My grandparents lived in the city. It was on the South Side of Chicago, on Karlov Avenue, just west of Harlem on 79th Street. I adored the predominantly Irish neighborhood they lived in. As kids we didn't ring the doorbell when we were seeking out a playmate. We stood on the porch and would call out, "Yo, Johnny can you come out and play?" Our singing pleas were droned endlessly until someone came to the door. If they didn't come, or their mom shooed you away, you moved on to another house replaying the same song with a new subject line.They didn't do that in Mokena where I lived. I thought it was the coolest. 

In the summer time the ice cream man would cruise the streets in a white painted cube truck that blared out "Pop Goes The Weasel," to announce his presence. I thought that was the coolest too. My heart would race as the sounds of the droning song got closer and closer. Grandma would pull some change from her tiny clasped purse. I would barely have my hand clinched around the coins before I dashed out the door. We would sit on the curb licking away at bomb pops or the latest Good Humor treat.

Grandma had an old Smith-Corona typewriter in the basement. A ribbon was stretched between two spools. The top half was red. The bottom half was black. The red served as highlighting back then. When you got to the end of the spool, you simply rewound it back to the left and continued with the task at hand. I loved plunking away on the fat round keys. When you wanted to capitalize a letter you would hold down the caps key. The heavy rubber roller would rise up from the black machine as the keys hammered at the paper like piano hammers hitting the strings stretched taunt inside.  When you released the key it would fall back into place with a thump. I worked feverishly as the slender arms slapped the ribbon to the page.

My first work was called "The Monkey and the Eagle." I was about seven. My mother still has it. It was a simple paragraph. The plot revolved around a monkey who steals an egg from an eagles' nest, then returns it after he realizes the mother eagle was sad. I went through pages of paper, and rewound the spools a few times, before I got the story just right. Inevitably I would near completion of my masterpiece and hit the wrong key. The spindle whizzed and whined as I ripped the botched up paper from the machine and replaced it with a fresh one.

I presented it to the world with glowing satisfaction. I was an author just like the ones' who pecked out my favorites. I wrote story after story. I was the hero of course. Sometimes I would type out a sad theme. In those works I tried to save a person or animal from doom. My heart fell to pieces when I couldn't. Now I see that people pleasing, and my desire to save the world, crossed into my reality.

I feel blessed and grateful that I reached my goal of becoming a published author. Writing SOUL PAROLE was a cathartic journey. As a kid I thought my works would be about safaris and daring rescues. I never thought I would pen the recounting of years of self destruction. I hope someone finds it as intriguing as Encyclopedia Brown.

When I got the first proof copy I stared at it for a few minutes. I flipped through the pages in disbelief that I had pecked out the words. I measured the book between my fingers. I slowly removed my hand, then stared at the gap between my pointer finger and thumb to review its thickness.I was fascinated that I had cobbled all those words together. I felt a sense of achievement as I carefully removed my fingers to keep my measurements true. I sat in awe, fixated on the space between the two. I was bathed in a sense of accomplishment. I have come a long way from "The Monkey and the Eagle." I know that the only thing that keeps us from catching our dreams is the FEAR that they are possible....

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of this page. 

The I Haven't Kicked The Bucket Yet List

Thank you to all of you who have purchased my first book SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself (AMAZON). The feedback has been positive so far. I am humbled that people have said it has inspired them to seek treatment, or to catch their goals. I bared my SOUL in the book on my path to rediscovery.

In the chapter, "I Was Dead But Didn't Die," I share a candid look at the day I tried to take my life in April of 2004. I am glad I am still here. It is frightening to reflect on the fact that even a near death experience didn't stop my drinking and using. It would be five more years until I surrendered and found sobriety.

While I was going through boxes to find items for the garage sales. I ran across some journals and poems I had written over the years. The first one begins in 1983, my year of High School graduation and entry into college. I am reviewing them all now and am certain there will be stories to share based on where I was "at" during those years.

The last diary I found was from August of 2003. It was eight months before I attempted to "off" myself. I was surprised what the pages held inside. There was a list of "100 things I wish to do over the next 40 years." A year later death moved to number one on my "to do" list. If I would have succeeded in my death mission I would have been 2 years short OF 40.

Some of the goals, and wishes have come true. That is, in sobriety. I was out of my mind when I wrote the list. I was employed with a company that delivered medicine around five states. It was just me, my drugs, the car and the medicine. Some of the goals are no longer important. My new bucket list will be much different.

Here are a few of the thirty-two listed out of the planned hundred. I was so high back then I couldn't even find 100 things to shoot for in my life. It saddens me. The fact that many have come to fruition over the last 4 years is gratifying.

Here we go:

1. Do God's will and find peace within myself (trying to do that every day)
2. Work better with Squeaky ( We go through seasons like everyone. Things are WAY better than in 2003)
3. See my daughter Kelly regularly ( I still don't know where she is. She is 12. I have left that to GOD.)
4. Have acceptance ( I am glad I accepted the fact that I am a REAL addict. I try to live life as it is)
6. Try acting and comedy (Those dreams have and are coming true)
7. Teach others ( I share my testimony of overcoming obstacles with the help of friends wherever I can)
8. Publish something I write ( Soul Parole and a Poem about Bill Murray have made that dream come true)
12. Work for myself (that one has been realized in sobriety)
14. Save a life (I have been told the book has inspired people to change their lives for the better, That's cool)
17. Donate to charity more ( The 2012 "Extra Hands of Hope" clothing drive for Urban7 begins soon)
19. Get paid to be funny (I have been paid to do comedy. Performing at fundraisers pays me more)
32. Sign an autograph (Dreams of stardom then and something I am uncomfortable doing each time)

There are plenty of material goals on the list. Those are not as important to me in sobriety, as they were lost in addiction. I always thought things, people and different circumstances would spark my desire to get clean. Nothing could, or would, until I surrendered and realized I couldn't get clean on my own.

As I look at the list of 32, I see that I made it past 40 with God's help. I got sober with the help of others like me. I achieved personal goals because I worked hard, and found faith in my sobriety. I don't have to go it alone EVER now. I achieved over 30 %. That is really cool. I am starting another bucket list now. I have also written out a gratitude list. As long as I have gratitude for what I have the other stuff is just icing on my life cake....

But for the grace of GOD...There go I....



SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Please visit tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. The book will be available on Kindle in September, 2012.

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

You GIT What YOU GIVE....

The last words that the Beatles recorded, before breaking up, was taken from the Abbey Road album. A lot of people think that Let It Be was their last. That is common but incorrect. The message that closes out their final collaboration is, "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you made..." The words are right on. I am saddened when I hear it, knowing it was the end of my favorite group of all time.

Yesterday, I was leaving a film shoot at Studio City in Chicago. As I pulled out of the parking lot I noticed a haggard, dirt covered guy. He was holding up the oft seen, "HELP PLEASE" sign. First I looked away, then I rustled up a couple bucks in quarters, and gave him a Coke I had grabbed before leaving. It was a nice gesture. My thoughts before I decided to do my good deed ... were not so noble.

I never pan handled for money when I was homeless. I stole, conned and pawned my way through those days. When I saw this guy I thought to myself, "Why help him? He's just going to take the money to buy booze or dope!" I have also wondered if the guys are scamming me and cruising home in a Benz.

I was disappointed in myself  because I predetermined where my charity was going to end up and didn't approve of the possibilities. That would make it easier to drive right on by. I figured it was going down his throat, or in a vein. Aye, There's the rub.

When I buy a gift for a loved one or friend I don't stop and wonder if they are going to return it for fishing or shopping money. If that thought does arise I figure that it's okay what they do with the gift I have given. I don't care. I am grateful to have shared the gift with them. I am happy to put a smile on their face. I don't think twice of throwing a few bob into a firemen's boot, help a baseball team or High School band at the supermarket.

When it comes to gift giving within our circle of comfort, we never think, "I'll do it tomorrow," or " I'll just look away at the barbecue and act like Aunt Judy isn't standing right next to me." There is no locking of car doors in my neighborhood. I like to stay within that safety nest. It's really comfortable there. I know of a married couple who look for help on opposite sides of the expressway while their kids are in school and between their part time jobs. The economy is ravaging right now. They are wonderful people and just can't make ends meet. It must be a bitter pill to swallow.

Charity is Charity. If the person you help buys a bottle, so what. It may be the last drink they need before they sober up. It may be that they are truly in need. Why question them? The Good Samaritan didn't cross to the other side of the street, even though the man in the street was a bitter enemy. The affluent acted as if he wasn't there.

Nothing makes me feel better than when I help or inspire a friend. I try to put a smile on people's faces daily. I also try to help a stranger in a small way. There are lots of ways to share. The more you give to others, the longer you stay out of yourself. When I'm alone a fight usually breaks out. When I extend my hand and boost a fella up, I feel contented and...HAPPY!

Just for today get out of yourself. Getting out of your comfort zone is rewarding. Be grateful for what GOD has given you. More importantly, be grateful for what he hasn't. The guy who needs a dollar is worth the toll change in the cup you have in the car. We can't help everyone. The change you give, may change you. "The love you take...is equal to the love you make..."

" Sweet Release, I love how you use me." - Morriso-

I love Van Morrison. Most people associate him as the singer/songwriter who penned, Gloria, Domino and Brown Eyed Girl. I agree with those who call him the Irish Bob Dylan. I see them both as poets who use songs as their medium.

I am a lyrics guy. Some folks dig a song for the tune. I tune in for the message. When I can't seem to cobble my words together effectively, I'll ask the person I'm trying to communicate with to listen to a song that better conveys what I am trying to express.That thing hanging in the back of my throat seems to change my wonderful thoughts into misunderstood ramblings.

The book release party for Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself was July 28, 2012. It was a week after the second anniversary of my father's death. I thought it was fitting to have the release around that date. He had an impact on my life more than anyone. He was usually around for me, when I was no where to be found.

Writing the book was an emotional journey. The baring of my soul on paper was liberating. It was also painful and difficult at times. Recounting the things that I regret, and am ashamed of from my past, was a closet most folks would spend a lifetime trying to keep closed. For the most part this blog was the source of the books content. "Every Day Is A Gift," reached 19,000 reads today. That is truly humbling. The fact that I've only been writing it for nineteen months makes it mind blowing.

As an author, when you present your work to the world, you're hopeful that it will be gobbled up by the masses. I was certain that friends, family, and most importantly people trying to overcome obstacles, would have it flying off the shelves. As of this writing, seventy one copies have been sold. That is far out!

So far the reviews have been positive. That is truly satisfying. A few have said it has given them hope. I hope all who read it find that it is about overcoming our past and reaching for our future, not just about my addictions.  You can plug in any word for what is holding you back into the spaces that read alcohol or drugs. We are all paralyzed by fears and obstacles that prevent us from reaching for our dreams.

The party was surreal. There were many friends and strangers on hand to enjoy the dinner and show. It is hard to grasp that people would want my signature in a pile of paper. The last time anyone asked for my autograph was when I performed at Stateville Prison. The night was a bookmark in coming full circle on my journey. I was in a dream.

As the multi-gifted Charmane Ward started the festivities with her songs of passion and faith, I was comforted by her angelic voice.The dinner was great. People were laughing. That always makes me smile. Squeaky was graciously greeting guests.Comediennes, M.J. Brown and Josie Dykas rocked the house with hilarious sets. The three ladies entertaining created a night to remember by all. Each of them are making a positive impact in their orbits.

Beyond the faithful friends who attended, I was moved by a few strangers who came out that night. A woman, whose son is fighting addiction and recovery, called to see if she could get tickets at the door. She thought the book would inspire him to stay in recovery. That young man made me realize that my work was making an impact. It reminded me that my sobriety is a gift. It helped me see that the writing of Soul Parole was never intended to be a book. It is meant to be a message. It will never be a best seller. It is not a recovery handbook. That one has been written.

Reality and the wreckage of my past hit me full in the face as well. Not a single one of my family attended. It left me feeling wounded. I see how much damage I have done over my twenty eight year run. My In-Laws came. I looked out over the many who attended and realized family goes beyond flesh and blood. That reinforced how close we have grown together. The hits didn't stop there.

Just as I had sat down to greet the people lining up to have the book signed, our alarm went off at the house. I have read about burglars breaking into homes when people post their vacation or travel plans on Facebook, or in other public forums. Our dogs yelping had set off the alarm once before. I thought that they were the source of the emergency call from the police. In fact, it was someone I know that had made an attempt to break in. That was devastating. It was mind numbing knowing that someone I loved would try such a terrible thing.

I feel a deep sense of accomplishment from fulfilling a life long dream of writing a book. You can catch your dreams as well, if you overcome your FEAR that they are possible. That doesn't mean that there won't be hurddles. It does not mean that realities won't impede your journey.

The signing was a personal success. WE raised two hundred and fifty dollars for an area recovery club. The emotions created in me from the attempted break in, and the fact that none of my family attended leveled the playing field. God keeps my feet on the ground. I still have a long journey in trying to amend my past. Some relationships seem broken beyond repair. Time will tell. As long as I keep my side of the street clean, I can live free of guilt. I am responsible for one half of a hundred percent of the relationships I have in this world.

My favorite Van Morrison Album is The Philosopher Stone. I can listen to it endlessly. One song in particular, I Have Finally Come to Realize, rocks me to my core. In the lyrics Morrison sings," I have finally come to realize, a child don't do what I have done. Cut my nose to spite my face. I'm just one tiny, tiny grain of sand. Oh, sweet release, I love how you soothe me, and when I let go, I love how you use me...It's in the doing that we find, a certain way we can live our lives, and obtain some peace of mind."

The book release showed me where I stand in the world. It also pointed me on my continuing journey to spread some hope. Happiness is a choice. No one can make it for us. No one can steal it from us, unless we let them. Others share emotions that enhance our happiness. Sometimes they inflict some pain. We all do. It's the human condition. My attitude toward adversity and treasuring life, can not be touched by anyone. I choose life. I want to make people smile. It makes me smile. I have wonderful friends. I am blessed, and rich  beyond my wildest dreams.

God is always working in my life whether I'm tuned in or not. Every once in a while he throws me a curve. Sometimes I hit a home run. Sometimes I strike out. I will always step up to the plate. I'm grateful to have others on my team. I am glad to be a messenger. As Van would say, "It's in the doing that we find...."


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Look At All This Cool Stuff....

I collect things. Between my albums and CD's, there are at least a thousand. Three walls of my office are covered with celebrity autographs and movie memorabilia. I often find myself gazing at the objects I have amassed with great pleasure. In reality I only listen to a quarter of the music. There is a lot of money invested in my Hollywood shrine.

Last week I was cleaning pictures out of my gallery to speed up my hard drive. There are just over a thousand photos chronicling my life with, and without, my family. From childhood birthdays, to family adventures, there are only a couple of thousand. In forty six years of living, I have a few more priceless images, than replaceable objects.

I spend more time staring at my "stuff," than I do on those precious memories. Somewhere along my journey I decided that things were a sign of success. Maybe you do too. I have attached part of my identity, and success, to things that don't have the capability of reciprocating feelings back to me.

If the collections burned in a fire, I would be hurt. If the photos were lost I would be devastated. Yet, I only open those albums a few times a year. I stare at my stuff daily. Most of the real memories are packed away in the basement. I do that so they don't get damaged.

It is peculiar that I don't hide my stuff of little value. I want the world to see that. My mind has been wired to think that what people see, is more important than what they don't. We do have twenty, or so, portraits hanging on walls around the house. The rest are tucked away until the semi-annual dust off. I will take more pictures. I will buy twice as much stuff.

Last night I was making deliveries for my job. I was in a rotten mood. The heat was unbearable. My allergies were attacking me. People were rude and inconsiderate. I went on automatic pilot. I was more than happy to share my foul mood with anyone that crossed my path.

Half way through my shift I was taking a delivery to the far side of town. For a moment I was plucked from  Grumpyville and saw how beautiful the sunset was. I promptly pulled over and snapped a shot of God's beautifully painted landscape. It was breath taking. I am glad to share it.

I jumped back in my car so I wouldn't be late with my delivery. I flipped on the radio and was bombarded by the latest news reports out of Aurora, Colorado. It turned my stomach. The carnage left by a twisted coward was sickening. I prayed for the families of the dead and wounded.


I thought of the innocent people who were out for a night on the town to enjoy the latest summer blockbuster. They were oblivious, and anticipating a night of fun. Some said when the massacre began that they assumed it was part of a staged stunt. They thought it had been part of the show.  Three years ago I was in Aurora, Colorado for corporate training. My hotel was just a few blocks from THAT movie theater. I remember the view of the Rocky Mountains. It was awe inspiring. Now memories of that visit have been forever altered.


The title of this blog is Every Day Is A Gift. A lot of readers glance over the title. Some say I write about corny themes with predictable outcomes. I NEED to be reminded of of the fragility each waking moment offers. Life isn't scripted. Death is certain. The timing of it is even less predictable than living itself. We can change our approach to living any day, hour or minute. We can not avoid the moment our ticket to eternity gets punched. I don't want to spend my last moments shuffling this mortal toil full of anger. It is easy to take each day for granted. I control my attitudes and emotions. 


On my way back to work I saw a hawk flying in the distance. They are fascinating and graceful. I can watch them for hours. The wonder of their magnificence never lessens. My mood instantly snapped from attitude to gratitude. I realized how blessed I was to be granted another day of life. I walked into my workplace and shared my gift of humor with my coworkers. Making them laugh gave me great joy.


When I got home from work I passed my mountain of music. I did not gaze upon all the notable faces staring down at me. I went up the stairs and into the kitchen where my wife and two of the kids were eating. I grabbed a plate and sat with them gobbling up the few minutes of laughter and story telling.  I love them more than any THING can offer. I took a mental snapshot of the moment and realized that this is what life is about. It's not about marveling in the things that can't share life with me....



SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

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....

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