I've told you bits and pieces of my family life in previous chapters. There are happy stories and tragic ones, but all of them have a message. That message is don't give up hope! Keep the faith! If you haven't found God, not to worry, he isn't lost. Start out with a simple hello. He already knows who you are. Then pray and talk to him with the deepest of sincerity and you will find the more you turn to him, the more you will feel his guidance and presence. I know I would not be sober or writing this blog if it wasn't for the relationship I have with the Lord. The comedy and acting skills he blessed me with are to be used to glorify his touching my life. He is, "I am."
I skipped from the beginning of my father's life with my mom, sister and me to the end of his life. Now we take a stop in the middle.
I was the only boy and baby of the family with a combined sister count of four. Being the only son had its advantages with my father. I went to my first Bear game at age 5 or 6. I vividly recall Dick Butkus hitting a guy so hard you could hear the crunch from our seats in the north end zone. As a youngster I saw Joe Namath and O.J. Simpson at the end of their careers and all of Walter Payton's. I was with my dad for the 1985 Superbowl season and 1988's loss to the Niners. I truly don't know how many Bear games we saw together but it was quite a few and it was a place I could tell my dad was truly happy. There was the snow falling from heaven during the NFC championship against the Giants and the "Fog Bowl" against the Eagles. The first game after 9/11 was the heaviest. We both cried like babies as they unfurled a field sized American flag across the stadium while F-15's roared overhead. When the new stadium was built our run ended with the personal seat licensing and my dad passed the tickets on to my Uncle Bob.
I missed a few seasons in between. I couldn't pay for the licensing seats because I was too busy spending my money on booze, dope and whoever wanted to do booze and dope with me. I have spoken about the lengths an addict will go to to keep the run going. Please remember when I say the addict I am the "THE." It doesn't mean we don't love people or care about their feelings. It's just that the power of addiction over our minds, bodies and souls is so domineering we often turn off our morality button to reach our goal of getting high.
The key player in the perpetuation of alcoholic or addiction insanity is the enabler. The word enable implies the weak and timid, easily manipulated and a complete pushover. It means in brief "to supply the means," as listed in the American Heritage Dictionary. Enablers are usually the ones who love the addict the most and is filled with the most hope that someday things will be different. They are moms and dads, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, friends and neighbors. They are sometimes obvious in their efforts and sometimes stealthy, dealing under the table.
Their intentions are pure but can be destructive in the end, not to just the user but the one who enables them. The pain of letting someone they love down, hurts them so they give in knowing it is wrong. The anger of withdrawal is frightening so they pacify. The hateful words or disinterest of the user makes them try to buy their approval and love. They hand out money, food or shelter not knowing if that hand out is going to be the one that kills or saves the user. Ultimately it is just another time in a merry-go-round of negative encouragement.
My dad was my enabler. He was there when I needed him. Whether it was for some cash or a car, he was the guy who saved my ass over and over. I took it for granted that he would always be there to clean up the shit I left behind. I worked for him on and off while crawling through 9 years of college. I didn't go 9 years straight. That was impossible for my addictive nature. I went for a year and a half to ISU. When the heat was ready to come down on me from the law or Academic Probation I skated back to Daddy. I transferred to Columbia College Chicago and attended, on and off, until graduating in 1992. I paid my ticket through student loans. I thought it was free money. I have paid the government back the $18,000 dollars I borrowed for my education. The $26,000 I owe them in interest, for all my years of neglect, won't be forgiven. Student loans come with no deal making. The government does not enable, at least where student loans are concerned.
If I was short of cash I would hit Dad up for a "loan." Those loans were rarely, if ever, paid back. He helped me move when a marriage or 3 failed. He did whatever he could to help me because of his love for me. I didn't see it that way. The addict thinks family and society owe them the money for injustices real or perceived from our earliest recollections. We had it coming! Suckers! That seems crass but when we need to use our hearts and minds focus on getting high. The kindness of the enabler is overlooked instantly by the obsession of the score.
By 1996 I was a fall down drunk and my father's good spirited giving ended. He arrived at my apartment after a girlfriend couldn't rouse me from a stupor. He slapped me awake, crumpled up a $100 dollar bill and dropped it in my lap saying, "That's it! The end of the line. You are no longer my son!" The words hurt long enough for me to realize I had a Ben Franklin and could get more vodka. We didn't speak for quite awhile after that. Messages were past from family or employees to check on each others well being.
In March of 1999 I called him begging that he take me to rehab. Initially he refused. I don't blame him. I was a drunken liar and thief. He did call back an hour later saying he was on the way and his charity got me to the hospital I so desperately needed. He didn't visit me in detox or for my loony bin stay, but Mom #2 stopped by every few days to bring me smokes, magazines, socks and undies. She was amazing. On family night none of my family came. I had used and abused them to the point of disconnect. Funny thing is that my dealers and bartenders didn't show up either. They had always said we were family.
My father and I built our relationship back up again, but he no longer enabled me. He helped where he could, but if I slipped off track he let me fall right on my face. It was tough love until I got the picture and started to fly right. There were ups and downs like any family dynamic, but I was able to make reparations toward the end of his life for the damage and manipulation I had laid on him. We spoke of my specific wrongs and I cleared away the damage of my past behaviors.
Toward the end, during one of his stays at a home, he made the comment that he had saved my ass now I was cleaning his. We both laughed but I was grateful that I had the chance to right my wrongs. If you enable, the choices are tough and there is not a one size fits all explanation on how to handle it. I was lucky. I had a chance to make peace and be useful to my father at the end of his life. If you are a user your time may be running out to make things right. Think about it. I was one of the lucky ones who got a chance at redemption. You can have it too starting one day at a time. Today looks good!
Showing posts with label Manipulation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Manipulation. Show all posts
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Step Parent? Stepson? There Are NO Steps, Only Parents and kids...
'Hi, my name is Tommy and I am a STEP PARENT!' "HI, TOMMY!" 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, beyond my battle with addiction and recovery.
The word "STEP" in front of the word parent or child is as ridiculous as the term "Holy War," or "Amicable Divorce." The word implies a barrier between the parent and child. It sets up a preconceived foundation of separation between the two. When the word "stepmother" is mentioned the first thing that comes to mind is 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 was when my father remarried when I was 6. I thought his new wife was pretty and polite and she brought along 3 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 chapter.
After enduring the loss of two children to miscarriage in my previous failed marriages I was angry at God for not giving me a child of my own. I asked over and over and the answer was always no, or so I thought at the time. Little did I know that 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 took note of that early on and it made a lasting impression on me.
When I moved in with Squeaky I have stated that I was "instafather." The position has its 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!" exclamations flew like death darts. I would be less than honest if I didn't point out that 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 drunk and sober. I always will. I am human. 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 instead of "Pa," like we say in America. It was "Da." Any Mick will tell you they are familiar with the term. I told them they could talk to me more like a friend than their dad, but that I was to be respected as the man of the house and their mother's husband.
I was there for Scott's first day of school his first 3 years. 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. My middle daughter, Amanda was, and is close to her father. We had a lot of challenges during our years of growing up together. Now we are the best of friends. Andrea, my oldest calls me Dad and that makes me feel good. Her father has taken little interest in her since she was young. I hope that changes some day. I will be happy to share her with him. She will always be Daddy's little girl to me.
Once Amanda and I were at a doctor's office and 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. Scott 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 and I went through those same situations growing up. I was proud to take Andrea to the "Daddy/Daughter" dance her senior year.
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 with the fact that I always ran to Daddy when I was in a pinch or needed some money. She was more of the tough love type and I am sure my frequent requests caused disagreements between my father and her. I am grateful that my father helped me and I certainly took advantage of his willingness to help, over and over in my addictive manipulation.
During the time of my father's illness, and the 9 times he was in the hospital 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 could bring to a 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 can say that I have 2 mothers, 4 sisters and 4 kids. There are no "steps" between us.
God often gives us what we want, it's just not the way "we" wanted it. I am blessed to be a second father to my wife's kids and have 2 mothers and 4 sisters. I have adopted my father's policy of no "steps" in between when I speak of any of them. Dad, thanks for the life lesson. I miss you! God, thanks for giving me the children I always begged you for. I have given up on trying to figure you out but am grateful that you understand me.
The word "STEP" in front of the word parent or child is as ridiculous as the term "Holy War," or "Amicable Divorce." The word implies a barrier between the parent and child. It sets up a preconceived foundation of separation between the two. When the word "stepmother" is mentioned the first thing that comes to mind is 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 was when my father remarried when I was 6. I thought his new wife was pretty and polite and she brought along 3 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 chapter.
After enduring the loss of two children to miscarriage in my previous failed marriages I was angry at God for not giving me a child of my own. I asked over and over and the answer was always no, or so I thought at the time. Little did I know that 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 took note of that early on and it made a lasting impression on me.
When I moved in with Squeaky I have stated that I was "instafather." The position has its 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!" exclamations flew like death darts. I would be less than honest if I didn't point out that 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 drunk and sober. I always will. I am human. 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 instead of "Pa," like we say in America. It was "Da." Any Mick will tell you they are familiar with the term. I told them they could talk to me more like a friend than their dad, but that I was to be respected as the man of the house and their mother's husband.
I was there for Scott's first day of school his first 3 years. 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. My middle daughter, Amanda was, and is close to her father. We had a lot of challenges during our years of growing up together. Now we are the best of friends. Andrea, my oldest calls me Dad and that makes me feel good. Her father has taken little interest in her since she was young. I hope that changes some day. I will be happy to share her with him. She will always be Daddy's little girl to me.
Once Amanda and I were at a doctor's office and 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. Scott 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 and I went through those same situations growing up. I was proud to take Andrea to the "Daddy/Daughter" dance her senior year.
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 with the fact that I always ran to Daddy when I was in a pinch or needed some money. She was more of the tough love type and I am sure my frequent requests caused disagreements between my father and her. I am grateful that my father helped me and I certainly took advantage of his willingness to help, over and over in my addictive manipulation.
During the time of my father's illness, and the 9 times he was in the hospital 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 could bring to a 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 can say that I have 2 mothers, 4 sisters and 4 kids. There are no "steps" between us.
God often gives us what we want, it's just not the way "we" wanted it. I am blessed to be a second father to my wife's kids and have 2 mothers and 4 sisters. I have adopted my father's policy of no "steps" in between when I speak of any of them. Dad, thanks for the life lesson. I miss you! God, thanks for giving me the children I always begged you for. I have given up on trying to figure you out but am grateful that you understand me.
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