NOTE TO READER: As you sip your morning coffee or down your dinner tea insert some incredibly humorous anecdote about life's challenges from Mike Royko or Erma Bombeck here. Then continue with this chapter. Your day will start with a smile on your face. You will dance out the door like Carol and Mike Brady. I loved the "Chicago Daily News" and "The SunTimes." As a kid I devoured the paper like a religion. When I try to be a writer like these iconic figures, I sound like Charles Bukowski discussing his optimistic views on humanity. "It always comes out exactly the wrong way!" It does so lately at least.
When you're a comedian you are in an enviable and unenviable spot. The nice thing is that you can say things others wouldn't dare to and not get punched out or taken too seriously. You can also take tragic human events and turn them into "jokes" to make them more digestible for public consumption. The bad part is that when you try to talk seriously about a subject people don't know if you are kidding. It is the paradox of comedic art.
As an addict I've spent 20 years in an emotional ice age. I didn't know how to feel and avoided feelings I couldn't understand. People who are "normal earthlings" don't sympathize with the breakthroughs of growing emotionally that recovery brings. They can't relate because they have been dealing with their emotions all along. They are quick to be judge, jury and executioner when an addict reaches a seemingly elementary stage of growth in emotional maturity. These people frustrate me when they say "suck it up", "be a man" and other belittling remarks when they have not walked a mile in my shoes. It is as if I were to say to a woman, "Quit bitching about child delivery being so painful, they gave you an epidural!"
It is like the non-addict judging the addict and the man convinced he knows the pain of child delivery. We can not judge another until we have slipped into their sandals for a day. If you saw a man steal a loaf of bread you would call him a thief. If your kid was dying, and you had no other means to feed them, you would steal that loaf of bread in a heartbeat and think of yourself as doing what you had to do to provide for your family. It's all in the sandals my friend.
I have a way of saying exactly the opposite of how I feel. I want to tell my wife how beautiful her new shirt is and some how she ends up going upstairs and changing, thinking I hate it. I am working on that. Sometimes my love comes out as cynicism or coldness. On other days someone who thinks I have no feelings for them thinks I'm a nut job when they find me sobbing to them about how brilliant I think they are. Dealing with reality is new to me. Saying things the right way is foreign to me. Those are my sandals.
When I drove my eldest daughter away from our home through my controlling, overbearing, speed and weed induced behavior at age 18 she fled to Peoria and then lived with my in-laws. There she became inseparable with Dakota, their yellow Lab. She renamed her "Cooter." I loved the name. I loved that she loved her dog so much. I was proud that I had passed my love for animals on to her, as well as the other kids. I hadn't been completely poisonous in my darker days.
When my in-laws were beginning to look for a new home about a year ago, I happily took her into our home. I somehow knew she was going to be our dog in the years she lived with my in-laws. I can't explain it. I just did. When we got her, her health was already failing. She had glaucoma, was half deaf, her hips were going and she had other classic Lab related conditions. She was also approaching 12 years old. That's like 90 in people years for a Lab.
Cooter slept next to my bed and laid by my feet when I wrote my chapters. She was glued to me and loved everyone in the house. She was one of those dogs that just wanted love. Period! With Hemingway in Germany and Cooter deteriorating I was faced with some tough decisions. She is coming home in a few months and I knew she was looking forward to seeing Cooter and being with her partner in crime, the companion who filled a void I created by my selfishness and insensitivity. I prayed that Cooter could hang on through Hemi's trip home.
In the last week or so Cooter stopped eating and separated from the pack. She cried 24/7 and groaned endlessly; pack behavior I am familiar with. Here I sat as the frog again. I knew it was time to let Coot go. By putting her down before my daughter had one last chance to see her, I felt I was being that insensitive prick shitting all over her again. It was about me not wanting to hurt her again, like I always seem to do. Yesterday Cooter was in good spirits for the first time in many days. My plan was to make the appointment with the Vet and do the right thing for Cooter's well being and take the hit from my daughter again. I would tell her after Cooter reached heaven.
Foolishly I posted a picture of Coot on my Facebook page and stated I was letting her go. My daughter saw the post in Germany and went into breakdown. I did it again. I was doing the right thing for Cooter by letting her go. Sometimes getting kicked in the stones by your kids is part of the parent thing. I know Coot wouldn't make it to June and Hemi would be destroyed to see her in such terrible shape.
Sometimes we learn more from our kids than they learn from us. After we talked Hemi understood and was understandably shaken. She didn't hate me. I had the doctor check Cooter out before her exit. She had developed a severe heart murmur and did not have much time left anyway. I had made the right choice. The guilt I have for taking something my daughter loved so much burns. I still feel like when I try to hand her roses there's a thorn there to make her bleed. Those are my issues. She does not make me feel that way. Maybe one day I'll get things right. Probably not! The guilt stuff will take time. I am glad I have a daughter who is brilliant and emotionally balanced unlike her old man.
Coot went peacefully. I know she is better off. Sometimes it sucks playing God, choosing life or death for a pet. The happy times they give us makes that unhappy decision difficult but possible. I would rather have loved Coot and lost her than never to have loved her at all. Hemi, I love you. Coot is with Ruby and my dad is probably saying Ruby is too fat and Coot's breath stinks in Heaven right now.
Showing posts with label Weed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Weed. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Squeeze the Trigger... or Walk Away...
It's been a few days since my trip to the dentist and the pain is easing. I am getting back to my grateful, hopeful, yet cynical self. I have landed a small role in the Joliet Drama Guild production of "Meet My Husbands." I am grateful for the opportunity. My blog was also voted one of the "Top 100 Addiction Blogs" online. That is a trip. But for the grace of God, there go I. I give the credit to God, my recovery friends and those of you who inspire me to continue with sharing my life story.
We all know what the trigger on a gun is. It is the lever we squeeze that causes the gun to fire. To an addict a trigger is similar to that of a gun. It can have the same consequences of destruction or or even death. One of The American Heritage Dictionary definitions of a trigger is "An action that precipitates another." For the gun, the pulling of the trigger precipitates the discharge of the weapon. What happens after the gun has been fired is the wild card.
In recovery, active addiction "triggers" are emotional, physical, visual, auditory, or psychological cues that make us want to use, or remind us of when we used. In simple terms when you smell chocolate chip cookies being baked you suddenly have the urge to eat one. As addicts we have used in so many places and under so many circumstances that almost anything can be a trigger. When I would keep my mind and finger on that trigger long enough I eventually found the denial and justification to squeeze it. Then it was off to the races.
As you move into recovery it becomes a daily practice to recognize our triggers and stay away from them, or at the very least, not to dwell on them. Sometimes they are unavoidable but get easier to dismiss as we grow in sobriety. Getting high doesn't start at the crack of a can or the opening of a bag. It begins earlier in the mind. Addiction is a mental compulsion, obsession and allergy that becomes "The Trilogy of Terror." As a matter of fact my addiction used to chase me like that little demon Indian who chased Karen Black around her house with that tiny knife in the 1970's movie, "Trilogy of Terror."
As a comedian and actor I am faced with booze, drugs and temptation whenever I work. The final film shot of a day on set is called "The Martini Shot." It is a cue that the day is over and time to relax. In comedy clubs booze is where the money is made. Drugs are a part of the background scene and all the other "stuff" that happens there are work hazards I face regularly. It is vital to state that my sobriety level is strong enough to handle the situation. If you are new to sobriety, hanging out at the bar sipping a Coke or chilling with your boys while they roll one up is an invitation to disaster. All such situations should be discussed with your mentor FIRST. My work is in these places. I have a reason to be there and I have the tools to combat any strange urge that comes my way.
What? I have urges? Heck yeah! If you played hockey for 25 years and retired, the occasional thought of those good ol' days on the ice pop in your head every once in a while. The hockey player doesn't grab his skates and head for the stadium. When an addict is in recovery we need to find new thinking to slide into when the bad thoughts linger. I would be a liar if I didn't say that when a TV commercial for some new fangled blue vodka that turns yellow when you mix it with a lime, the thought crosses my mind that that might be tasty. But I let it go.
I know if I drank the blue vodka shown in the happy love-filled party scene, I would drink it all and search out more. It's not number 43 that gets me drunk. It's number 1! If I avoid 1 I don't have to worry about 43. Active addicts and alcoholics have the ability to tune into the fun parts of the high and dismiss the horror that surrounds the during and aftermath of using. That is one of the mysteries of addiction. In recovery we think about the fights, DUI's, pee pee pants, fights and misery. That keeps us sober. We flip the fantasy of using into the reality of the disasters that occur once we pick up.
The other night I did a comedy gig on the West Side. This is an old school tavern with great food and filled to the rim with tough, no nonsense working folks. I went out for a smoke break because it was an "Open Mic." That means lots of comics and a long night. As I stepped outside to prepare for my set I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of weed. I took a couple drags of my smoke and went back inside.
The crowd was drunk and tough on every comic. I ended up in a fight on stage with a heckler and cut my set short. I was pissed off. I went outside to regain my composure and have another smoke. One again, I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of doobage. I took a couple more drags of my smoke and watched them with curiosity. I returned to my can of Coke and watched the next 4 or 5 comics.
By now the place was packed and I couldn't breathe so I went out back to get some fresh air. Once again, I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of mary jane. I smoked my cigarette and made small talk and then it happened. The average earthling has about 6 or 7 thoughts swirling in their minds at once. An addict has 6 to 700. Our minds work on warp speed. They asked me if I wanted some. My whole life of homelessness, addiction, pain, happiness, hope and fear flamed through my melon in a split second.
If I took a hit no one would know. Right? Wrong! I would. It was all natural and not full of preservatives right? WRONG! I politely declined and did not return outside again. The difference in that split second of CHOICE, for a using addict and recovering addict, is the key to happiness or misery. Back in the day I would have hit the joint and then went in and bought a beer. Recovery has taught me I can never use chemicals safely like normal folks. It is an impossibility. I may be able to control it for a short time but it will return with greater destruction than ever.
I see the beauty and serenity of sobriety in life now. There was a time when I thought living sober was NOT possible. I have gotten my family and respect back. I have begun an exciting career in show biz, and most importantly, I wake up being okay with me. It is hard to live inside yourself when you hate yourself. Sobriety removes that hate and replaces it with self respect and love for others. That dark hole I tried to fill with booze and dope and escape has been filled with faith, friendship and hope. I wouldn't trade my sobriety for all the God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes grass in the world.
We all know what the trigger on a gun is. It is the lever we squeeze that causes the gun to fire. To an addict a trigger is similar to that of a gun. It can have the same consequences of destruction or or even death. One of The American Heritage Dictionary definitions of a trigger is "An action that precipitates another." For the gun, the pulling of the trigger precipitates the discharge of the weapon. What happens after the gun has been fired is the wild card.
In recovery, active addiction "triggers" are emotional, physical, visual, auditory, or psychological cues that make us want to use, or remind us of when we used. In simple terms when you smell chocolate chip cookies being baked you suddenly have the urge to eat one. As addicts we have used in so many places and under so many circumstances that almost anything can be a trigger. When I would keep my mind and finger on that trigger long enough I eventually found the denial and justification to squeeze it. Then it was off to the races.
As you move into recovery it becomes a daily practice to recognize our triggers and stay away from them, or at the very least, not to dwell on them. Sometimes they are unavoidable but get easier to dismiss as we grow in sobriety. Getting high doesn't start at the crack of a can or the opening of a bag. It begins earlier in the mind. Addiction is a mental compulsion, obsession and allergy that becomes "The Trilogy of Terror." As a matter of fact my addiction used to chase me like that little demon Indian who chased Karen Black around her house with that tiny knife in the 1970's movie, "Trilogy of Terror."
As a comedian and actor I am faced with booze, drugs and temptation whenever I work. The final film shot of a day on set is called "The Martini Shot." It is a cue that the day is over and time to relax. In comedy clubs booze is where the money is made. Drugs are a part of the background scene and all the other "stuff" that happens there are work hazards I face regularly. It is vital to state that my sobriety level is strong enough to handle the situation. If you are new to sobriety, hanging out at the bar sipping a Coke or chilling with your boys while they roll one up is an invitation to disaster. All such situations should be discussed with your mentor FIRST. My work is in these places. I have a reason to be there and I have the tools to combat any strange urge that comes my way.
What? I have urges? Heck yeah! If you played hockey for 25 years and retired, the occasional thought of those good ol' days on the ice pop in your head every once in a while. The hockey player doesn't grab his skates and head for the stadium. When an addict is in recovery we need to find new thinking to slide into when the bad thoughts linger. I would be a liar if I didn't say that when a TV commercial for some new fangled blue vodka that turns yellow when you mix it with a lime, the thought crosses my mind that that might be tasty. But I let it go.
I know if I drank the blue vodka shown in the happy love-filled party scene, I would drink it all and search out more. It's not number 43 that gets me drunk. It's number 1! If I avoid 1 I don't have to worry about 43. Active addicts and alcoholics have the ability to tune into the fun parts of the high and dismiss the horror that surrounds the during and aftermath of using. That is one of the mysteries of addiction. In recovery we think about the fights, DUI's, pee pee pants, fights and misery. That keeps us sober. We flip the fantasy of using into the reality of the disasters that occur once we pick up.
The other night I did a comedy gig on the West Side. This is an old school tavern with great food and filled to the rim with tough, no nonsense working folks. I went out for a smoke break because it was an "Open Mic." That means lots of comics and a long night. As I stepped outside to prepare for my set I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of weed. I took a couple drags of my smoke and went back inside.
The crowd was drunk and tough on every comic. I ended up in a fight on stage with a heckler and cut my set short. I was pissed off. I went outside to regain my composure and have another smoke. One again, I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of doobage. I took a couple more drags of my smoke and watched them with curiosity. I returned to my can of Coke and watched the next 4 or 5 comics.
By now the place was packed and I couldn't breathe so I went out back to get some fresh air. Once again, I smelled the burning of that old natural, God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes aroma of mary jane. I smoked my cigarette and made small talk and then it happened. The average earthling has about 6 or 7 thoughts swirling in their minds at once. An addict has 6 to 700. Our minds work on warp speed. They asked me if I wanted some. My whole life of homelessness, addiction, pain, happiness, hope and fear flamed through my melon in a split second.
If I took a hit no one would know. Right? Wrong! I would. It was all natural and not full of preservatives right? WRONG! I politely declined and did not return outside again. The difference in that split second of CHOICE, for a using addict and recovering addict, is the key to happiness or misery. Back in the day I would have hit the joint and then went in and bought a beer. Recovery has taught me I can never use chemicals safely like normal folks. It is an impossibility. I may be able to control it for a short time but it will return with greater destruction than ever.
I see the beauty and serenity of sobriety in life now. There was a time when I thought living sober was NOT possible. I have gotten my family and respect back. I have begun an exciting career in show biz, and most importantly, I wake up being okay with me. It is hard to live inside yourself when you hate yourself. Sobriety removes that hate and replaces it with self respect and love for others. That dark hole I tried to fill with booze and dope and escape has been filled with faith, friendship and hope. I wouldn't trade my sobriety for all the God created, grown like corn, non-addictive, good for your eyes grass in the world.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Vegas! It's My Honeymoon and I Want To Get High!
The wedding was beautiful and the trip exciting for both Squeaky and I. There is another side of the story though. It is the story of my addictive side. Please note that I did not drink alcohol for 5 years from 1999 to 2004. As an addict we switch drugs, control amounts and fool ourselves into thinking we don't really have a problem. I knew I was an alcoholic and wasn't drinking. That equals no problem. Anyone who has been to Vegas knows you can find any drug or experience you fancy. You can enjoy the "sinniest" of sins, if you find the right people. As an addict I can pick these "go to guys" out in a room of a thousand faces.
Before we left Chicago I finished up the rest of my weed. When I felt like there wasn't enough I would crawl around the carpet looking for a bud that had fallen to the floor during a previous party session. Smoking dog hair, bugs, food and dust bits was just collateral damage in finding that wonder bud under the bed and reaching the high I craved.
We woke from our late night nuptials about 1:00 pm. We made love and showered, ready for a night on the town as Mr. Tom and Mrs. Kris Connolly. I was jonesing. Whoever said you can't get addicted to weed didn't interview me. I was hooked, but since I wasn't drinking, I was cool with it. I thought it didn't count. My wife wasn't supportive but was happy I wasn't drinking. She didn't understand addiction and the addict then, and had seen a lot of alcohol damage in past relationships. She accepted what I was doing, but secretly hated it and knew she was enabling me.
Below our hotel was a strip mall with souvenir shops and liquor stores. I only had to walk a hundred yards from the front door before the street rats and hustlers surrounded me. Ice, Tic, Smack and Blow was hawked under muffled breath. The dealer also has an eye for the user and they were locked in on me. I said I was looking for weed and 3 entrepreneurs jumped to attention like valets excited to park my BMW. I made arrangements for a small amount with the guy who could score the quickest. There was no consideration for leaving my wife uncomfortable or the risk that I was talking to a cop. I was trained to look at shoes and haircuts, eyes and sunglasses. I could pick a cop out like a hippo in a chicken coop.
30 minutes went by and my connection returned. The nonchalant brutha handshake dope pass was followed by an equally unassuming cash pass hand slap. I had my weed and was dying to get flying. For me the excitement of the deal and risk mixed with the relief of the score and anxious waiting was intoxicating. I bought some papers from the liquor store and headed back up to our room, dragging my wife behind me like a frustrated parent tugging their unruly toddler through the supermarket.
In the room the next ritual was initiated. The smelling, cleaning, breaking and de-seeding was vital to the roll. I twisted a J and opened the window to vent the smoke. A pothead also rolls up a towel and places it along the crack at the bottom of the door for extra odor prevention. It really is a lot of work to get high. All the while my new bride sat impatiently prodding me to hurry up. She didn't want me high but knew I would be irritable and no fun if I didn't get my way. She was as much at mercy to my habit as I was.
I finished the doob and was now ready to go. We headed down the strip and she was excited that we were husband and wife. I kissed her and was trying to determine the quality of my high while she shattered her sweet nothings. I told her I needed to see where Tupac was killed. That was the extent of my sightseeing. We reached the spot and I screamed at the ridiculous notion that no one saw anyone shoot him that night. If I made a sudden reach for my wallet four people would look at me. How could there be no witnesses on hand the night of a Tyson fight in Vegas? We were there in May and the street was packed. I ranted on and my wife dragged me on pleading for our honeymoon dinner.
Food was near the top in my botanically induced euphoria and a buffet at Treasure Island was just what the doctor ordered. We ate a lot. I ate a lot more than I should have. We lost a few bucks gambling and I wanted to return to the room. I told her I was tired but just wanted to return for another hit or two or 10. She wanted to see more of the strip and I acted like a spoiled child being martyred every step of the way. After my drama and whining became too much, Squeaky relented.
Our walking pace back to the hotel was double what it was when we left earlier in the evening. I was tired, remember, and I needed to get back quick and relax. I bought my wife a Starbucks, her favorite, as a token apology for cutting the evening short. I said all the right things to let her know how much I loved her. I meant every word. I loved her with every fiber of my being, but I love getting high one fiber more. Once the scale tipped toward getting high I was on auto pilot.
We made it to our room, my rituals were repeated. The towel was neatly rolled sealing the outside world out of my private party and I smoked until I fell passed out. My wife watched TV, feared a bust and wondered what the rest of the honeymoon and our life had in store for her.
Before we left Chicago I finished up the rest of my weed. When I felt like there wasn't enough I would crawl around the carpet looking for a bud that had fallen to the floor during a previous party session. Smoking dog hair, bugs, food and dust bits was just collateral damage in finding that wonder bud under the bed and reaching the high I craved.
We woke from our late night nuptials about 1:00 pm. We made love and showered, ready for a night on the town as Mr. Tom and Mrs. Kris Connolly. I was jonesing. Whoever said you can't get addicted to weed didn't interview me. I was hooked, but since I wasn't drinking, I was cool with it. I thought it didn't count. My wife wasn't supportive but was happy I wasn't drinking. She didn't understand addiction and the addict then, and had seen a lot of alcohol damage in past relationships. She accepted what I was doing, but secretly hated it and knew she was enabling me.
Below our hotel was a strip mall with souvenir shops and liquor stores. I only had to walk a hundred yards from the front door before the street rats and hustlers surrounded me. Ice, Tic, Smack and Blow was hawked under muffled breath. The dealer also has an eye for the user and they were locked in on me. I said I was looking for weed and 3 entrepreneurs jumped to attention like valets excited to park my BMW. I made arrangements for a small amount with the guy who could score the quickest. There was no consideration for leaving my wife uncomfortable or the risk that I was talking to a cop. I was trained to look at shoes and haircuts, eyes and sunglasses. I could pick a cop out like a hippo in a chicken coop.
30 minutes went by and my connection returned. The nonchalant brutha handshake dope pass was followed by an equally unassuming cash pass hand slap. I had my weed and was dying to get flying. For me the excitement of the deal and risk mixed with the relief of the score and anxious waiting was intoxicating. I bought some papers from the liquor store and headed back up to our room, dragging my wife behind me like a frustrated parent tugging their unruly toddler through the supermarket.
In the room the next ritual was initiated. The smelling, cleaning, breaking and de-seeding was vital to the roll. I twisted a J and opened the window to vent the smoke. A pothead also rolls up a towel and places it along the crack at the bottom of the door for extra odor prevention. It really is a lot of work to get high. All the while my new bride sat impatiently prodding me to hurry up. She didn't want me high but knew I would be irritable and no fun if I didn't get my way. She was as much at mercy to my habit as I was.
I finished the doob and was now ready to go. We headed down the strip and she was excited that we were husband and wife. I kissed her and was trying to determine the quality of my high while she shattered her sweet nothings. I told her I needed to see where Tupac was killed. That was the extent of my sightseeing. We reached the spot and I screamed at the ridiculous notion that no one saw anyone shoot him that night. If I made a sudden reach for my wallet four people would look at me. How could there be no witnesses on hand the night of a Tyson fight in Vegas? We were there in May and the street was packed. I ranted on and my wife dragged me on pleading for our honeymoon dinner.
Food was near the top in my botanically induced euphoria and a buffet at Treasure Island was just what the doctor ordered. We ate a lot. I ate a lot more than I should have. We lost a few bucks gambling and I wanted to return to the room. I told her I was tired but just wanted to return for another hit or two or 10. She wanted to see more of the strip and I acted like a spoiled child being martyred every step of the way. After my drama and whining became too much, Squeaky relented.
Our walking pace back to the hotel was double what it was when we left earlier in the evening. I was tired, remember, and I needed to get back quick and relax. I bought my wife a Starbucks, her favorite, as a token apology for cutting the evening short. I said all the right things to let her know how much I loved her. I meant every word. I loved her with every fiber of my being, but I love getting high one fiber more. Once the scale tipped toward getting high I was on auto pilot.
We made it to our room, my rituals were repeated. The towel was neatly rolled sealing the outside world out of my private party and I smoked until I fell passed out. My wife watched TV, feared a bust and wondered what the rest of the honeymoon and our life had in store for her.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Second Chances With A Beautiful Woman!
I met my wife Kris just before Kelly was born. I was living at the YMCA Lagrange. I was 6 months sober from alcohol and fresh out of rehab at Hinsdale Hospital. My relationship with my baby mama was over. The pain of leaving my unborn daughter behind ripped me apart inside, but the reality of the horribly destructive relationship I had with her mother was real and there was no chance of coming together. I could be a responsible father in raising her, but not there. It was not possible.
Kris was going through a painful break-up herself and we became friends quickly. We met at work. I was driving a forklift in a warehouse where she ran a freight forwarding company. We would talk on breaks and after work. Occasionally we would meet for a piece of pie at the local Bakers Square and share our battle stories. She knew I was newly sober and I kept no secrets from her. She was the first person I let into every dark corner of what was my life before then and what I wanted it to be.
She spoke often of her 3 children Andrea, Amanda and Scott. Andrea was 14, Amanda 7 and Scott 5. I admired her uncompromising dedication to her children and the pride she had in them. I got to meet Andrea first. She was the typical teenager in many ways with big dreams. She held the insecurity and self-consciousness about her appearance that all of us feel at that age. She could be described as Goth but she was much more than a mere label. We talked literature and Jack Kerouac, the injustices of war and the plight of the less fortunate. She had an engaging smile and a vocabulary that eclipsed her calendar age. Her father was not available to her and I was more than willing to step in and fill his shoes.
After 6 months of courting Kris and I moved in together. I was "insta-father"! I quickly asserted myself as the "man" of the house. I also had begun smoking pot again. I did not drink for 5 years while the kids were small. I am grateful for that. I didn't "smoke" in front of the kids either. I thought I was very responsible. Weed doesn't present itself like booze. It is much more subtle and laid back but it prevented me from growing emotionally and spiritually.
I still had anger issues and screamed a lot. When I was afraid it would come out as anger but it was well intentioned protective fear on the inside. I thought the world should be judging me on my intentions not my actions. What the kids saw was a Screaming Mimi period - no matter how pure my intentions.
Andrea was coming into age as a young woman and I thought it was my job to provide the "helpful guidance and constructive criticism" any good father would offer his daughter. While she bloomed I tried to keep her in the flower pot. "Do this..." "That's not right.." "You're smarter than that.." "What were you thinking?" was parroted almost daily from my ever helpful self. She isolated and shared very little with me for fear of my rebuke or lack of support. By the time she was 18 and ready to graduate she could barely stand to be in a room with me. Who could blame her? She graduated and moved down state to live with her uncle and to put as many cornfields between us as possible.
She is 25 now and we have grown back together slowly over the last 7 years. She is amazed to see that the anger and control issues have left me. They left a long time ago but she hasn't been here to see the changes. I have made many verbal amends to her and will spend my life being different. It is no surprise that she did just fine without my barrage of helpful life tips. She is a woman in every sense of the term. She is tough, street smart, kind and insightful. The past is gone and I can create 2 great tomorrows for every bad yesterday.
She got married this past September and moved to Germany. Her husband loves and respects her. He is attentive and supportive. A father could not ask for a better man to look after his daughterly treasure. As we danced at her wedding there were no ill feelings, only joy. She was radiant in her dress and her happiness filled the whole room that night.
She is home for the holidays and we have spent time together. A woman and her father, friends and confidants. We just made knish. She is Italian and I am Irish but we found a Jewish cook book while book shopping, a hobby we both share with great enthusiasm. We thought we would surprise her mom with some delicous knish. They may turn out great or terrible but I will love them either way.
I have made and will make mistakes as a father. Not only as an addict but as a man. I am not the guy she grew up with but she sees that I have grown up. The greatest thing about life is that you can start over anytime you want. It can be at the next sunrise or the next moment. I see a lot of the "good" me in Andrea and it makes me proud. I see her mother and grandmother in her much more. I am a lucky man and grateful for my past. It brought me to my today. I could talk for hours about how amazing my daughter is but I have to go and check the knish.
P.S. The knish came out great. She told me she loved me and hugged me tight. Oh how I love making knish!
Kris was going through a painful break-up herself and we became friends quickly. We met at work. I was driving a forklift in a warehouse where she ran a freight forwarding company. We would talk on breaks and after work. Occasionally we would meet for a piece of pie at the local Bakers Square and share our battle stories. She knew I was newly sober and I kept no secrets from her. She was the first person I let into every dark corner of what was my life before then and what I wanted it to be.
She spoke often of her 3 children Andrea, Amanda and Scott. Andrea was 14, Amanda 7 and Scott 5. I admired her uncompromising dedication to her children and the pride she had in them. I got to meet Andrea first. She was the typical teenager in many ways with big dreams. She held the insecurity and self-consciousness about her appearance that all of us feel at that age. She could be described as Goth but she was much more than a mere label. We talked literature and Jack Kerouac, the injustices of war and the plight of the less fortunate. She had an engaging smile and a vocabulary that eclipsed her calendar age. Her father was not available to her and I was more than willing to step in and fill his shoes.
After 6 months of courting Kris and I moved in together. I was "insta-father"! I quickly asserted myself as the "man" of the house. I also had begun smoking pot again. I did not drink for 5 years while the kids were small. I am grateful for that. I didn't "smoke" in front of the kids either. I thought I was very responsible. Weed doesn't present itself like booze. It is much more subtle and laid back but it prevented me from growing emotionally and spiritually.
I still had anger issues and screamed a lot. When I was afraid it would come out as anger but it was well intentioned protective fear on the inside. I thought the world should be judging me on my intentions not my actions. What the kids saw was a Screaming Mimi period - no matter how pure my intentions.
Andrea was coming into age as a young woman and I thought it was my job to provide the "helpful guidance and constructive criticism" any good father would offer his daughter. While she bloomed I tried to keep her in the flower pot. "Do this..." "That's not right.." "You're smarter than that.." "What were you thinking?" was parroted almost daily from my ever helpful self. She isolated and shared very little with me for fear of my rebuke or lack of support. By the time she was 18 and ready to graduate she could barely stand to be in a room with me. Who could blame her? She graduated and moved down state to live with her uncle and to put as many cornfields between us as possible.
She is 25 now and we have grown back together slowly over the last 7 years. She is amazed to see that the anger and control issues have left me. They left a long time ago but she hasn't been here to see the changes. I have made many verbal amends to her and will spend my life being different. It is no surprise that she did just fine without my barrage of helpful life tips. She is a woman in every sense of the term. She is tough, street smart, kind and insightful. The past is gone and I can create 2 great tomorrows for every bad yesterday.
She got married this past September and moved to Germany. Her husband loves and respects her. He is attentive and supportive. A father could not ask for a better man to look after his daughterly treasure. As we danced at her wedding there were no ill feelings, only joy. She was radiant in her dress and her happiness filled the whole room that night.
She is home for the holidays and we have spent time together. A woman and her father, friends and confidants. We just made knish. She is Italian and I am Irish but we found a Jewish cook book while book shopping, a hobby we both share with great enthusiasm. We thought we would surprise her mom with some delicous knish. They may turn out great or terrible but I will love them either way.
I have made and will make mistakes as a father. Not only as an addict but as a man. I am not the guy she grew up with but she sees that I have grown up. The greatest thing about life is that you can start over anytime you want. It can be at the next sunrise or the next moment. I see a lot of the "good" me in Andrea and it makes me proud. I see her mother and grandmother in her much more. I am a lucky man and grateful for my past. It brought me to my today. I could talk for hours about how amazing my daughter is but I have to go and check the knish.
P.S. The knish came out great. She told me she loved me and hugged me tight. Oh how I love making knish!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
My Addiction Laundry List or Man, I'm Glad They Didn't Have Meth in the 80's!
I need to point out ,once again, that I am NOT A DOCTOR or PSYCHOLOGIST. I am a person who has struggled with alcoholism and a variety of other addictions for 28 years. That doesn't qualify me as an expert but if I was listing my addiction history on a resume I would say I have "extensive and diverse experience in a variety of chemical and non-chemical dependency issues and recovery."
My sister, and only sibling, Chris Brown is a medical professional. She reminded me that I should always stress those two points. I do list those facts on my blog page in 3 different areas. People, this is my story. There are a lot of similarities between addictive behaviors. However, it is not like a burst appendix where there is a specific symptom, cause, prognosis, procedure and recovery. The only constant in addiction is the obsession and inability to control a behavior once it is begun. I am telling my story to the reader who identifies themselves as an addict or the ones who question some of their behaviors and the earthlings that live with them.
Mentioning my sister illustrates this point perfectly. We grew up in the same house, under the same conditions, share the same DNA and she is not an addict. She is well adjusted and responsible, hardworking and attentive to details and she can pour a bad margarita down the drain. I, on the other hand, would walk over to said sink and lap the margarita up, horrified at the waste of perfectly good alcohol. Insert laugh here.
My addiction to alcohol started around the age of 17. When I try to pin point the exact times in my life it is difficult because I just simply don't remember. The excessive damage that I did to my mind and body mixed with an unhealthy dose of convenient denial has blotted out large chunks of specifics in my history. I started smoking weed when I was 16 or so. I began using speed, hallucinogens, downers and other any other stuff that was handed to me, and guaranteed instant check out, at about 18 as well.
I have also been addicted to people, love, sex, pornography, work, things, gambling, food (to some extent) and cartoons. I added the cartoon part because after seeing my list I needed a little levity to lighten the tone. Man I really am F#*!ed up! Alcohol is my go to drug! It is the one that my recovery revolves around. As long as I do the things that long term recovery REQUIRE, the other ones have less of a chance to join the party.
My addictive mind knew how to work me. When I felt like my drinking was getting out of hand I would stop and switch to weed. Weed was created by God after all! It grew like tomatoes in the warm, sweet earth. Indians put it in their peace pipes. The U.S. government used to subsidize hemp farmers for growing the stuff in war time! Surely, there was nothing wrong with that. By switching to weed I could prove to myself that I wasn't an alcoholic because "they drink everyday." "I haven't drank in 3 days. Never mind that I've smoked an ounce of skunk in that same time period." I didn't just wake and bake. I did AWAKE and BAKE. As long as I was awake I was baked.
By switching from booze to weed, drug to drug, addiction to addiction, I created a false sense of control in my mind. I couldn't possibly have a problem because I could morph from one fiend to the next without being creeped out by staying on any one of them for too long of a period of time. My disease knows me better than I know myself. It is always looking for an "in". It participates in my recovery. It pays attention to what I learn about preventing relapse. It is always waiting, ever so patiently, for me to let my guard down. If I do, God only knows what would happen.
I don't ever want anyone to think that I take this stuff lightly. I am a comedian and get great pleasure, almost addictive pleasure, out of making people laugh. This is no game. Addiction is no joke. Recovery is no party. I just like to put a smile on the face of a subject that destroys the lives of users, their family, friends and innocent bystanders every minute of every day.
My sister, and only sibling, Chris Brown is a medical professional. She reminded me that I should always stress those two points. I do list those facts on my blog page in 3 different areas. People, this is my story. There are a lot of similarities between addictive behaviors. However, it is not like a burst appendix where there is a specific symptom, cause, prognosis, procedure and recovery. The only constant in addiction is the obsession and inability to control a behavior once it is begun. I am telling my story to the reader who identifies themselves as an addict or the ones who question some of their behaviors and the earthlings that live with them.
Mentioning my sister illustrates this point perfectly. We grew up in the same house, under the same conditions, share the same DNA and she is not an addict. She is well adjusted and responsible, hardworking and attentive to details and she can pour a bad margarita down the drain. I, on the other hand, would walk over to said sink and lap the margarita up, horrified at the waste of perfectly good alcohol. Insert laugh here.
My addiction to alcohol started around the age of 17. When I try to pin point the exact times in my life it is difficult because I just simply don't remember. The excessive damage that I did to my mind and body mixed with an unhealthy dose of convenient denial has blotted out large chunks of specifics in my history. I started smoking weed when I was 16 or so. I began using speed, hallucinogens, downers and other any other stuff that was handed to me, and guaranteed instant check out, at about 18 as well.
I have also been addicted to people, love, sex, pornography, work, things, gambling, food (to some extent) and cartoons. I added the cartoon part because after seeing my list I needed a little levity to lighten the tone. Man I really am F#*!ed up! Alcohol is my go to drug! It is the one that my recovery revolves around. As long as I do the things that long term recovery REQUIRE, the other ones have less of a chance to join the party.
My addictive mind knew how to work me. When I felt like my drinking was getting out of hand I would stop and switch to weed. Weed was created by God after all! It grew like tomatoes in the warm, sweet earth. Indians put it in their peace pipes. The U.S. government used to subsidize hemp farmers for growing the stuff in war time! Surely, there was nothing wrong with that. By switching to weed I could prove to myself that I wasn't an alcoholic because "they drink everyday." "I haven't drank in 3 days. Never mind that I've smoked an ounce of skunk in that same time period." I didn't just wake and bake. I did AWAKE and BAKE. As long as I was awake I was baked.
By switching from booze to weed, drug to drug, addiction to addiction, I created a false sense of control in my mind. I couldn't possibly have a problem because I could morph from one fiend to the next without being creeped out by staying on any one of them for too long of a period of time. My disease knows me better than I know myself. It is always looking for an "in". It participates in my recovery. It pays attention to what I learn about preventing relapse. It is always waiting, ever so patiently, for me to let my guard down. If I do, God only knows what would happen.
I don't ever want anyone to think that I take this stuff lightly. I am a comedian and get great pleasure, almost addictive pleasure, out of making people laugh. This is no game. Addiction is no joke. Recovery is no party. I just like to put a smile on the face of a subject that destroys the lives of users, their family, friends and innocent bystanders every minute of every day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)