FEAR! Don't Get Licked by a Sucker.....

I write all of my posts from the pit of my heart. I hope you do not think the themes are just about addiction and depression. You can plug any fear or obstacle impeding your journey in to those blanks and it will instantly be pertinent. Someone who bought my book recently was taken back by my brutal honesty in the pages. I took that as a compliment. I did some pretty dark things and kept on plugging away. Face your demons. They always look and feel like giants, but if you face them I guarantee they're not as big as you think. A sucker gets smaller when you lick it. A person who lets fear lick at them become suckers.

Depression makes me laugh. What? You thought I was going to say it makes me sad. Right? It does sometimes. There are times it makes me cry, get obsessive-compulsive, angry or giddy. On other occasions it makes me isolate or dread being alone. I dislike the word depression "sufferer." There are few moments that I suffer from my depression. There are trying times. Every so often I have a difficult day or two.

I usually speak about the triumphs and tribulations of sobriety, addiction and recovery. I don't speak enough about the world of depression and fear. I'm not an expert on it. I live with it, and in it. A friend of mine, who's a county politician, messaged me recently on how stigmatized addiction and depression is in our society. I told her I was going to be addressing that very thing soon.

I was first diagnosed bi-polar in March of 1999 when I checked myself into Hinsdale Hospital for rehab. I have since been rediagnosed as having an anxiety and panic disorder with bi-polar tendencies. My work in recovery, and a therapist has been effective in helping me MANAGE my CONDITION. I have a chemical imbalance that requires medication to stabilize my mood. I am grateful to say that over the last three years I have gone from four pills a day, to two at bedtime. I hope I get to a point when I need no medication at all. The chemical imbalance is a part of life as ME. It's kinda like the fact that I'm left handed living in a right handed world. I have learned to MANAGE and ADAPT.

Bi-Polar used to be called Manic Depressive. That's a beauty! To define what I have is difficult. Simply stated I am attracted to both male and female Arctic people.  Traditionally defined, I have really high-highs and really low-lows emotionally. Most folks spend their time in the emotional middle and spike up or down. I tend to be at one of the polar extremes and have to work towards the emotional middle. My chemical receptors and plugs have a problem lining up just right. It's a bit like a car that needs a new set of wires. The car runs but it misfires.  A lot of addicts use because they have some form of depression or chemical imbalance. We self medicate because we can't cope with racing thoughts, mood swings or can't process our feelings that aren't fitting the picture. This is me.

I often have the wrong emotional response for the situation that is occurring. The world sees my actions not my intentions. When my Aunt Dora died we drove down to Carlisle, Indiana for her funeral. I was about 15 or so. My grandfather was cracking jokes about her in the family lounge. I was laughing like George Carlin was sitting next to me. Tears were rolling down my face. I was clearly boisterous and obnoxious. I didn't KNOW HOW to cope with my feelings over the death. I vented through my laughter.

As White Sox announcer Ken " Hawk" Harrelson says, "right size, wrong shape." It was inappropriate behavior for a funeral. I was depressed and was in a high on my emotional meter. I was in a manic moment. Rightfully, my mother scolded me for my actions. I retreated into a corner feeling as if I had done something horribly wrong. It wasn't that my feelings were wrong. Our feelings are OUR FEELINGS, and are neither right or wrong. My actions were improper for a wake. I couldn't find the middle on how to react to my Aunt's death. When my HIGH reaction was inappropriate I slipped down to the low. Emotional Middle Earth was elusive for me.

I started to drink and use because I couldn't cope with my thoughts and feelings not aligning, and my irrational fears paralyzing me. I was afraid to talk about them. I thought I was crazy for having them.  I felt misunderstood all the time. Sometimes I still do. It's been said that addicts are overly sensitive people. It's not surprising to me when I see us dually diagnosed. It does sting a little when I hear people say addicts have no feelings. WE FEEL EVERYTHING! That is a large part of our problem.

We feel compassion when a butterfly farts! When you mix a chemical imbalance into an addictive personality KABOOM! Catastrophe is down right inevitable. It is a perfect recipe for self-destruction. However, once we get armed with the facts about WHAT WE ARE and WHO WE ARE there's hope in overcoming ANY obstacle, or at least coming to peace with it.

The key to SURVIVING addiction, depression or facing any fear is reaching out for help. As an addict and a person who has wondered if I was going out of my mind I know that is a bitter pill to swallow. The thought of approaching someone about being crazy is nuts! No it's not. It's your only hope. You have to have hope. Even when your sitting under that rock. You're not crazy! You're just a little nuts!

When I addressed my alcohol and addiction issues I was having multiple panic attacks daily. Once I found out my wires were crossed I felt better. I WAS NOT ALONE. Panic attacks suck! The ones' Tony Soprano had were a party! I felt like I was gonna DIE every day! DAY AFTER DAY! That's not living. That's existing until you're finally right!

I saw a couple of noodle professionals. I  eventually found one I was comfortable with. This is not like picking out bagels! Take your time. DO RESEARCH. LEARN. EDUCATE YOURSELF. The more you learn about your melon the less you'll feel your losing your seeds! It isn't the end of the world. It opened me up to my life again. I have not had a full blown attack in over a year. I now recognize my symptoms and know I'm not going to die. To be safe I also don't let ducks raise their young in our backyard.

General public, earthlings and pundits, PLEASE don't judge what you do not understand. Chemical imbalance doesn't mean crazy. An addict doesn't have a morality problem. If it were as easy as "just stopping" ...we would. When it comes to depression and fear, if it were as easy as, "just snapping out of it"...we'd do that too....






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.

Why Do I Default to Stereotyping Things I Do Not Understand?

I was recently offered a leading role in an urban film being shot in Chicago by a bright, young film maker that I had to turn down to a scheduling conflict. The script was well written. The production team was well organized. The casting 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 character. I am not defending him or the actions he takes in the film but the few lines I just state are an oversimplification of the character, film and project as a whole. When I was presented with the opportunity to audition for the part my first reaction was "NO WAY!" 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. This time I talked like a blue collar, foul mouthed, white trash idiot. Shame on me on several levels. I was offered the part because of my "acting" in the role and my anger in the scene, not my portrayal of the character. After I had to turn the project down I thought about the whole experience and came away very disappointed in myself.

I am not a racist. White people have screwed me over more than all the other ethnic categories put together. I can say that when I am leaving a Sox game at 35th and the Dan Ryan after a night game and I am 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.

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 when the director did not tell me to act that way.

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.

What a horrible habit! I let media, TV, movies, music, magazines and the Internet shape my opinions instead of learning for myself in some cases. This is a very unhealthy 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. When I look at the outside of anything and predetermine the quality or morality of what's inside prior to investigation, I have failed my morals, my God and myself.

When I Think About My Insomnia... I Don't Sleep A Wink!

It's 2:58am in Plainfield. I have been up since 2am. I was laying in bed thinking about getting up since 1:15am. I went to bed at 11:15pm. What I'm trying to say is that I suffer from insomnia. When I think about it, I can't sleep a wink. I've suffered from it for as long as I can remember. It has been at least 12 years, but more likely longer than that. To top it off my body clock wakes me up at 3:46am everyday. Even if I go to bed at midnight! I don't need an alarm clock, it's automatic!

My wife gets up at 4am for work Monday through Friday. I started getting up with her years ago so we could have some time in the morning to be alone before the hustle and bustle of life took us in our separate directions. On the weekends she sleeps in until about 8am. Me? Heck no! I am still up at 3:46am seven days a week. What I wouldn't do to be able to sleep until 8am. I might as well be dreaming about closing for the White Sox because that's just not the way my body works.

As a kid the only times I had trouble sleeping was either on Christmas Eve or the night before I was going to pitch in a baseball game. It wasn't too long ago that I would drink 20 or so beers and I would still wake up at 3:46am. That's enough alcohol to knock out a sperm whale but not me. It didn't matter how much I took or drank, I would still be up before the crack of dawn. Maybe I'll get a job as a paperboy. That seems to me to be the only job where a 3:46am wake up routine would be useful.

I've heard a lot of alcoholics and addicts have sleeping problems. Using chemicals was our knock out formula. When that is taken away there's no more knock out. During the day I take a couple of "power naps" for about 30 minutes each day to make it through the daylight hours. My dad taught me the magic of the power nap when I was about 12. I love them. The fact that I lived in my car for a couple years helped also. I can take a power nap anywhere, anytime.

It's almost 3:30am so I have 16 minutes before my body would be waking me on any other day so I might as well roll with it now. 3 of my 4 dogs get up with me in the middle of the night. My 12 year old Yellow Lab, "Cooter," doesn't get up. She could sleep through a home invasion. Whoever started using the word "dog" as an insult must have had a bad one because I would change places with any of my dogs in a heartbeat. Sleep, play, sleep, eat, sleep, go out, clean your naughty bits, sleep...all sounds like heaven to me.

When I was drinking I would be spending the time I am using now to clean up pee from my bed or come to in the middle of our family room. Sometimes I would even wake up in the bathroom naked, puke all over the place and not knowing how I ended up there. I am so thankful those days are gone. They will stay gone if I stay connected to God, people like me and am honest with myself about what and who I am. I better start wrapping this thing up, my body clock is going to wake me in 9 minutes.

Now I spend this time corresponding with people who connect with me concerning addiction or depression issues. I prayed that when I started this blog I would be able to connect with people like me and share their pain and give them some hope that they can make it through anything, a day or minute at a time. In the last 48 hours I have had 2 people approach me about recovery and dealing with depression. I am grateful that God has allowed me to be a channel for hope and faith in a new way of life to help them find their way.

With each new day, when someone reaches out to me and tells me I am helping them or others with their own struggles, it makes the insomnia okay. I live my life free of guilt, shame and remorse now. In the two months I have been writing, God has spoken through me to give an encouraging word or just help someone through a crazy day. Sometimes it stresses me out and I feel overwhelmed. It is nothing like the continuous assault on my sanity that alcohol created.

We are all messengers of God. I mean the Great Spirit, not a God of a particular color or shape. My human mind can't quantify the concept of God. I do know it is centered in love. We all can spread a little love in this world. So as you get up today and are sipping your morning coffee, or eating your dinner on the other side of the world, try an experiment for me. Say or do something centered in love for everyone you meet or see. To the people we live with greet them with a pleasant "Good Morning!" or compliment them on something.

I know when I lend a hand or a shoulder to cry on, when I just listen or be there for someone I feel better knowing I am making them feel better. It doesn't take a lot of effort or time. The positive energy or love of God is contagious. It is not denominational or exclusive. We all have the ability to change a dark moment into a sunny one for each other every day. When people reach out to me and say I have said or done something to help them, or when they say nothing at all and I see hope growing in their eyes it makes my past worth it.

 If I do not share the gifts and blessings that god has chosen to give me through grace, I just might lose it all. Try my experiment. I guarantee it will make you feel better about you knowing you have made someone feel better about themselves. Give it a shot. You won't be sorry. It's 4:15am. I better get my day started. Hey! A smile goes a long way. Let the experiment begin!

Fatherhood Episode 1....Nelson Fox, Hemingway and DADDY!

Being a father is tough. It is both the greatest and worst job in the universe all rolled into one messy package. The responsibilities and leadership role that comes with being the patriarch are many and often boggling. All fathers are a little nutty about protecting their daughters and sons, but add obsession, addiction and recovery into the pot and the mental stew gets thick really fast. Addicts and alchy's have an extra sensory gift that develops during our use. It is the ability to read people quite accurately and in a matter of seconds or minutes.

I remember when I was growing up and I would get in trouble for something. I would think things like "When I have a kid I'm not gonna be so mean." or "I'm not gonna treat my kid like that." There are a lot of those statements I could add here but it would read like a scroll from a "Three Stooges" sketch, where the scroll unfurls, and unrolls across the whole room. I will save you that misery. But as a parent, you know you had these same thoughts. I also had the strange notion that there was some sort of "Parenting Handbook" that was in the bottom of the box when you brought the kid home. Not so!

You all know I have 3 daughters and a son. My daughter, Ange, is the oldest. Sunny is in the middle. Bro is the youngest in the house. Kelly, my youngest daughter is with my Ex-wife. Where? I don't know.

After you have made it through the tender years and into "teenage hell" there is a new character introduced into the family unit. That is the boyfriend or girlfriend!

Ange didn't date until late in her teens, as far as I know, and after my reaction to her first boyfriend I can see why she wasn't anxious to bring "new prospects" over to meet me. During her senior year of high school she started working at a local restaurant. I was thrilled that she had a great work ethic and was inspired by her positive attitude when looking ahead to a night at work. At work was a boyfriend. A father's nightmare, or at least for the first few victims.

He was a handsome "MAN" and twice her age. His marital status was unknown but the age difference was enough to trigger my "ohhhh, Hellll No!" button immediately. I regret embarrassing and hurting her deeply after I terminated the relationship for her. I handled the situation wrong, because I did not consider her point of view and the level of emotional connection she had with this MAN. My reaction to the relationship was wrong by textbook definition. Hurting her, like I did, was one of the last bricks in the wall that caused her to flee when she was 18. With that being said, I would not change a thing regarding how I "informed" her boyfriend that the relationship was terminated. I had not been given the user's manual so I reverted to the primal fatherly instincts and rage overtook me.

The place where they worked was just down the street from our home, easy walking distance for her and a quick getaway route for what I had planned for the "perp." I am a die hard White Sox fan and lover of the Great American Pastime. I played until the age of 17 and swing a mean bat. Oops, I'm getting ahead of the story. On a calm summery night I picked up my Nelson Fox bat, and decided to take a stroll to the restaurant. As I stomped my way down the street my rage built and my batting average went up as I envisioned splattering his melon like hitting a 12" softball on the sweet spot. I made it to the restaurant and Hemi was surprised to see her daddy so unexpectedly. I gave her the look of "which one is he?" She tilted her head uncomfortably in the direction of her suitor. I was gentlemanly enough that I didn't take my "Nelly" bat in the front. I left it waiting patiently in the bushes outside. After capturing his photo in my terminate database like Arnie, I headed back out of the restaurant making my way back around to the kitchen entrance. I picked up my trusted friend and set off to introduce "Nelly" to the guy's cranium.

Standing at the screen door of the kitchen I beckoned my baby girl's friend to come outside and have a "discussion" with me. Looking back on it now, I don't think that knocking on the door with my Nelson Fox bat was the right way to convince him that he was in for a warm "father to boyfriend" chat. He didn't come out so I began to shout and bang my proposals on the door to him like a demented Irishman sending out Daddy Morse Code. The crux of my suggestions were that it would be in his health's interest if he ended his fascination with my daughter. I assured him we were not negotiating terms. It was take my advice or get used to the nickname "lemon head."

I am grateful the "Po Po" weren't called. I was manic in those few moments. To my delight, he accepted my terms, and left my baby alone. I think I taught that MAN a valuable lesson about dating etiquette and finding more appropriate subjects that day. No one got hurt physically. I know I had hurt Hemi and it hurt me like hell that I did. There are things we do as parents that our kids don't understand when the shite storm is swirling, but they often come around years later. I think she understands I was just looking out for her. As a guy I have laid every lying, cajoling, sympathetic and assuring line on the ladies to get what I wanted in the past.

Ange, Hemi, G, Preshus are all nicknames I use for her. She has got game! Her husband is wonderful and she is happy. The fact that they live in Hamburg, Germany is difficult for all of us but I admire her tenacity and dedication to her marriage. As for the boyfriends in between that first restaurant fling and her marriage to Joerg, there were other suitors I met along the way. My daughters have 2 bits of wisdom they share about me with the guys they date. Number one is, "shake his hand like a man, not a fish!" The second one is "look him in the eye when you're talking to him."

My middle daughter Sunny's dating habits are more like a "flavor of the week." I'll save that for another time. Nobody is issued a handbook on raising our kids. We do the best we can and sometimes the worst of us comes out trying to achieve that goal. How they turn out is a roll of the dice. You can do everything right and they still may end up in Singh-Singh or they can be faced with huge obstacles and become President of the United States. All we can do is pray and nudge them in the right direction. When they walk out that door, they are free to make choices out of our control. Worry doesn't help. We've all done that. Faith and guidance is all we got. Sometimes the discipline we hand out hurts us just as much to us as it does to them.

Like I said, being a father is the greatest and worst job in the world. Today I think I'm getting the hang of it. I really like my kids. The love is automatic. The like is sometimes here, and sometimes not. I keep the faith and never lose hope in their character and the choices they make. I bite my tongue more now than rattling it at them. I do the best I can, plain and simple. The rest is up to how the dice were rolled and what number comes up, and the grace of God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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