When I left off on the story of losing the baby with wife # 2, we were married for only a short time. The only thing that connected us was the baby and after it was erased from the picture, we had nothing left between us. The physical connection disappeared as neither of us wanted to experience the moments of pleasure that lead to the creation and loss of our child. It is in this chapter that I am going to make a confession that haunts me. I have spoken with the people involved in my confessions and taken responsibility for my actions.
I have reached out to wife # 2 to no avail. I do know she is remarried and as beautiful as ever. I hope to make my reparations to her face-to-face one day. Only time will tell. After the loss of the baby and knowing the marriage was going to end, my boozing, weed and speed use was at an all time high, or low depending on your perspective.
I was working for my father and it was a Sunday afternoon. The store wasn't open and my wife and I could not stand to be in the same room together. She was young and full of fire. I was older, addicted and had a short fuse. I left for the store to drink and use in peace, bemoaning my dead child and horrified that I was in a 2nd failed marriage. Addiction loves pain, misery, anger, conflict and general chaos. They make the excuses to use a short list to sort through, before justification is reached.
I drank and smoked weed to calm down. I took speed to make my tolerance for the two higher. I was trapped between tweaking, freaking and sleeping. I used all day and headed back to my dark, marital nest. It was her place. I wasn't even on the lease. I hid a pint of vodka under the couch and she was in our bedroom. I turned on the Bull's game. They were in the championship that year. When she went to the bathroom or if I knew she was busy with something, I would hit the bottle and pop a few more prellies.
When it comes to using, the addict becomes ninja-like in his stealth. I could sneak up on a lightly sleeping copper and take a shot of whiskey off his forehead without even waking him. Bottles were strategically placed around the place so I could "settle my nerves" at will. She knew but really didn't care. Her loathing for me was as great as mine was for her, but not close to the loathing I felt for myself. She could hear the twisting cap and rattling pill bottle coming from the living room. Slamming drawers and closets made a clear statement to me that she was not a happy camper.
I watched the Bulls in a chemical fog, hair tingling and heart racing. She entered the living room and stood between me and the television set. I acted as if she wasn't there, like I was looking through a window. She hated to be ignored. It was a hot button. As a good addict I pushed that button with glee.
She yelled that I was a drunken loser and all the usual stuff I had heard so many times before. I just watched her stomach, as if it was the TV itself. The more I acted like she wasn't there, the madder she got.
She lunged forward and grabbed my face with one hand shouting that she had things to talk about and I was going to pay attention to what she had to say. That is a censored paraphrase of her rantings. I swept her hand away from my face and pushed her away from me. She fell on her bottom and got up angrier than a rattlesnake with a toothache. She demanded that I get out. I told her to get out. She said she was going to her mother's and I waved bye-bye.
About twenty minutes later the police arrived at the condo. I let them in perfectly calm, knowing that I was the one with fingerprint bruises on my face and that I had just pushed her away from me. I did not start it. I did not hit or hurt her. I felt assured that justice would prevail and that truth always wins out in the end. The officer asked me to recount the events that had transpired and I regurgitated the events of the argument. He could see that I was bruised and she stood behind him looking as pretty as ever.
The officer asked me to place my hands behind my back. I asked why. He said I was "under arrest." I asked him to look at my face and knew I hadn't struck or hurt her. I just pushed her away from me. It wasn't like I flung her into the TV. She just sat down on her butt in front of me. He went on to explain that in that county the male was always the one placed under arrest. It was a county law. I reviewed the story again and he said I would have my day in court.
It was unbelievable. I was telling the truth. I spent the night in county jail and my father bailed me out the next morning. When I read the police report it said that I had beaten her with a telephone in our kitchen. We didn't even have a phone in the kitchen. I had been set up and very well at that. An order of protection was issued for a short time and I was given a date that I could retrieve my belongings. I asked the police to be there when I removed my belongings, fearing another fabricated incident. I asked the officer to note that we had no phone and the story was bogus. He told me to tell it to the judge.
I hired an attorney and planned on fighting the "Domestic Battery" charge. He instructed me that I had no record and could take probation and anger management classes and I would get off scott free. I was incensed, demanding justice be served. He said that although I had a good case and an excellent chance of winning it, the risk of losing could mean steep penalties and jail time. I couldn't believe it. I took the plea knowing that I didn't hit, hurt or do the things she stated in the official report. My second mother went to court with me for every appearance. I was grateful for that.
Here is where the confession comes in and the realization that justice had been served. I did not do the things I was charged with by wife #2 but there were two events in my life prior when I did lay hands upon a woman. The first was in a tequila drenched haze when my girlfriend punched me in the face and I backhanded her by reflex. She called the police and no report was filed. I should have been arrested. Ironically the police officer who came to our apartment was our neighbor and is her husband today.
The other time I laid hands on a woman was when I was 20 years old. I actually hit my girlfriend's head against the ground. The police were not called but the relationship was over. The three times that I was involved in domestic issues booze and drugs were involved. I have spoken with the two ladies I laid hands on and have made amends and taken responsibility for my actions. That is so not me, and I still remember those events vividly.
I have some belief in Karma and "What goes around, comes around." Justice was served that night I was arrested for something I didn't do. It was the "come around" for what I had done in those years before to my 2 former girlfriends. I make these confessions to clear my conscience and tell another human of my shame and horror at my actions. You may glance away thinking I was a thug. I know I was in those two instances. I am glad that I made my peace with them and they accepted my genuine apology for my gross actions.
I have not done anything like that in 19 years. It still haunts me and drove my addiction for awhile. The key thing is that those incidents happened while I was loaded. Sober, those actions couldn't even make it to the front of my mind. If you are a potential addict, or wondering if you have substance abuse issues, take a look back at your life. Were you using when you had your biggest argument with a loved one or friend? Were you drunk when you got into a fist fight with someone? Were you under the influence of something when you lost control of your emotions? If you answered yes to these questions you might want to look at yourself and your substance use.
I can honestly say that there were good times when I partied. I can say with absolute conviction that EVERY time I got into trouble or had a bad argument with someone, booze or drugs was involved. Booze+Drugs+Anger=TROUBLE. I will never forget that night in jail and have never had to experience it again since that day so long ago. Justice was served I just paid for the events of my past.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Angels and Dreamins'.....Near Death Experiences and Visitations! Part Three!
I would like to direct you guys to a link that has found its way into my heart. Being diagnosed as clinically depressed with general anxiety disorder myself,
this organization fights to open people's minds up to the stigma attached to having chemical imbalance or disorders. I hope you will check it out. It is http://NKM2.org/ . The goal is to stomp out the stigma attached to depression and other mental disorders. You will be surprised by some people you know who suffer from these conditions.
The first two chapters in this series centered on unexplained experience and my near death experience. Some of you may think I'm nuts. You're right! I have the paperwork to prove it! This one will revolve around my father and an experience I had after his death. Since today is our game against the Packers I thought this entry was appropriate. He was the greatest Bear fan on Earth and now in Heaven! The 4th passage will revolve around dreams. Dream interpretation and manipulation has been a part of me since I was a little boy. That story is for later.
There is a term used in recovery that is "contempt prior to investigation." It is very common among alcoholics and addicts. More specifically, I think most of us take part in it. To explain the meaning of the phrase I will give a simple childhood analogy. When we were young and we saw some food that didn't look delicious, when asked to try it we would shout,"No! It's yucky! We stood resolute that the food would be bad even though we didn't taste it.
As adults we do this as well. How many times have you pulled up to a corner and seen a clearly dirty person and thought, "What a bum?" I know I have done it in the past. We see people who are ethnically different or practice rituals that don't match ours and decry,"What they're doing is wrong!" These are all examples of contempt prior to investigation. It is making a decision or passing judgement on something before we have experienced it or gotten all the facts. It is a rejection of something or someone before we know anything about them.
In recovery, contempt prior to investigation is rampant in the addict. We judge everything and everyone like we are the all knowing and powerful. We are Gods! We determine that recovery programs won't work or therapy for depression is hooey and for "crazy" people. We decide what is going to happen before we have even tried it. Therefore we don't have to try it because we have already predetermined that it won't work. Thus giving us the out. How many times have you taken the chance on that ugly contemptible food only to find it was remarkably good? Corned beef hash looks like leftovers from a fraternity party and I love the stuff. Why? Because I opened my mind to the possibility that my preconceived opinions might not be right and gave it a shot with an open mind.
When it comes to "after death" experiences, hauntings, visitations, UFOs, spirits and intelligent life existing elsewhere in the galaxy we fall into one of two camps: I believe or that's a bunch of horse hockey! It is my experience that the more open minded I am about these subjects, and all of life itself, I learn and grow. I often find out that my ideas and notions were off base. I try to keep an open mind about everything. Who am I to decide what is and what isn't possible? The more my mind opens up to foreign concepts that I once decried as impossible or wrong, the more balanced I become.
When my father died I was concerned about where he was headed after death. He was an Agnostic (he believed in some creator but not sure what it was). He became more receptive to the concepts of heaven and hell towards the end. I took communion to him in his bed and he confessed his faith. My sister Chris would read the Bible to him and he really began to enjoy it. We all prayed with him and I was surprised he knew the "Lord's Prayer." I have said before an Atheists last words are..."I was only kidding!" It makes complete sense that as we approach our death we become more receptive to another dimension out of fear or to cover our basis just in case.
I am certain there is a Heaven and Hell. I know I'm going to Heaven! I obsessed about my father's final destination incessantly. Obsession is part of me. On the day before he passed onto the great Bear locker room in the sky I asked him a favor. I asked him to let me know that he made it to the other side. He was still coherent at that time and he said yes he would. He passed the next day and I began to wait for his message of safe passage.
When my dad was at our house he sat at the same place on one of our couches every time he visited. For the first three months after he died I slept on that couch waiting and waiting. I even hung up his favorite Bear hat and jersey above my pillow in hopes that it would be easier for him to find me. Night after night he would show up in my dreams but I waited for "the message."
3 months after his passing, and suffering from an aching back from sleeping on the couch, I got my message. It was different from the experience I had with the bridge and grey figures in 2004. He didn't kneel down next to the couch and say "hey little buddy I made it." It was different and amazing. He kept his promise.
I don't sleep well as you may know from the odd hours I am on FB or posting blogs. On this particular morning I was napping on the couch after a recovery meeting. As I began to doze off I opened my eyes and saw two figures at the top of my stairs leading to the kitchen. They were about 15 feet from the couch, his couch. These figures were more defined than my first experience. One was tall, very tall like 6'8" and the other 5'10," my Father's height.
Again there were no words spoken aloud but a telepathic transfer of words and feelings. I could tell the taller figure was a guide of some sort. It stood behind my father and did not communicate with me. It was there for my father. Both auras were bleach white and illuminating. My father's aura was that of a younger man, like when he was in his 30's. I could also notice his hair was straight, a style he wore briefly before going to his perm. He had a burgundy hue to his aura. I do not understand, nor need to know why burgundy was his color, but it was. The taller guide was in all white.
They stood at the top of the stairs and I looked at the TV to make sure I wasn't dreaming. The whole experience only lasted about 15 seconds but a lot of ground was covered in that short time. My dad let me know that he was alright. I could tell he was happy. He reminded me of the pictures of when his hair was greased back and he was driving flashy Cadillacs. There were no questions asked but answers were conveyed to me. He was elated and I knew he made it to the other side.
I believe you have to be open to the possibility of these visits or they can't happen. My mind opens more and more each day. That 90% of our brains that we haven't tapped into has to serve a purpose. I believe in the next dimension. The next level of our experiences after death don't end here. Just because we experience things we don't understand, or experience them personally, doesn't make it impossible. Contempt prior to investigation prevents us from discovering so much more of what life has to offer.
My final passage in this series will involve dreams. I have been interested in dreams since I was a little boy. I will not post that until after the Bears win the NFC Championship today. This is my Dad's season. He may not get the score but we will get the victory. I believe he will help us win today. Remember: he is part of the north end zone.
this organization fights to open people's minds up to the stigma attached to having chemical imbalance or disorders. I hope you will check it out. It is http://NKM2.org/ . The goal is to stomp out the stigma attached to depression and other mental disorders. You will be surprised by some people you know who suffer from these conditions.
The first two chapters in this series centered on unexplained experience and my near death experience. Some of you may think I'm nuts. You're right! I have the paperwork to prove it! This one will revolve around my father and an experience I had after his death. Since today is our game against the Packers I thought this entry was appropriate. He was the greatest Bear fan on Earth and now in Heaven! The 4th passage will revolve around dreams. Dream interpretation and manipulation has been a part of me since I was a little boy. That story is for later.
There is a term used in recovery that is "contempt prior to investigation." It is very common among alcoholics and addicts. More specifically, I think most of us take part in it. To explain the meaning of the phrase I will give a simple childhood analogy. When we were young and we saw some food that didn't look delicious, when asked to try it we would shout,"No! It's yucky! We stood resolute that the food would be bad even though we didn't taste it.
As adults we do this as well. How many times have you pulled up to a corner and seen a clearly dirty person and thought, "What a bum?" I know I have done it in the past. We see people who are ethnically different or practice rituals that don't match ours and decry,"What they're doing is wrong!" These are all examples of contempt prior to investigation. It is making a decision or passing judgement on something before we have experienced it or gotten all the facts. It is a rejection of something or someone before we know anything about them.
In recovery, contempt prior to investigation is rampant in the addict. We judge everything and everyone like we are the all knowing and powerful. We are Gods! We determine that recovery programs won't work or therapy for depression is hooey and for "crazy" people. We decide what is going to happen before we have even tried it. Therefore we don't have to try it because we have already predetermined that it won't work. Thus giving us the out. How many times have you taken the chance on that ugly contemptible food only to find it was remarkably good? Corned beef hash looks like leftovers from a fraternity party and I love the stuff. Why? Because I opened my mind to the possibility that my preconceived opinions might not be right and gave it a shot with an open mind.
When it comes to "after death" experiences, hauntings, visitations, UFOs, spirits and intelligent life existing elsewhere in the galaxy we fall into one of two camps: I believe or that's a bunch of horse hockey! It is my experience that the more open minded I am about these subjects, and all of life itself, I learn and grow. I often find out that my ideas and notions were off base. I try to keep an open mind about everything. Who am I to decide what is and what isn't possible? The more my mind opens up to foreign concepts that I once decried as impossible or wrong, the more balanced I become.
When my father died I was concerned about where he was headed after death. He was an Agnostic (he believed in some creator but not sure what it was). He became more receptive to the concepts of heaven and hell towards the end. I took communion to him in his bed and he confessed his faith. My sister Chris would read the Bible to him and he really began to enjoy it. We all prayed with him and I was surprised he knew the "Lord's Prayer." I have said before an Atheists last words are..."I was only kidding!" It makes complete sense that as we approach our death we become more receptive to another dimension out of fear or to cover our basis just in case.
I am certain there is a Heaven and Hell. I know I'm going to Heaven! I obsessed about my father's final destination incessantly. Obsession is part of me. On the day before he passed onto the great Bear locker room in the sky I asked him a favor. I asked him to let me know that he made it to the other side. He was still coherent at that time and he said yes he would. He passed the next day and I began to wait for his message of safe passage.
When my dad was at our house he sat at the same place on one of our couches every time he visited. For the first three months after he died I slept on that couch waiting and waiting. I even hung up his favorite Bear hat and jersey above my pillow in hopes that it would be easier for him to find me. Night after night he would show up in my dreams but I waited for "the message."
3 months after his passing, and suffering from an aching back from sleeping on the couch, I got my message. It was different from the experience I had with the bridge and grey figures in 2004. He didn't kneel down next to the couch and say "hey little buddy I made it." It was different and amazing. He kept his promise.
I don't sleep well as you may know from the odd hours I am on FB or posting blogs. On this particular morning I was napping on the couch after a recovery meeting. As I began to doze off I opened my eyes and saw two figures at the top of my stairs leading to the kitchen. They were about 15 feet from the couch, his couch. These figures were more defined than my first experience. One was tall, very tall like 6'8" and the other 5'10," my Father's height.
Again there were no words spoken aloud but a telepathic transfer of words and feelings. I could tell the taller figure was a guide of some sort. It stood behind my father and did not communicate with me. It was there for my father. Both auras were bleach white and illuminating. My father's aura was that of a younger man, like when he was in his 30's. I could also notice his hair was straight, a style he wore briefly before going to his perm. He had a burgundy hue to his aura. I do not understand, nor need to know why burgundy was his color, but it was. The taller guide was in all white.
They stood at the top of the stairs and I looked at the TV to make sure I wasn't dreaming. The whole experience only lasted about 15 seconds but a lot of ground was covered in that short time. My dad let me know that he was alright. I could tell he was happy. He reminded me of the pictures of when his hair was greased back and he was driving flashy Cadillacs. There were no questions asked but answers were conveyed to me. He was elated and I knew he made it to the other side.
I believe you have to be open to the possibility of these visits or they can't happen. My mind opens more and more each day. That 90% of our brains that we haven't tapped into has to serve a purpose. I believe in the next dimension. The next level of our experiences after death don't end here. Just because we experience things we don't understand, or experience them personally, doesn't make it impossible. Contempt prior to investigation prevents us from discovering so much more of what life has to offer.
My final passage in this series will involve dreams. I have been interested in dreams since I was a little boy. I will not post that until after the Bears win the NFC Championship today. This is my Dad's season. He may not get the score but we will get the victory. I believe he will help us win today. Remember: he is part of the north end zone.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Angels and Dreamins'.....Near Death Experiences and Visitations! Part Two!
At the risk of sounding like James Frey's confession of adding fictional flare to his semi-non-fictional story of pain and addiction, I have to make a confession that is the opposite of his. It is an admission of holding back facts in my story. To fully understand the following chapter you will have to go back to my chapter "I Was Dead but Didn't Die." My comparison to Frey is that I left a part OUT about my attempted self termination. It was a fact that I didn't think added to my story and I didn't want you to think I was cruel to animals. Nothing could be further from the truth. I now regret the omission, and am eager to share everything. Now that I am writing about my "Near Death" experience and unexplained encounters, not of this dimension, it must be recorded.
There was no thoughts of misleading the reader. I just wasn't prepared to tell the whole story of that night. It was hard enough telling people I was trying to off myself. The omission revolves around my black Lab Fabian. I have had him since my wife rescued him at 6 months old, from the Downers Grove, Illinois Humane Society. He is now 11 and nearing the end of his road. On that haunting date I was going to speed up the trip and take him with me. I should also mention I have 2 other rescue dogs, "Cooter" an 11 year old yellow Lab, and "Grace" a 3 year old Pekingese. An endorsement for adopting animals may sound trite, seeing as I was gonna take myself out, and him with me.
I love my dogs dearly, as I do all animals. Kris and I have no biological children together so our dogs are our adopted proxies. Check that! I hate BATS, all bats big and small, and most snakes! I also despise any spider that I cannot squish with a paper towel victoriously. The most glaring phobia I have is clowns! They're always jumping out of tiny cars with honking horns and miming terribly choreographed slapstick skits in grossly over sized shoes with large painted-on mouths over their existing tiny mouths. What the hell is that? Too much time around them is sure to trigger a panic attack. That said, I am one of the few fathers who can say, with pride, that I never took my kids to the circus! I didn't want to pass on my phobias of the strangely painted creatures, nor create a scene of their father shrieking and running from center ring. That would inflict an equally painful psychological scar upon their young minds. Again, I use humor to deflect heavy feelings I have a hard time addressing in the moment.
Fabian and I have been joined at the hip for years. He knows my moods and tries to lick my wounds when I am hurt inside or out. He is the ultimate companion and I love him dearly. He is truly this man's best friend. He ultimately saved my life and was a part of the unexplainable events that happened that evening in 2004.
When my wife left me on that day after I relapsed and I planned my exodus to the great beyond, I did not leave a bowl of food for Fabian in the house. I did open the windows so the gas from the car exhaust didn't damage the house. Psychotic, I know. My plan was to take Fabian with me. We were going to be friends to the end. I have a small office that connects to my garage and that is where my suicide attempt began. I closed the door of the tiny office and opened the door to the garage where my Dodge Neon was running. I sealed the door to the house with duct tape to keep all the gas in the garage and into my office. I took Fabian into the room with me and we laid down by my CD rack.
After about 45 minutes went by, I began to feel sluggish. My breathing was slowing and it seemed as if things were going in slow motion. It was like I was watching a film. Fabian was laying next to me and I closed my eyes, as his were closed also. His breathing was more beleaguered, less frequent than usual, and very shallow. I knew he was getting close to death and I wasn't far behind.
As I laid next to him my eyes burned and I was unable to sit up. I closed my eyes and soon found myself in a different place. What I saw is hard to describe but I remember it vividly, even though I was being over taken by the carbon monoxide. Although I was sprawled out on the floor, I found myself standing up with Fabian at my left side. There were no white lights. The color for my experience was mostly grey. Describing the physical surroundings is hard to put into words because I have little to compare it to.
Imagine an hour glass each end perfectly symmetrical with a tube in between. Now take a thinly sliced cross-sectioned cut of the hour glass and lay it down flat. I was standing on one side of the hour glass floor and there was a bridge that separated me and Fabian from the other side of another hour glass floor. The whole vision was in white and grey. I could see that Fabian was still black but I could not see myself. I was there but couldn't see my physical being.
There was a presence there that seemed to to be hovering over my shoulder and encapsulating the whole place. It was very peaceful and strong. I was not afraid. There was no conversation in my experience but communication between me, the presence and the others I soon saw was definitely taking place. It was a non-verbal dialogue with a feeling based exchange of information. Fabian stood, happily transfixed at the view across the bridge. The more powerful presence was not encouraging me to do anything or go anywhere. It was just there letting me survey my surroundings.
From my side of the bridge I could see images of what I knew were people. It wasn't like, "oh look it's Grandma and Uncle Jack." I could sense loved ones and saw shapes of auras but there was no definition to the forms. I knew what they were but they were shapes, not outlines of humans, and they had a cloudy illumination to them. I also did not recognize, or feel, all of the auras that filled the background behind those closest to me on the other side. The bridge was slightly curvy and to each side was only grey vapor and nothingness. There was no sense of depth perception but the auras on the other side were seemingly about a 100 yards away.
I was not drawn to the other side and the loving figures did not call for me to join them. They were letting me know they loved me, but that was all. The stronger presence surrounding me gave me the feeling that I had a choice to go to the other side of the bridge or not. It was up to me. There was no pressure either way. It was simply up to me. I was not intimidated or feeling pressure. I was just at a point of decision. I looked down at Fabian and I realized that taking my own life and crossing the bridge was my decision, but that he didn't have a choice. I held the power of his life and death in my hands.
I knew I loved him too much to take his life and taking him from my family was wrong. I didn't reflect on the impact my death would have on my family. I just loved my dog too much to be so cruel to him and doubly cruel to my family. He is laying next to me now as I write this, as is Cooter. I call them Salt-n-Pepa.
I found myself back on the floor, next to Fabian and the sealed door that went into the family room. He was barely breathing and his tongue was hanging out to the side. I reached up and pulled the door open. Oxygen and clean air rushed in. We both stayed there. The car was still running in the garage. After a few moments he began to somewhat get it together. I crawled into the family room pulling him along. A short time later, he was snapping out of it pretty well and I had the strength to let him outside to get more air.
I didn't fully comprehend what I had just experienced, like I do now. After I knew Fab was okay, I returned to the garage and closed the door behind me to finish the job I had set out to do. Rosary draped on me and Bible in hand, I shut the door from the office to the garage, leaving Fabian behind. You know the rest of the story. It has a happy ending. I am still here.
I now know I was on the edge of death. I know that I was given a choice to cross the bridge or stay behind. My love for Fabian helped me choose to stay here. God had decided to make my decision for me, through him. When I woke up later in the garage the Neon had stalled. I believe in heaven or another plane like I believe in oxygen. No one can veer me from that conviction. I saw what many, and few, have seen. Life's the journey, not the destination. I am glad God made my choice for me. In the condition I was in, I can honestly say that choosing life would not have been my decision, without God and Fabian's intervention.
There was no thoughts of misleading the reader. I just wasn't prepared to tell the whole story of that night. It was hard enough telling people I was trying to off myself. The omission revolves around my black Lab Fabian. I have had him since my wife rescued him at 6 months old, from the Downers Grove, Illinois Humane Society. He is now 11 and nearing the end of his road. On that haunting date I was going to speed up the trip and take him with me. I should also mention I have 2 other rescue dogs, "Cooter" an 11 year old yellow Lab, and "Grace" a 3 year old Pekingese. An endorsement for adopting animals may sound trite, seeing as I was gonna take myself out, and him with me.
I love my dogs dearly, as I do all animals. Kris and I have no biological children together so our dogs are our adopted proxies. Check that! I hate BATS, all bats big and small, and most snakes! I also despise any spider that I cannot squish with a paper towel victoriously. The most glaring phobia I have is clowns! They're always jumping out of tiny cars with honking horns and miming terribly choreographed slapstick skits in grossly over sized shoes with large painted-on mouths over their existing tiny mouths. What the hell is that? Too much time around them is sure to trigger a panic attack. That said, I am one of the few fathers who can say, with pride, that I never took my kids to the circus! I didn't want to pass on my phobias of the strangely painted creatures, nor create a scene of their father shrieking and running from center ring. That would inflict an equally painful psychological scar upon their young minds. Again, I use humor to deflect heavy feelings I have a hard time addressing in the moment.
Fabian and I have been joined at the hip for years. He knows my moods and tries to lick my wounds when I am hurt inside or out. He is the ultimate companion and I love him dearly. He is truly this man's best friend. He ultimately saved my life and was a part of the unexplainable events that happened that evening in 2004.
When my wife left me on that day after I relapsed and I planned my exodus to the great beyond, I did not leave a bowl of food for Fabian in the house. I did open the windows so the gas from the car exhaust didn't damage the house. Psychotic, I know. My plan was to take Fabian with me. We were going to be friends to the end. I have a small office that connects to my garage and that is where my suicide attempt began. I closed the door of the tiny office and opened the door to the garage where my Dodge Neon was running. I sealed the door to the house with duct tape to keep all the gas in the garage and into my office. I took Fabian into the room with me and we laid down by my CD rack.
After about 45 minutes went by, I began to feel sluggish. My breathing was slowing and it seemed as if things were going in slow motion. It was like I was watching a film. Fabian was laying next to me and I closed my eyes, as his were closed also. His breathing was more beleaguered, less frequent than usual, and very shallow. I knew he was getting close to death and I wasn't far behind.
As I laid next to him my eyes burned and I was unable to sit up. I closed my eyes and soon found myself in a different place. What I saw is hard to describe but I remember it vividly, even though I was being over taken by the carbon monoxide. Although I was sprawled out on the floor, I found myself standing up with Fabian at my left side. There were no white lights. The color for my experience was mostly grey. Describing the physical surroundings is hard to put into words because I have little to compare it to.
Imagine an hour glass each end perfectly symmetrical with a tube in between. Now take a thinly sliced cross-sectioned cut of the hour glass and lay it down flat. I was standing on one side of the hour glass floor and there was a bridge that separated me and Fabian from the other side of another hour glass floor. The whole vision was in white and grey. I could see that Fabian was still black but I could not see myself. I was there but couldn't see my physical being.
There was a presence there that seemed to to be hovering over my shoulder and encapsulating the whole place. It was very peaceful and strong. I was not afraid. There was no conversation in my experience but communication between me, the presence and the others I soon saw was definitely taking place. It was a non-verbal dialogue with a feeling based exchange of information. Fabian stood, happily transfixed at the view across the bridge. The more powerful presence was not encouraging me to do anything or go anywhere. It was just there letting me survey my surroundings.
From my side of the bridge I could see images of what I knew were people. It wasn't like, "oh look it's Grandma and Uncle Jack." I could sense loved ones and saw shapes of auras but there was no definition to the forms. I knew what they were but they were shapes, not outlines of humans, and they had a cloudy illumination to them. I also did not recognize, or feel, all of the auras that filled the background behind those closest to me on the other side. The bridge was slightly curvy and to each side was only grey vapor and nothingness. There was no sense of depth perception but the auras on the other side were seemingly about a 100 yards away.
I was not drawn to the other side and the loving figures did not call for me to join them. They were letting me know they loved me, but that was all. The stronger presence surrounding me gave me the feeling that I had a choice to go to the other side of the bridge or not. It was up to me. There was no pressure either way. It was simply up to me. I was not intimidated or feeling pressure. I was just at a point of decision. I looked down at Fabian and I realized that taking my own life and crossing the bridge was my decision, but that he didn't have a choice. I held the power of his life and death in my hands.
I knew I loved him too much to take his life and taking him from my family was wrong. I didn't reflect on the impact my death would have on my family. I just loved my dog too much to be so cruel to him and doubly cruel to my family. He is laying next to me now as I write this, as is Cooter. I call them Salt-n-Pepa.
I found myself back on the floor, next to Fabian and the sealed door that went into the family room. He was barely breathing and his tongue was hanging out to the side. I reached up and pulled the door open. Oxygen and clean air rushed in. We both stayed there. The car was still running in the garage. After a few moments he began to somewhat get it together. I crawled into the family room pulling him along. A short time later, he was snapping out of it pretty well and I had the strength to let him outside to get more air.
I didn't fully comprehend what I had just experienced, like I do now. After I knew Fab was okay, I returned to the garage and closed the door behind me to finish the job I had set out to do. Rosary draped on me and Bible in hand, I shut the door from the office to the garage, leaving Fabian behind. You know the rest of the story. It has a happy ending. I am still here.
I now know I was on the edge of death. I know that I was given a choice to cross the bridge or stay behind. My love for Fabian helped me choose to stay here. God had decided to make my decision for me, through him. When I woke up later in the garage the Neon had stalled. I believe in heaven or another plane like I believe in oxygen. No one can veer me from that conviction. I saw what many, and few, have seen. Life's the journey, not the destination. I am glad God made my choice for me. In the condition I was in, I can honestly say that choosing life would not have been my decision, without God and Fabian's intervention.
Angels and Dreamins'.....Near Death Experiences and Visitations! Part One!
By the end of the chapter you will think I'm a few coins short of paying the Ferryman or right on the money. Either way I am dedicated to sharing it all. The subjects I am going to breach are often dismissed as wishful thinking, hopeful delusion or just plain nutty imaginations. I have firm conviction in the areas of dream interpretation, spirit visitation, guardian angels and dimensions beyond the 3 we currently experience as humans. I very much enjoy programs like, "I Survived...Dead and Back," "Ancient Aliens," and "Celebrity Ghost Stories."
I believe them or many of them. At the least I am open to the possibilities. I have experienced some unusual,unexplainable spiritual encounters personally. I also know there are hucksters and manipulators out there who manufacture their so called "psychic abilities" to pray on weak and hopeful. The bottom line is that it is ludicrous to think that me or scientists can say that these experiences are hooey! Darwin himself said that if there were more components to his single cell theory that the whole theory must be thrown out. We now know there is much more to a single cell organism than the one Darwin peered at in his 100x magnification microscope. If you are a Darwinist read up on it. While you're at it cover the "missing link" for me. I know what the missing link is. It is God! I refuse putting limitations on the creator of the universe and I know that with God anything is possible. More importantly, "to not lean on my own understanding."
My belief in these other dimensions and experiences are based on the fact that we use very little of our brain's capacity. It's less than 10% I think. That leaves 90% of sensory ability most of us have not developed. It has got to be there for a reason! My personal beliefs do not conflict with my Christian views because there are frequent references to "angels being among us" and "visions" by the messengers of God. There is the appearance of the Nephilim and their procreating with humans. Virtually all cultures describe objects in the sky and encounters with creatures not of this world.
Ultimately I am okay with it because I do not try to define God. He is eternal and omnipotent, no beginning or end. No where in the Bible does it say that earth and sky were all He created in this universe only. He created the whole shootin' match. Earth was just a part. I believe there is much, much more. To think that we are the only intelligent life in a universe that grows daily is putting man's conception of God's limitations on Him. I can not fathom how one can put parameters on an omnipresent, all powerful force that we do not comprehend. The small mindedness of man and his narcissistic thinking creates this hog wash!
I am going to share 3 "unexplainable" experiences I had with "the other side," and mental connections that I know are not of this earth. Terra Firma is a spec in an ocean of galaxies. I know these experiences were as real as puddin' pie and I am grateful to have had them. If you disagree, start your own book. It wasn't so long ago that man thought the earth was flat. Galileo was almost executed as a heretic, Einstein a fool.
My grandmother and I were very close. My mom worked hard and Gram stepped in to play a life shaping role in my early youth. We had a connection beyond conversational. I felt her all the way through from my inner core to hers. In 1991 she was in the hospital suffering from emphysema and a myriad of terminal conditions. On her last day here, I was home for lunch from my job and received a call from my mother. She said I should stop after work and see Gram because the doctors didn't think she would make it through the night.
She was at Silver Cross Hospital in Joliet. I was working in Shorewood a few miles away. I finished my lunch and headed back to work. I would stop at the hospital at the end of the day. While driving on I-80, just before Larkin Avenue, I was overwhelmed with an inner feeling that I had to go to the hospital THEN! I exited at Larkin and headed back to the hospital. The voice was powerful and non-negotiable. I entered the room to find my mother pacing, as she had been there for hours. I suggested she go grab a smoke and a Coke and I would sit with Grams.
Mom left for a break, exhausted and emotionally drained. Grams was propped up in her bed with tubes and drips stuck into all the veins available for pumping in medicines. Her eyes were open and moving but she was unable to communicate verbally with me. I sat at the edge of her bed and took her hand. I told her I loved her and that she was like a mother to me. I expressed my gratitude for her always looking after me and accepting me unconditionally. She knew of my alcoholism and had suffered through years of it with my grandfather. I cried and rubbed her hand, thanking her for being such a bright light in my universe. She was a huge Bulls fan and I told her she had to get better and come home because she couldn't miss their first championship.
As those words spilled from my lips she peered at me. Her eyes darted left and right searching into mine. She took a deep breath and exhaled. It wasn't an exhale I had ever heard before. It was complete, a full expulsion of all the air in her lungs. The sound seemed to go on for a minute. I know it was much shorter than that and that she was gone. I told her I loved her and kissed her forehead and then completely lost it. My mother returned to find her mother had passed and me in hysteria. It was one of the most difficult yet beautiful things I have ever experienced. The sounds that a person makes on that final breath are not like Hollywood. It is chilling in its finality. I think of her daily.
What I experienced that day was not of this dimension or plain. The feeling that pulled at me to go immediately to the hospital instead of later in the evening was unrelenting. It wasn't a quick and easy way to end my work day. My inner spirit was guiding me to my grandmother and told me she needed me right then! Her passing in my presence explains the urgency. The confessions of my love for her were not a staged drama with a climactic ending. God put me there for her and for me! I drank a lot that night and cried about losing my rock. Then my anger at her death turned to thankfulness for God allowing me to be a part of her last moments here.
I believe them or many of them. At the least I am open to the possibilities. I have experienced some unusual,unexplainable spiritual encounters personally. I also know there are hucksters and manipulators out there who manufacture their so called "psychic abilities" to pray on weak and hopeful. The bottom line is that it is ludicrous to think that me or scientists can say that these experiences are hooey! Darwin himself said that if there were more components to his single cell theory that the whole theory must be thrown out. We now know there is much more to a single cell organism than the one Darwin peered at in his 100x magnification microscope. If you are a Darwinist read up on it. While you're at it cover the "missing link" for me. I know what the missing link is. It is God! I refuse putting limitations on the creator of the universe and I know that with God anything is possible. More importantly, "to not lean on my own understanding."
My belief in these other dimensions and experiences are based on the fact that we use very little of our brain's capacity. It's less than 10% I think. That leaves 90% of sensory ability most of us have not developed. It has got to be there for a reason! My personal beliefs do not conflict with my Christian views because there are frequent references to "angels being among us" and "visions" by the messengers of God. There is the appearance of the Nephilim and their procreating with humans. Virtually all cultures describe objects in the sky and encounters with creatures not of this world.
Ultimately I am okay with it because I do not try to define God. He is eternal and omnipotent, no beginning or end. No where in the Bible does it say that earth and sky were all He created in this universe only. He created the whole shootin' match. Earth was just a part. I believe there is much, much more. To think that we are the only intelligent life in a universe that grows daily is putting man's conception of God's limitations on Him. I can not fathom how one can put parameters on an omnipresent, all powerful force that we do not comprehend. The small mindedness of man and his narcissistic thinking creates this hog wash!
I am going to share 3 "unexplainable" experiences I had with "the other side," and mental connections that I know are not of this earth. Terra Firma is a spec in an ocean of galaxies. I know these experiences were as real as puddin' pie and I am grateful to have had them. If you disagree, start your own book. It wasn't so long ago that man thought the earth was flat. Galileo was almost executed as a heretic, Einstein a fool.
My grandmother and I were very close. My mom worked hard and Gram stepped in to play a life shaping role in my early youth. We had a connection beyond conversational. I felt her all the way through from my inner core to hers. In 1991 she was in the hospital suffering from emphysema and a myriad of terminal conditions. On her last day here, I was home for lunch from my job and received a call from my mother. She said I should stop after work and see Gram because the doctors didn't think she would make it through the night.
She was at Silver Cross Hospital in Joliet. I was working in Shorewood a few miles away. I finished my lunch and headed back to work. I would stop at the hospital at the end of the day. While driving on I-80, just before Larkin Avenue, I was overwhelmed with an inner feeling that I had to go to the hospital THEN! I exited at Larkin and headed back to the hospital. The voice was powerful and non-negotiable. I entered the room to find my mother pacing, as she had been there for hours. I suggested she go grab a smoke and a Coke and I would sit with Grams.
Mom left for a break, exhausted and emotionally drained. Grams was propped up in her bed with tubes and drips stuck into all the veins available for pumping in medicines. Her eyes were open and moving but she was unable to communicate verbally with me. I sat at the edge of her bed and took her hand. I told her I loved her and that she was like a mother to me. I expressed my gratitude for her always looking after me and accepting me unconditionally. She knew of my alcoholism and had suffered through years of it with my grandfather. I cried and rubbed her hand, thanking her for being such a bright light in my universe. She was a huge Bulls fan and I told her she had to get better and come home because she couldn't miss their first championship.
As those words spilled from my lips she peered at me. Her eyes darted left and right searching into mine. She took a deep breath and exhaled. It wasn't an exhale I had ever heard before. It was complete, a full expulsion of all the air in her lungs. The sound seemed to go on for a minute. I know it was much shorter than that and that she was gone. I told her I loved her and kissed her forehead and then completely lost it. My mother returned to find her mother had passed and me in hysteria. It was one of the most difficult yet beautiful things I have ever experienced. The sounds that a person makes on that final breath are not like Hollywood. It is chilling in its finality. I think of her daily.
What I experienced that day was not of this dimension or plain. The feeling that pulled at me to go immediately to the hospital instead of later in the evening was unrelenting. It wasn't a quick and easy way to end my work day. My inner spirit was guiding me to my grandmother and told me she needed me right then! Her passing in my presence explains the urgency. The confessions of my love for her were not a staged drama with a climactic ending. God put me there for her and for me! I drank a lot that night and cried about losing my rock. Then my anger at her death turned to thankfulness for God allowing me to be a part of her last moments here.
Friday, January 21, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Have A Day!
People who know me well have heard me mutter,"Have a Day!" many, many times. It says it all. "Have a great day," or "Have a nice day," are the norm, and quite pleasant to hear from friends, shopkeepers and passersby, particularly from the ones who actually mean it. "Have a blessed day," is my favorite response to people who cross my path, but it can be a little too brand specific for some of those whom I encounter.
To an Atheist, "have a blessed day," is stinging. If you don't believe in the blesser, a kind "bless you" in passing conversation, or following a hearty sneeze, must leave them feeling unfulfilled. It must be confusing that no one is wishing them good health or undeserved gifts. For all Atheists I want to offer you a permanent Grandfather clause of "May MY God Bless you!" This is to cover all present and future sneezes and positive wishes for your life. Since it's MY God, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to your non-belief and you can take comfort in the fact that the Atheist philosophy has not been violated. I'll take all the heat!
The unconvincing, "Have a nice day!" from a rude check out girl or Walmart employee who just smashed my cookies into the revolving bagger is not "nice." Even more unnerving to me is when they put one tiny item into the huge, non-biodegradable bag. I somehow walk out with 5 items in 6 bags. Visions of turtles and porpoises choking at sea on my bag that held my box of Rice-a-Roni troubles me. It is not a "Nice day!" moment.
"Have a good day!" is quite cheeky and cheerful when the kids are smiling and my wife is beaming at me on a bright sunny day. However, if I have been the dumping station for all of the crap my fellow man can pitch out into my tiny universe that day, I feel the urge to reach across the counter and slug the well wisher and reply, "Have a good Dentist!" In the middle of a rotten day, those words might as well be "hope your day continues to be a living hell!" It would make me feel less frustration.
That is why I have come up with the perfect solution. When you want to end a conversation on a pleasant note, tell the person in your midst to, "Have a Day!" It's ideal. It is an innocuous, non-feeling proposition to just exist for the rest of that 24 hours. It is a wish for a continued life until the clock strikes midnight. It doesn't take religion or moods into account. It is an acceptable reply to digest when your trudging through the crap that occasionally rains on your precise coordinates for that day.
In a world where terms are sanitized into ambiguous catch phrases it fits right in. It offends no one, except the dead! Most people welcome having a day. It keeps expectations and ambitions for achieving great feats at bay. It is a call to just populate the universe for the next 24 hours. It isn't far reaching or filled with pressure. It is quite calming and not too far reaching.
To an addict like me, having another "day" of sobriety is amazing. To the couple in marital distress on the verge of separation, having a day may be the one that starts them on the road to reconciliation. To the person at the end of their rope, having a day may be the one that moves them towards hope. To a sick or dying loved one, having an extra day with them is a gift.
What a perfect thing to wish upon someone. Try it tomorrow when the moment is right. Tell a stranger to "have a day!" Wait for their reaction. It may be a laugh. They may think you're nuts. But this simple statement guarantees a response. Give it a shot and until I talk to you again I hope you "have a day."
To an Atheist, "have a blessed day," is stinging. If you don't believe in the blesser, a kind "bless you" in passing conversation, or following a hearty sneeze, must leave them feeling unfulfilled. It must be confusing that no one is wishing them good health or undeserved gifts. For all Atheists I want to offer you a permanent Grandfather clause of "May MY God Bless you!" This is to cover all present and future sneezes and positive wishes for your life. Since it's MY God, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to your non-belief and you can take comfort in the fact that the Atheist philosophy has not been violated. I'll take all the heat!
The unconvincing, "Have a nice day!" from a rude check out girl or Walmart employee who just smashed my cookies into the revolving bagger is not "nice." Even more unnerving to me is when they put one tiny item into the huge, non-biodegradable bag. I somehow walk out with 5 items in 6 bags. Visions of turtles and porpoises choking at sea on my bag that held my box of Rice-a-Roni troubles me. It is not a "Nice day!" moment.
"Have a good day!" is quite cheeky and cheerful when the kids are smiling and my wife is beaming at me on a bright sunny day. However, if I have been the dumping station for all of the crap my fellow man can pitch out into my tiny universe that day, I feel the urge to reach across the counter and slug the well wisher and reply, "Have a good Dentist!" In the middle of a rotten day, those words might as well be "hope your day continues to be a living hell!" It would make me feel less frustration.
That is why I have come up with the perfect solution. When you want to end a conversation on a pleasant note, tell the person in your midst to, "Have a Day!" It's ideal. It is an innocuous, non-feeling proposition to just exist for the rest of that 24 hours. It is a wish for a continued life until the clock strikes midnight. It doesn't take religion or moods into account. It is an acceptable reply to digest when your trudging through the crap that occasionally rains on your precise coordinates for that day.
In a world where terms are sanitized into ambiguous catch phrases it fits right in. It offends no one, except the dead! Most people welcome having a day. It keeps expectations and ambitions for achieving great feats at bay. It is a call to just populate the universe for the next 24 hours. It isn't far reaching or filled with pressure. It is quite calming and not too far reaching.
To an addict like me, having another "day" of sobriety is amazing. To the couple in marital distress on the verge of separation, having a day may be the one that starts them on the road to reconciliation. To the person at the end of their rope, having a day may be the one that moves them towards hope. To a sick or dying loved one, having an extra day with them is a gift.
What a perfect thing to wish upon someone. Try it tomorrow when the moment is right. Tell a stranger to "have a day!" Wait for their reaction. It may be a laugh. They may think you're nuts. But this simple statement guarantees a response. Give it a shot and until I talk to you again I hope you "have a day."
Old Habits Die Hard or... I'm Mad As Hell and I'm Not Gonna Take Anymore!
Two nights ago as I was sitting down to write my blog for the day, I was shocked to find out that it had been blocked from publication on Facebook because someone had reported it as "Abusive" or "Spam." The news infuriated ME as I tried over and over to get my daily prescription of "hope" delivered to my readers. The blog is read around the globe and it has become an integral part of my life.
The thought that someone would find a blog that's content revolves around addiction recovery, hope and faith being "abusive" took my temper from 0 to F.U. in 10 seconds. Anger is normal for everyone, but for me I can take it to extremes and it can be very destructive. An alcoholic things emotionally, not logically. He bases his opinions and actions on what his feelings are screaming from inside, instead of looking at the facts, making a reasonable decision, and going from there. It is rattlesnake thinking. Bite first, ask questions later.
My mind raced through my list of friends and the "possible" suspects in the case against me. Was it Joe, or Slovenia? Was it Poland or an Atheist? I literally had myself sick at the thought that a positive message could be construed as "abusive" and I wanted revenge. Thoughts of a Facebook revolution rioted through my head. I would start a boycott! I even went as far as to put a graphic of the 1st Amendment up as my profile picture!
Once I have allowed myself to get into a frenetic state, I start having some really dark thinking. Visions of marches in the streets and the glow of Molotov cocktails blaze in my eyes. At the core of addiction is obsession and I can slip into the ol' obsessive me faster than a 6 legged cheetah! I travelled back to the days of The Sons of Liberty and their tea party in Boston 200 plus years ago. I made my stand and told others to contact my oppressor and demand justice. My anger and desire to "even the score" is not healthy because it consumes my every thought once it gets a hold of me.
The ironic thing was that it happened on the day of my 2 year sobriety anniversary. I should know that anger is a "trigger" for me to use, as the anger turns to craving. I should have developed enough coping skills to let it slide. But I reacted first and then considered the consequences, a truly unhealthy way of thinking and living. I learned a lot about me and what I am that day. I am still capable of resentment, anger and a desire to lash out. That is just plain humanity.
These are all a part of of human existence, not just addictive thinking. I am never going to be Gandhi or the Dalai Lama. That is one of my character
defects. I want to be perfect, saintly and wise. I have come a long way in 2 years but there is a lot more work to be done to overcome my addictive personality. I used for 20 plus years! The drunken addict is still in there looking for a way to come back out and get me to join the party.
Most people think that the ultimate goal of a stand-up comedian is to get a laugh at the jokes they tell. That makes sense. While talking with David Brenner about my material, he gave me a new perspective on performing comedy. To paraphrase he said "A groan is just as important as a laugh when you tell a joke because you have still created a reaction from the audience." It confused me at first but I understand it now.
The person who reported me for "abusive" or "Spam" blogs was giving me a groan. One of my blogs touched them in a way and they felt they had to lash out. Maybe they connect with my story. Maybe they don't believe in hope. Perhaps they don't like my references to God and Faith. Whatever the case, I evoked a response in them that made them act out against me. Every joke I tell doesn't hit a home run each time I perform it. Sometimes my best joke bombs and my worst gets the biggest roar. Next week the opposite happens.
The bottom line is that I live in a country where I can have a blog and freedom of speech. There will always be detractors. I can say that there are many things posted on FB that offend me but I know I am not the morality police and can choose to not read or click away from something that I disagree with.
For the person who reported me, next time just click away. If you see an ad for a movie you find offensive, don't buy a ticket. If you have such strong opinions, start your own blog. This is America, the greatest country in the world. There are many reasons for being the greatest, and freedom of speech is literally at the top. Sometimes the voices of others offends our sensibilities. That's the catch 22 of our amazing country. When it comes to enjoying my blog, some will, some won't. So what?
The thought that someone would find a blog that's content revolves around addiction recovery, hope and faith being "abusive" took my temper from 0 to F.U. in 10 seconds. Anger is normal for everyone, but for me I can take it to extremes and it can be very destructive. An alcoholic things emotionally, not logically. He bases his opinions and actions on what his feelings are screaming from inside, instead of looking at the facts, making a reasonable decision, and going from there. It is rattlesnake thinking. Bite first, ask questions later.
My mind raced through my list of friends and the "possible" suspects in the case against me. Was it Joe, or Slovenia? Was it Poland or an Atheist? I literally had myself sick at the thought that a positive message could be construed as "abusive" and I wanted revenge. Thoughts of a Facebook revolution rioted through my head. I would start a boycott! I even went as far as to put a graphic of the 1st Amendment up as my profile picture!
Once I have allowed myself to get into a frenetic state, I start having some really dark thinking. Visions of marches in the streets and the glow of Molotov cocktails blaze in my eyes. At the core of addiction is obsession and I can slip into the ol' obsessive me faster than a 6 legged cheetah! I travelled back to the days of The Sons of Liberty and their tea party in Boston 200 plus years ago. I made my stand and told others to contact my oppressor and demand justice. My anger and desire to "even the score" is not healthy because it consumes my every thought once it gets a hold of me.
The ironic thing was that it happened on the day of my 2 year sobriety anniversary. I should know that anger is a "trigger" for me to use, as the anger turns to craving. I should have developed enough coping skills to let it slide. But I reacted first and then considered the consequences, a truly unhealthy way of thinking and living. I learned a lot about me and what I am that day. I am still capable of resentment, anger and a desire to lash out. That is just plain humanity.
These are all a part of of human existence, not just addictive thinking. I am never going to be Gandhi or the Dalai Lama. That is one of my character
defects. I want to be perfect, saintly and wise. I have come a long way in 2 years but there is a lot more work to be done to overcome my addictive personality. I used for 20 plus years! The drunken addict is still in there looking for a way to come back out and get me to join the party.
Most people think that the ultimate goal of a stand-up comedian is to get a laugh at the jokes they tell. That makes sense. While talking with David Brenner about my material, he gave me a new perspective on performing comedy. To paraphrase he said "A groan is just as important as a laugh when you tell a joke because you have still created a reaction from the audience." It confused me at first but I understand it now.
The person who reported me for "abusive" or "Spam" blogs was giving me a groan. One of my blogs touched them in a way and they felt they had to lash out. Maybe they connect with my story. Maybe they don't believe in hope. Perhaps they don't like my references to God and Faith. Whatever the case, I evoked a response in them that made them act out against me. Every joke I tell doesn't hit a home run each time I perform it. Sometimes my best joke bombs and my worst gets the biggest roar. Next week the opposite happens.
The bottom line is that I live in a country where I can have a blog and freedom of speech. There will always be detractors. I can say that there are many things posted on FB that offend me but I know I am not the morality police and can choose to not read or click away from something that I disagree with.
For the person who reported me, next time just click away. If you see an ad for a movie you find offensive, don't buy a ticket. If you have such strong opinions, start your own blog. This is America, the greatest country in the world. There are many reasons for being the greatest, and freedom of speech is literally at the top. Sometimes the voices of others offends our sensibilities. That's the catch 22 of our amazing country. When it comes to enjoying my blog, some will, some won't. So what?
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