Look At All This Cool Stuff....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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



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


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

With drug abuse behind him, Plainfield actor’s career takes off - PhotoGallery - Herald News

With drug abuse behind him, Plainfield actor’s career takes off - PhotoGallery - Herald News


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.

Grandma's Fat Black Typewriter

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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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.

"Signs, Signs Everywhere There's Signs"....

I love the song SIGNS. We sang it in Mr. Lamb's music class when I was in grade school. The original version was written by The Five Man Electric Band. A lot of people think it's a Tesla song. It reminds me of the sixties. The lyrics that revolve around accepting change, and seeing the signs around us, are profound.

For the better part of my life when the world said zig, I zagged. It was intentional. I hated conformity, and being one of the crowd. I was fiercely independent. My definition of independence meant defiance. I thought rules were suggestions. If I liked a rule, I followed it. If I didn't care for it, I dismissed it because I knew better.

Recently, I was issued a ticket for pausing at a stop sign. I paused. No one was around, so I interpreted the sign as pause instead of stop. It was clearly marked. I know what a stop sign means. It means stop, not pause. I had my reasons for the infraction. My wife was in mid-flight on a trip to Germany to visit our daughter. I was praying for a safe flight. I was making deliveries and needed to get back to work. My reasoning for committing the violation were my perceptions, not the reality. It was not what the sign read.

We all have a small still voice inside of us. Before I have said or done anything hurtful or wrong, the small still voice warned me for a split second before I acted. I used to dismiss it. Sometimes I still do. Once again, I knew better. The voice was wrong! Some call it conscience. I call it GOD.

My third marriage was a disaster. My ex wife and I were toxic together. In our abbreviated  marriage we never lived together for a week. We were very much alike. That's what made things so volatile. I was trapped deep in addiction. She had a violent temper. We were not on the same page. I dismissed our troubled beginnings. I thought they were growing pains.

There were signs all over the place before we got married. I saw her instantaneous anger rear its ugly head towards her two year old daughter at Christmas. The little girl opened a present and didn't like what was inside. Her mother became enraged and tossed all of her gifts into a garbage dumpster. After I left the house I returned to the dumpster to retrieve the toys and wrapped packages.

I figured I could change her. I felt as if the insanity is what I deserved. My addictions, and low self esteem talked me in to, what I knew I should run from. I ignored the signs. I jumped in to marriage with her against the advice of my friends and loved ones. I drew closer to her because I thought people were attacking her. Nobody knew her like I did! They were right. I reacted in spite. I knew in my heart that it was a mistake. My drive to zag overtook me. It was going to be me and her against the world. She threw my belongings out into the street the night we were wed.

If I had listened to the voice, heeded the signs I witnessed, and listened to the people observing the situation from the outside, I would not have made the choices I did. Nobody needed to tell me. I knew it, but tossed it, out of the window.

When I get into an argument with someone, in that split second before I say the words I'm going to regret, the tiny voice warns me not to do it. In my younger days I told the voice to SHUT UP and out spilled the venom. On some occasions it still does. I pay the price, often after wounding someone I care for deeply. Then I ask myself why I didn't listen.

As I mature, the tiny voice has gotten louder. I don't ignore it anymore. I realize that the voice is my gut feeling. If I went with that early warning system all the time, I would find myself in better places, with more positive outcomes. I realize the tiny voice is usually right. I can not recall a time when it was wrong.

There are signs everywhere, inside and outside of us. From getting a new job, to buying that shirt I can't afford, there are always signs I can follow or dismiss. I am glad that I can see, and hear, them now. I listen to them when I am unsure. Acceptance does not mean that I am compromising my independence. It proves that I am growing in it.

I now know that zigging doesn't mean I will always like doing it. The outcome is usually to my benefit. Now, I halt at stop signs, and look both ways. The cost of the ticket was enough to teach me it's a stop sign, not a suggested pause. There will be a price to pay...If I don't read the signs....

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


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

I had Amnesia...What was I Just Saying?

When I share a post about day to day life, I try to keep it real. I have done a fairly good job of that to date. I have been candid about my journey to today. I report my triumphs and tragedies, as well as the silly and the insane. In every entry I try to give a piece of myself to my readers to identify with.

When addiction is active in a household, roles are formed and the family adapts around the sick. Mom or Dad steps in and makes decisions on their own to cover for the user. Enablers are confused when the user gets sober because they no longer have a codependent partner. Kids who were pushed into becoming  grown ups prematurely, are suddenly given their chance to be kids again. The whole family dynamic is thrown into flux. Roles are redefined, and there are growing pains that go with that.

Early in my recovery I had the emotional I.Q. of a young adult. I will turn 47 shortly. Thirteen years ago I began a relationship with a woman who came equipped with three beautiful children. I instantly became a stepfather, a word I loathe. I dove in to my new position head first. For the first few years, there was no water in the pool. It was as if I decided to become a brain surgeon and started doing operations the next day. I was suffering from untreated alcoholism and had lots of issues to work through. I did not handle my new role very well. I have done my best with the job, but quite frankly, I don't really know what I'm doing sometimes.

When it comes to being a good husband and father consistently, I often slip into old thinking. That is an honest assessment of myself. I didn't have a traditional upbringing. I grew up in a single parent home. My mother worked very hard. My father had a family of his own. My sister went her way. I went mine. My grandparents were our neighbors. They were caught in the middle.From my late teens on, we were pretty much on our own. That's not a knock on anyone. That's just the way it was.

My first 3 marriages were not even marriages. I was so far gone. I was barely human. The loss of two children made the relationships impossible to mend. The losses fueled my anger at God and the world. My addictions deepened.  Now I AM a husband and stepfather. I love my kids as though they were my own. Some days I am a champ and on others am clueless, jealous, thoughtless and selfish. I sometimes wonder if I'm fit for either job at all. I am just learning what I am all about, and I seem to make mistake after mistake in the "other people" category. I don't do it intentionally. It just happens.

I have grown in my relationship skills over the last 45 months of recovery.  I still have gaping holes in my "big boy" abilities and skills. There are moments when I see my wife with the kids and feel left out. I understand they are her babies. They will always be held in a different light, as they should. When they disrespect me because "I'm not their Dad," it burns me up when she says nothing. I am her husband. I feel she should demand my respect from them. Now, I understand that respect is earned, not an entitlement. She says it's me. I say it's me against them. Our lives can move from, "A deluxe apartment in the sky", to "Funky Town," in a flash. Not knowing where my youngest daughter Mouse is, makes it all the worse.

We both have expectations. Sometimes we don't meet each others. Sometimes others don't meet both of ours'. I know I have a big mouth. I am learning to keep it closed more often. It shrinks with each day in recovery. It doesn't open as wide as it used to.  I have said, and done, many stupid things as a husband and stepfather. I will again. This is still new to me. Each day I learn positive and negative things about myself and the world around me. Getting sober is truly like being reborn. It is like I had amnesia and am being reintroduced to my life. I really don't know how I feel or which way is up. The old me says run. Just run. The new me says go ahead and run. You can help yourself unpack when you get there.


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


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

"I Need Serenity." - Sully-Godsmack

Serenity is one of those words that has the feel of the word wrapped up in itself. Words like agitate, make my tongue live the definition as it lurches uncomfortably through the three syllables. Caress soothes my mind and body as I utter the invitingly crafted letters. When I say the word serenity I feel the lightness of the elusive word barely hovering on my lips. Tranquilly means contentment with who I am and where I'm at.

I have known moments of serenity. I bathe in it when stuck right dab in the middle of it. I get chaotic chasing after it. The feeling of being completely at peace with myself, my creator and my universe is like nothing else. The paradox is that serenity is like a drug in itself. Now that I have had fleeting glimpses of it I want more. My whole problem with myself, and my conflict with the real world, is my desire for ME and MORE and NOW!

The harder I seek serenity, the farther it seems to be from me. I remember when I was a kid I would gaze at the clouds endlessly as I sat in the backseat. As the car would be going along I would pick out a cotton candy cloud and wait for the car to catch it. No matter how fast we went, or how long I stared, the cloud was always just out of reach. Then suddenly we had passed it by.

I also watched the races between the corn row runners. If you lived in corn country as a child, you know the corn runners. When you drive by great spans of cornfields and stare at the rows of corn, they seem to come alive. The rows begin to take the shape of legs and begin to run. No matter how many fields you pass, corn runners never tire. They just keep on going. The corn runners are either are just in front of you, or right along side of you. They can run all day and into the evening, as long as the shadows and light, are just right.

It's like paper pad animation. You start on the first page. Draw a circle and turn the page.As you flip from page to page you move the circle up or down. Continue page by page until the circle hits the bottom, and you reach the end of the pad of paper. Now flip the pages through your fingers and the bouncing ball comes alive. I used to do this for hours, through many pads of paper.

Serenity is defined by the American Heritage Dictionary as, "Clear," "Tranquil," "Unruffled" and "Unclouded." I was surprised by the definition when I read it. I though it would be much more mystical and Dali Lama-like. That is how things tend to go for me when I pre-decide how outcomes should be. They rarely live up to the billing or grand notion my mind has erected. People and their lives, feelings, choices and reactions keep messing up my paper.

I have come to realize that serenity isn't a chosen conscious feeling or experience. It happens when it happens. Usually, when I go with the flow and let things be. What I shoot for now is "surrenderty." I can make that happen by letting go.When I force things to happen I end up feeling agitated. The situation at hand, usually gets worse.

I choose to be happy today. The same can be said for unhappy, angry, resentful, unforgiving and all the negative emotions that are produced through human interaction. I don't have to take the bait. It's like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die.

It's all in how I decide to accept and surrender to the people and circumstances who are in my reality that are going to determine my serenity or lack of it. I look forward to when it comes again. For now I am grateful to have moments of serenity, and a philosophy of "surrenderty." 


I will still chase clouds and dreams. I will still watch the corn runners keeping pace alongside my car. I don't waste the paper I used when I was creating my crude animations. I know one thing for sure. If I think I can control outcomes, run other people's lives and worry my way to serenity, I'll never even catch a glimpse of it. Thanks God for giving me the wisdom to realize how little I know. I appreciate the insights finally realizing I don't need to.


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


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