Hi Everyone –

I hope (and pray) that this post doesn’t damper your Christmas spirit – but at times I need to write. Whether it is poetry, stories, or articles for my websites, books, or my newspaper column – it seems to be a great form of “self-therapy.”

Christmas brings mixed emotions for me. First on Christmas Eve, it was my birthday. My wife, Betty, bless her heart has always tried to make it a special day – just for my birthday – nothing having to deal with Christmas. Naturally, over time, you realize that its not possible. And I’m OK with that. When I was a child, as a family we’d open Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve and then Santa would come some time through the night. Anyway, before supper I would get my b-day gift and then we’d tear into our other gifts. Through the years, my birthday hasn’t meant that much to me. I so much more treasure my sobriety date.

Between my birthday and Christmas memories from the past haunt me. There have been some good holiday celebrations, but they always seem to take a back seat to the past. I guess a little background would help. I am the youngest of four boys, by 12, 10, and 8 years. I never really had a close “brother relationship” with any of my brothers because of this age difference. As they grew up and moved out I felt abandoned in a home where both of my parents were alcoholics.

Towards the later years of my parents lives, the boys began not showing up as much and the holidays were spent with my parents, myself, and maybe one brother. And every year you could see the anger raise as my Dad would blame Mom for the way our family turned out. Voices would raise, punches would be thrown, and by the end of the night, Mom would have a black eye or two.

Every year it would get a little worse. The beatings would intensify. I remember one time, I was maybe 10 or 11 years old and my one brother was home for the holidays. I was playing a board game, by myself, in front of the TV, when all hell broke out. I could hear my Dad and brother yelling and Mom screaming. I ran to the kitchen and saw my brother bear hugging my Dad, as he was yielding a butcher knife, trying to get to my Mom, laying on the floor, with a bloody nose.

1976, was the last year I “celebrated” Christmas with my parents. February 5th, 1977 my Mom died. After a vicious couple of days of beatings she ran away from home. She was found a day or two later, about 150 feet behind a bar, next to the railroad tracks, frozen face down in the snow. My Dad died four years later… in a nursing home all alone.

As I grew up and had a family of my own, my drinking ruined my children’s holidays. Throwing away their presents on Christmas night, or falling into the tree. There were times, which they were punished… just for being excited kids celebrating Christmas.

God, I hate Christmas. Don’t get me wrong I love the ideal of innocence and hope. I cherish the thought of “peace on earth, goodwill toward men.” And yes, my sobriety has changed my thoughts on this day. I just wish that… somehow… someway… my past, my brothers past, could be changed… forgotten… or forgiven. It has been over 30 years since I celebrated a Christmas with my blood family. And no matter how long it’s been… I would just love to spend a holiday with all of them.

By tonight, my mood will slowly change and I’ll be thankful for the family I have. Three step-children who care about me and a wife who loves me. A step-daughter who takes pride in calling me “Dad.” And I’ll give thanks for four other children who still fear me, though I haven’t had a drink in 12 years – I’ll give thanks knowing that these children had a Christmas, not living in fear of me.

And most of all I give thanks to my Higher Power, for the gift of sobriety and the gift of having a second chance.

From a grateful alcoholic…




creating dreams, from the nightmares of hell