Face Value

My first real glimpse of hope came after a five-day run. I had come to on my living room floor. The front door was wide open. I had no recollection of where I had been, what I had done or how I had gotten there. This had become a regular occurrence. My body was covered in bruises, not from being beaten, but because my blood was so thin. I was weak and shaking. The whites of my eyes were yellow. I had alcoholic hepatitis, though I didn’t know it. I did know that I was living in squalor—of the soul. And that my drinking had brought me there. I was 31 years old and had drifted in and out of AA for five years, but had never been able to piece together more than a few days of sobriety, except once. I had made it for 60 days, one month of it spent in rehab.