The Miracles of Recovery

In the early winter of 1990, I was in the midst of yet another bender, one that had lasted just over a year. I didn't drink everyday, but all I needed was a reason, and I'd hit the road running. Things had definitely gotten worse. In the old days, back when I was in my early 20s, I could go out on the town without too much concern for my friends or family. In my eyes, I wasn't hurting anyone. I had survived much: wrecked cars, multiple day blackouts, and more than the occasional hospital stay for one traumatic injury or another. In the past, when such occurrences became too frequent, I was able to put down the drink. I was really good at stopping, but really bad at staying stopped.