A Fresh Big Book, a Pen, and Some Paper
That morning, after another night of hopeless efforts to reach obliteration, I stood at my front door, crying, thinking about how to end all the pain and misery that my drinking had caused my family and all those around me. Death appeared to be the only answer. I had often used the word "suicide" to get my way or gain sympathy; this time I was actually considering ways to do it. My roommate's jaw hit the floor when I expressed sincere despair. I was at the end of a year-and-a-half drunken fog.