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August 1984

PO Box 1980

But for the Grace of God . . .

"Mom, you're drunk again. Tomorrow, I hang myself. I bought a rope. I know how to tie a Boy Scout's knot. My dad just died, and you're drunk most of the time. I don't want to live any longer." That was my fifteen-year-old son talking. I heard every word through my foggy alcoholic brain, and I knew he meant it.

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