The Washingtonians--Where Are They Now?

Maybe I should have known I was an alcoholic when I went to school so drunk that I couldn't make it to class, and instead passed out in my high school's basement boiler room for six hours. Or when I misjudged the amount of 150 proof rum it would take to make my senior class retreat tolerable, and vomited all over the retreat director. Perhaps the bare fact of my daily drinking and the associated lies and theft it took to maintain it should have clued me in to the fact that I had a problem with alcohol. It didn't: my denial was etched in granite, and the well-intentioned teachers, parents, and coaches trying to divert me from the disastrous path I was on were easily ignored.