April 2015
Out of the foxhole
After his pink cloud went away challenges hit, and isolation led him down a tunnel of white-knuckling pain
I got sober in March 1991, five days after my 23rd birthday. I still remember sitting at a bar in Portland, Maine, drinking that final gin and tonic. I had just come back from visiting my family in New Mexico, and it had gone as it always did—with lots of drinking. In other words, I felt sick and stuck.
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