1964, a military mental institution. Sandy B. remembers a Navy lieutenant commander smashing his clay ashtray just to win a contest. That kind of petty wreckage is the ego Sandy spent a lifetime feeding. From the cold tile floors of Yale to the cockpit of a fighter jet, alcohol was the only thing that silenced the fear of being an imposter. The descent was a slow burn: losing vision in the air, throwing up blood in a Quonset hut in Japan, and eventually waking up in a straitjacket after a grand mal seizure.
Recovery began not with a sudden shift, but with a hand on a shoulder in a smelly room with a space heater. Sandy describes the "15-pound telephone"—the crushing weight of the ego that makes asking for help feel like a sign of weakness. Now, he views his years of wreckage as a gift, the only currency that allows him to speak to a newcomer on a level playing field, guided by a Higher Power.
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