Washington, D.C., 1965. A man sits on the edge of a single mattress in a sewing room, the air thick with the stench of old urine and a life spent tearing everything down. Dick M. lived as a professional sneak and a thief, a "fair-haired young man" who abused expense accounts and made passes at the chairman's wife. He describes the alcoholic loneliness—a gut-level void that psychiatrists and inkblot tests couldn't touch. He had spent thousands on therapy only to walk out the door and drink to numb the pain of his own existence.
The turning point came not from a doctor, but from a moment of clarity when a former flame asked him to marry her. He realized he couldn't be a husband, father, or human being in that state. He entered AA with a cynical eye, expecting a room of derelicts and "blue-tent" ladies. Instead, he found a Higher Power and a sponsor who told him he wasn't ready for recovery until he ran out of money.
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