Dark, grungy motel rooms in southeast Toronto and the smell of vodka defined the wreckage of Ali H.’s early years. For a long time, the bottle was a panacea for a broken psyche and a bank account drained to zero. He describes a cycle of "suicidal bottles" and the agony of breaking his mother's heart, time and again, while trapped in a spiritual malady that made him feel unlovable and ugly. He spent seven years "dibble-dabbling" in the rooms, fighting the steps and arguing about a Higher Power until the gift of desperation finally bent his knees.
Now, Ali H. views his life as a series of ruins where the real treasures are found. He speaks of the "ocean" versus the "little rivers" of career and money, warning against worshipping the external. Through a line-by-line study of the Big Book, he shifted from attempting communication to living in communion with a Higher Power, transforming from a "selfish prick" into a father and husband.
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