Fort Myers airport, June 26, 1988. Beth H. is nursing a hangover that feels like a death sentence, staring at a maxed-out credit card and a life reduced to wreckage. She describes herself as a "spectator" in her own life, driven by a lifelong paradox: a desperate need to look perfect while being "too bad" to even belong in a room of alcoholics. She drank like a pig, favoring Wild Irish Rose because the square bottles wouldn't roll under the car seat.
The narrative cuts through the grit of her "dance of death"—cocaine in the Florida Keys, totaling cars, and the crushing admission that she would rather drink than be a mother to her children. She recalls the gray, timeless haze of an attic apartment, huddled under a blanket with a bottle and her kids, wondering why her life had become a series of failed Plan Bs. It took a stranger reaching back to hold her hand during a prayer for her to believe a Higher Power could pull her out of the noise.
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