Thirteen years old, cutting school, and pouring three water glasses of Four Roses whiskey. While his friends hit a wall and stopped, Chris P. felt the "genetic bullet" of craving ignite. He didn't just drink; he finished the bottle and crashed into his first blackout. For Chris, alcohol wasn't just a poison; it was a vacation from the "pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization" of being himself. He describes a life spent in a bedroom, drinking for oblivion to escape a chronic state of restlessness and irritability that made him want to slash the tires of anyone slow in a checkout line.
He views the alcoholic as an "unresolved mystic" desperately seeking a connection to the divine through a bottle. Now, he warns that the ego always minimizes the wreckage. He insists on a brutal, accurate appraisal of Step One, treating it as the only springboard to a solution. Without a Higher Power and a rigorous spiritual discipline, he knows he'd be back to a .38 caliber handgun cocked to his h...
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