A smoldering couch in a Portland street, dragged out by two men in the middle of the night, serves as an early marker of the wreckage. Clint H. spent decades polishing an image—first as a dental student on Dexamil, then as a Marine officer and a lawyer—all while remaining a "donkey carrying around an image." He describes his life as a series of arrangements rather than relationships, rooted in a childhood where he felt betrayed by his mother and terrified of his father's fists.
Even twenty-three years sober, Clint found himself lost and terrified, treating the Big Book like a "box of cake mix" that he read carefully but never actually baked. It took a total collapse of his income, home, and marriage to force a real surrender. He details the gritty mechanics of Step Nine: 3x5 cards listing harms, marked with pluses or minuses for willingness. Through a Higher Power, he moved from the "hellfire and brimstone" of his youth to a place of obedience, eventually facing the pain of his so...
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