A Drano cocktail and a demolished car. Bob P. describes the irrevocable wreckage of a life spent on the defensive, hiding a "shriveling, craven, naked person" behind a facade of he-man bravado.
After a stint in the Anna State Hospital and a series of failed attempts to "walk on his own two feet," Bob found himself a "deckhand" in a program he once viewed with suspicion. He speaks of the paradox of the alcoholic: a "schizophrenic that hates each other," where the hardest task is learning to like the real, flawed self. No longer the "meek, mild drunk," he now navigates sobriety with a "wooden leg," using a sharp sense of humor to bridge the gap between his former insolvency and his current comfort.
By surrendering the helm to a Higher Power, Bob stopped watching his feet and started looking at the objective, trading the "booze quotient" for a life where he can finally sit among a dozen fifths of whiskey and feel no fear.
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