September 20, 1972. Pacific Coast Highway. Vince Y. wakes up from a blackout driving the wrong way in a stolen hearse with a screaming woman beside him. He recalls the wreckage of a life that looked good on paper—a biochemistry major, a Navy officer, and later a Physician's Assistant in East LA. But the internal machinery was broken. He spent years "dry" in AA, avoiding the steps while fueling his anxiety with Dexedrine and Demerol until the Medical Quality Assurance Board stripped his license and tossed him into a tank at LA County Jail.
He describes the generic misery of the half-gallon-a-day vodka binge: vomiting bile and losing forty pounds in a Turkish bathrobe. He warns the new arrivals that they aren't special; they are exactly like him. Recovery didn't come from love or a sudden epiphany, but from a raw, gritty desperation that finally made him willing to take direction from people he didn't even like. He surrendered to a Higher Power only when he had nothing left but a car...
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