Eau Claire, Wisconsin, 1934. A blue-eyed tyke stands on a street corner watching the other kids ride bicycles, convinced he is the only deprived soul in the world. Clancy describes this as the beginning of the holes in his gut—a low-level, tasteless unease that made the world turn a dull, sepia gray.
For years, he used alcohol to add color to the grayness, treating the bottle as a stopgap for a life that felt like a sinking ship. He speaks of the committee that meets in his head, a chaotic board of directors that steers him toward wreckage at the first whisper of conflict. After a suicide attempt and a stint in a state asylum, Clancy found a recitation of his own insanity in the Big Book.
He warns that sobriety isn't just about stopping the drink; it's about filling those holes with a Higher Power so he doesn't end up as a shell in a diaper, a victim of the physical desiccating of the brain.
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