A small town in Illinois, eyelashes frozen shut and pants wet from the snow. Mary R. describes a life of "mediocre but continuously ongoing nonstop alcoholism," where she played the part of the "sniveling, kiss-ass, people-pleaser" while drinking like a pig. She recalls the reckless wreckage of her youth—jumping out of cars at seventy miles an hour and the "insane motherfucking shit" of battery and betrayal. For years, she remained "bristly," a woman with a hardcore exterior who terrified people in a minute.
The turning point came not with a gentle hand, but through the desperation of a woman who forgot the Lord's Prayer at her first meeting. Mary speaks of the grit of early recovery—shaking like a whale in meetings without treatment centers, where a wallet in the mouth was the cure for a seizure. Through the steps and a Higher Power, she faced the "relentless" battle of mental illness and a seventeen-foot fall that left her quadriplegic.
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