A scream without a mouth. That was the sound of Carla R.’s adolescence, spent alternating between violent outbursts and total withdrawal in mental hospitals and juvenile halls. By fifteen, she was intimately familiar with five-point restraints and the "tragic cigarettes" smoked on the benches of the nuthouse. She describes a life of drifting—from the 99-cent store version of street walking to a plastic-tarped mining claim in the woods where she drank organic moonshine and raised a daughter in filth.
Carla recalls the wreckage of a "tornado" existence: dragging a partner down the street by the car window and eventually losing her child and her job in one afternoon on a barstool. She admits to mistaking arrogance for confidence and brute strength for character. It took twenty-four years of sobriety and a Higher Power to replace that gaping hole in her soul with self-respect. Now, she walks with her head up, no longer needing to beat her head against the wall.
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