Saturday night in a room full of coffee and aluminum chips. Brian stands before the group, his face flushed, clutching a nine-month sobriety marker. For years, he carried what Don H. calls the "back-breaking garbage bag of guilt, remorse, and low self-esteem," a weight that makes a drunk feel like a pariah in polite society. He had been "Shimmy," a man buried under pounds of wreckage, until the sight of his wife and son watching him be loaded into a squad car finally broke the denial.
Now, the wreckage is shifting. In a room where old-timers rub their chips against a newcomer's to pass on sobriety, Brian finds a Higher Power in the personal touch of the group. He looks at his son and tells him he didn't lose weight because he's sick, but because he's getting well. He realizes he must be his best, because he might be the only living copy of the Big Book some "poor schnook" ever sees.
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