The football field in Great Neck, New York, where the captains pick teams and Russell S. is always the last one standing in the center. He describes a lifelong habit of building a "protective wall" to hide the humiliation, a wall that grew three feet thick until he couldn't even feel his own emotions.
For Russell, the disease isn't the booze—which he calls a drug used to treat alcoholism—but a mind that naturally thinks "alcoholically," operating from a place of being "less than." He spent years as a "thumb-sucking crybaby," restless and irritable, trusting a brain that only ever got him into jams. Now, 32 years sober, he relies on the Big Book as a rock, refusing to build his life on the sand of his own thinking. He speaks of the "unperturbable" nature of old-timers and the value of being a "steady" father, choosing the Higher Power over the corrosive threat of fear.
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