Manhattan, 163rd Street, and a childhood spent watching the police hit her father with billies until the blood spattered. Liz B. didn't start drinking to relax; she started at twelve, sieving rice wine through cheesecloth and sipping until she was gone. By fourteen, she was selling "King Kong" bathtub gin by the gallon and chasing "live ones" with rolls of cash. She describes a life of wreckage: frying frozen chicken while drunk and burning her legs, waking up in strangers' homes in Briarcliff, and attempting suicide by jumping from a second-story window—only to climb back inside when her husband told the neighbor to let the "bitch" jump.
The turning point came in a basement, praying to a Higher Power to end the madness. In a meeting, a woman "smacked her right between the eyes" with the truth about the compulsion to go all the way. Now 44 years sober, Liz speaks of the hard road, the loss of her son, and the grit required to stay sober for herself.
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