Nine years old, standing in a basement in Ohio, picking bottles off a bar by their labels. Deb H. describes the first time she felt the "magic" of alcohol—not as a party, but as the only way to get her shoulders off her ears and her hands out of fists. Raised in a violent home where the sound of tires on a gravel driveway signaled danger, she found a chemical escape from a world of shadows and shouting.
A blue-collar kid who played the part of the straight-A student and varsity athlete while drinking "the clock round," Deb lived a double life of academic success and total oblivion. She recalls the gritty reality of crossing the tracks to a dark house just to slide down a wall with a fifth of vodka. After a disastrous attempt to "get the deal done" by overdosing on random pills to avoid passing out, she landed in treatment. It took a five-dollar bet from an old-timer named Mac to finally prove she couldn't control the switch in her throat. For Deb, the Higher Power wasn't a sudden f...
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