New York City, the old Waldorf, and a childhood spent behind a great satin upholstered wall of money. Gertrude B. describes a life of excessive privilege that functioned as a fortress, protecting her from reality and the unhappiness of others. She lived as a "borderline case," drifting through three marriages and a descent into obsessive drinking and drug use to escape a mounting sense of inadequacy. She recalls the grit of her wreckage: the Benzedrine to wake up, the liquor to stay up, and the sleeping pills to knock her out.
The turning point came not from a psychiatrist, but from a moment of total extinction after a suicide attempt. She describes her surrender as a "spiritual shower bath," realizing she needed a Higher Power to act as a porter for suitcases too heavy to carry. Now, she views herself as a cracked, chipped, rusty old pipeline, using her remaining resources to house the broken and the "bums," asking herself every hour: Is this for God or is this for Gert?
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