A doctor's lounge in Boston, a world-famous surgeon's home, and Steve L. on all fours with his head in a toilet, heaving up his socks. For years, Steve played the part of the high-flying medical device executive, orchestrating lavish dinners at the Plaza and navigating French wine lists with a "fast-talking" glibness. But behind the first-class flights was a "powerful puppeteer." Steve describes the insanity of being at a table with drinks in hand, yet desperately needing a drink his own way—sneaking off to a paneled bar to knock back shots with a wad of crumpled bills.
He speaks of the "peculiar mental twist" and the existential loneliness of being unable to imagine life either way. For Steve, powerlessness isn't just about the bottle; it is a powerlessness over sobriety itself. He admits he is "too selfish to save my own goddamn life," trapped in a cycle where he is unfit for public consumption whether he is drinking or not. His only defense against the disease must come from a H...
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