A long cord hanging from a ceiling with a single light bulb; bars on the window; a peephole in the door. Geraldine D. woke up in a nut factory after a blur of 180-proof alcohol, phenobarbital, and a striptease in a Chicago nightclub.
For years, she had viewed her brother as a moral leper, only to find herself the one locked up and stripped of her dignity. She describes a life of dehydrated alcohol and pills, smuggled in rubber hot water bottles strapped to her legs. After 27 psychiatrists diagnosed her as merely overworked, she hit a floor where only a Higher Power could reach her.
She recalls the grit of early AA—being told to shut up for nine months and the "obnoxious" word honest. From the wreckage of a marriage to a man who nearly blew her brains out with a shotgun, she found a simple password: don't drink, don't take pills, and keep it simple spiritually.
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