Half a voice box gone to cancer and a bladder in ruins. Jim B. stands before the room with a gravelly tone, admitting that the greatest gift he ever received was the freedom to finally say, "I don't know." For decades, Jim lived as a professional mind reader, a man with a thousand answers and a specialized skill for lying to his bosses, his wife, and himself. He describes his alcoholism as a disease of perception—a slippery slope that led him from being a "tall, skinny, goofy kid" to a man conducting business meetings from a ward in the Nova Scotia Mental Institution.
He recalls the wreckage of a life lived in the head: the 26 jobs he walked out of, the half-finished basement and deck that mirrored his fragmented psyche, and the ego that drove him to return to the same bar four times just to settle a score over a pack of cigarettes. After years of hiding in closets and lying about being in Singapore while hiding in Fort McMurray, Jim finally stopped peeing in the wind. He found a H...
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