A suitcase on the front steps, clothes ironed and pressed, but the mind is a wreck. Sandy H. didn't enter treatment to get sober; she went to save a job that had become her entire identity, even as she drank men under the table and woke up in strange cities with strangers. She describes herself as a "beanstalk" who used alcohol as magic to feel like she looked like she felt inside. The wreckage was concrete: two counts of possession with intent to distribute and an illegal firearm.
The turning point came in a halfway house where she didn't even know her own underwear size, stripped of the pride that had kept her isolated. Through a series of crashes—including a marriage that "burned up" and a moment where she nearly "ate a gun"—she discovered the "bottoms in sobriety." By surrendering to a Higher Power and a sponsor who demanded she wear a dress to meetings, Sandy traded her "kicking, screaming two-year-old" ego for a gift of desperation that keeps her here.
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