Northern Ireland, the height of the Troubles. Paul M. describes a childhood where the war wasn't on the TV—it was two dead men outside the front door. He carried a chip on both shoulders and a "stone-in-the-shoe" feeling that no amount of geography could fix. He washed up like driftwood in Rockaway Beach, working a dive bar where you needed 32 customers to see a full set of teeth.
For Paul, alcohol was a "Faustian bargain," a magic elixir that smoothed the rough edges of a chronic people-pleaser. But the solution became worse than the problem. He describes the "rabacious creditor" of booze taking everything until he was strapped into a restraining sheet in a hospital. He speaks of the "broken shoelace" moment—the absolute chaos of the bottom where quicksand stretched in every direction. Only by getting on his knees and surrendering to a Higher Power did he move from the problem to the solution, trading dry time for sober time.
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