1951, Mexico. A small, slow, "chicken shit" kid fleeing the FBI with a Marxist-Atheist father. Mike B. spent forty years as a fugitive from his own nature, a "garbage head" who used chemistry to mask a void of invisibility. He describes his drinking as a Jekyll and Hyde existence—three drinks in and he'd wake up with rug burns on his face in strange places. He recalls the terror of a New York LSD trip that ended in a straightjacket and a six-month mental trial where he "pulled the switch on the electric chair" in his mind.
The wreckage was absolute: three wives, a career of fragments, and a soul stripped of self-esteem. He describes alcoholism as a "monstrous disease" with coils around the neck. For Mike B., the turning point wasn't a soft landing but a moment of clarity where he realized he was an alcoholic and finally felt "at home." He credits his Higher Power working through the fellowship, moving from the "coils" of addiction to a state of flying.
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