The Bronx, a family of chaos, and a wig worn backwards. Scott R. didn't walk into the rooms with a diagnosis; he caught alcoholism in the meetings. He spent eighteen years in psychotherapy trying to treat a "spiritual tapeworm" with Freudian analysis, only to realize he was trying to solve a void with words. He describes a life of "ready, fire, aim," where he’d sell a friend's car to pay the rent and ignore his father's final moments because he was too far gone into the needles.
He paints a gritty picture of the "alcoholic landscape"—the wreckage of children who grew up crushed and isolated, and a marriage that survived by a thread. For Scott, sobriety wasn't a Hallmark moment but a "blank treaty" signed after being beaten into submission. He traded the allure of general anesthetic for the "plateau of lameness" found in a clubhouse, eventually finding a Higher Power through the wreckage of his own ego.
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