A 63 Impala in a Denver graveyard—that is where Connie B. woke up in eighth grade after a vodka binge in Kansas City. For fourteen years, life was a blur of blackouts and "escapades" that spanned from Chicago to Japan. Even the Marine Corps couldn't discipline the drink; Connie was getting DWIs on base and eventually ended up in jail for breaking and entering. The bottom was a split-open skull stitched without anesthesia because she was too loaded for the drugs to work.
Sobriety began on a back porch in 1983, born from a raw fear of dying. The first year was white-knuckled and silent, a "geographic" shuffle from Memphis to California. It took a blunt warning from a tanned man in deck shoes to realize that without a sponsor, the drink would return. Connie spent years peeling away secrets and using a dictionary to decode the Big Book. The obsession to drink took three years to lift, replaced by an obsessive drive that turned a former dropout into a college graduate with a 3.97 GPA. T...
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