Georgia, in a home office where the silence was a mask. Chris hid pint bottles of vodka under couch cushions and in trash cans, a secret war waged while his wife bought cases of wine from Trader Joe's, thinking he was just thirsty. He didn't start as a drunk; he started by watching his biological father crumble—the bruises, the dented cars, the slow fade of a superhero into a wreck. Drinking was the only way to mute the pain of that decline.
The wreckage mounted: a baby falling off a changing table, blackouts fueled by lorazepam, and thousands of miles driven drunk with a child in the car. After years of "half-assing" the steps and treating AA like a social club he was too good for, he hit a cliff. He treated the program like a chemistry experiment—exact measurements, no deviations. By digging into the "deep dark corners" of his fourth step and surrendering to a Higher Power, he stopped the bleed.
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