Brooklyn, New York, smelling of corned beef, cabbage, and "Russian the Growler" beer. Terry R. grew up in a plastic bubble, a sheltered Irish Catholic existence that left her emotionally four years old at twenty-three. Boredom and isolation led to a slow slide into dependency—first beer, then highballs, then a dangerous cocktail of dexedrine and booze that made her heart "go right through her dress." The wreckage mounted: a split head from a fainting spell, a harrowing ten-day stint tied down in a Coney Island hospital during DTs, and a life spent pathologically lying to cover the tracks.
Terry describes herself as a "menagerie" of immaturity, once dialing CBS to speak with a soap opera character she identified with. It took the humiliation of a neighbor asking her not to visit while drinking to push her toward a Higher Power. After years of "geographic" escapes and a failed marriage, Terry found stability in a Marysville group of steelhead fishermen. By committing to a home group ...
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