Atlanta, Georgia, and a childhood defined by a dull, constant ache. Francine W. grew up feeling like the "ugly doll," a child who used bleach and razors to scrub away a face she hated. She escaped into books and movies, mimicking Bette Davis to hide a huge hole in her gut, until the fantasies stopped working and the reality of the South Bronx set in.
The wreckage followed: a twelve-year bender, a "geographic" move to Las Vegas, and a blackout that ended with her leg snapped and protruding through her skin. She describes the "ubiquitous film" of dirt—the vile, wretched feeling of a woman who had compromised herself daily. Even after the accident, she crawled into the rooms of AA as a "pathetic wretch" with a fighter's exterior. Through a tough sponsor and a Higher Power, she learned that self-esteem comes from doing esteemable acts. She traded the four-letter words and the victim role for a life of dignity.
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