Philadelphia, an apartment where the mail piles up on the floor and things grow in the corners that weren't planted. Charlie M. describes a life of high-functioning wreckage, moving from a childhood farm to medical school while fueling a hidden fire with bourbon, NyQuil, and gallon jugs of cheap wine.
He speaks of "magical thinking" and the paradox of a medical career spent hiding behind refrigerators to avoid people, eventually becoming an anesthesiologist to put patients to sleep while he stayed chemically unconscious. He recalls the grit of the bottom: a suicide attempt involving Venetian blind cords and the haze of ketamine on a shag carpet. After a desperate, unconditional prayer amidst the blooming azaleas, he surrendered to a Higher Power.
He views his sobriety as peeling a massive onion, layer by layer, relying on a program guaranteed to work under any and all conditions, even for a "garbage head" who once didn't know what love was.
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