A purple flannel bathrobe and a bottle of scotch on the kitchen sink. For Pat Y., this was the uniform of a woman who had spent decades leaving through the back door. From a thirteen-year-old in Newport Beach drinking rum and cokes to fit in, to a "show business career" as a go-go dancer who frequently passed out on stage at a dive called Nick's, Pat lived a life of abject embarrassment and "horrible big secrets." The wreckage included a marriage ended by ghosting and a cruel, accidental card sent to a dying brother—a secret flushed down a toilet and kept for years.
The bottom came in a rocking chair, listening to Ray Charles and watching neighbors live the life she thought she wanted. After a drunken call to a stranger and a first meeting in rubber thongs and baggy jeans, Pat found a sponsor who didn't care about her attitude. By following a rigid program and surrendering to a Higher Power, Pat traded the paranoia of closed drapes for twenty-six years of sobriety.
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