A leather book, three inches thick, holds the final page for every human: a notice that the visit is over. Sandy B. begins with the wreckage of death—the loss of sponsors and friends—and the paradox that birth is the leading cause of death. He recalls a childhood in Connecticut where he manufactured a terrifying "church world," viewing nuns as Nazis and imagining a crucifix that threatened him. This internal narrative of isolation followed him to Yale and into the cockpit of an F-3D jet.
As a pilot, Sandy flew with one hand on the ejection seat, sweating through withdrawal symptoms and faking oxygen emergencies to escape the sky. He describes the alcoholic's bargain: paying any price, even a splitting head, for the feeling of finally belonging. He views the ego as a spider weaving a web of lies until the drinker is trapped in a cosmic loneliness. For Sandy, recovery is the slow chipping away of that shell to let in the light of a Higher Power.
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