Nineteen years old and living under a bridge in Northern California, Adam A. thought he was living large with a bedroll and a clothesline by the creek. His world was a blur of meth cooks and floating down rivers with a keg in an inner tube.
He spent years as a chronic relapser, a gutter drunk who attended meetings while hammered, fighting the loud noise in his head that only booze could mute. He describes his early recovery as a ritualistic grind, becoming a "step Nazi" and a "rabid big book thumper" to avoid the void. The shift happened in the woods on a hunter's trail; after a quiet hour and a prayer, he felt the hamster fall off the wheel.
By surrendering his will to a Higher Power, the noise didn't vanish, but it stopped driving him. Now a hillbilly at heart with a fire pit and half-built sheds, he finds his purpose in the "God shots" that come from helping the sickest drunks wake up.
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