A German wine glass, oversized and heavy, sat in the cabinet as Julie H. stared it down in 1983. She wasn't looking for a miracle; she was just putting it off. "I'll wait a minute," she told herself, a recurring loop that eventually broke a fifteen-year streak of nightly drinking. She had spent her youth as a "sweet girl" who lived in a blackout, drifting from college parties to a career as a flight attendant where the rules simply didn't apply to her. She married a drinking buddy and raised children in a haze of resentment and hidden bottles, convinced she was sophisticated while her life drifted.
For twenty-two years, Julie existed in the gray space between abstinence and sobriety. She was "dry," but she was mad as hell, mirroring the anger of the mother she feared. It took walking into a smoke-filled room of alcoholics to realize the people describing the wreckage were talking about her. She stopped fighting the current and traded her self-will for a Higher Power.
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