Forty-five seconds of breathing before the snoring starts loud enough to rattle the windows. Don H. describes the grating friction of early sobriety, where meditation feels like an exercise in futility and the mind is a "monkey" jumping from tree to tree. He speaks of the "shipwreck" of a life lived as "Shit-faced Shimmy," a persona born from a bloodline of "shit-faced assholes" and a father who was a "fucking mental case."
The wreckage is concrete: a jail cell, a one-eyed raccoon named Popeye, and a graveyard. Don H. details the raw work of the steps—offering tuna fish as a peace offering to a forest animal and standing before a mother's headstone to admit he was a "sober asshole." He rejects the family business of abuse, declaring that the buck stops with him to protect his son. It is a gritty account of distance—putting space between the man he was and the man he is becoming through a Higher Power.
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