February 4, 1964: the day Peggy M. arrived at the doors of recovery, "done, cooked, fried, and willing." She describes a life lived as a human dichotomy—simultaneously presidential material and "lower than whale poop on the ocean floor." A "bubble off a plum" who never fit in, Peggy recalls the wreckage of a quart-of-vodka-a-day habit that left her smelling like a rotten potato and her brain "fried like bacon."
She recounts the grit of a Paris charity hospital, where she bathed a dying prostitute named Elena, seeing her own future in a pauper's grave. For Peggy, the Big Book tools are not for the faint of heart but are specifically designed for "arrogant, egomaniacal, egominiacal inferiority complex people." No longer a "Tasmanian devil" smacking schoolboys or a beatnik painting in a coal hole, she relies on a Higher Power and the "heartstrings" of fellowship to maintain a peace she once thought impossible.
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