Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. A Saturday night on the corner of 75th and 20th. A quart of cold Colt 45 beer and the sudden, dangerous realization that the vibrating stopped and the voices went away. Peter M. describes the "glow" of that first drink—a fake passage into manhood that led him straight to a dungeon of his own making.
He traces the wreckage: seven rehabs, stealing from his own father, and living in a fleabag motel where he washed down Valium with Jack Daniels just to stop the shaking. He speaks of the "incomprehensible demoralization" of the streets, panhandling from truck drivers while wearing shoes full of holes. After cursing a Higher Power from the sidewalk of 9th Avenue, he hit a bitter end that left him with no tools but willingness. From the waterfronts of Brooklyn to a recovery center in Minnesota, Peter describes the shift from seeking relief—which he calls "holding on for dear life"—to finding a neutrality that finally set him free.
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