My Life in a Bottle

Fter a four-day weekend bender, I finally hit bottom on a Sunday morning. I woke up that morning so sick that I thought every nerve was trying to crawl though my skin. I had the shakes and DT's so bad that I needed to do one of two things, kill myself or get professional help. A tough decision. I had the Irish gene, my mother died of scirosis when she was fifty. Seven of us kids made for a very dysfunctional household with two parents who were drunk most of the time growing up. The year was 1988, and I had been dringing since I was about 13 years old.
So about 36 years of putting it away.