On a freezing Connecticut morning in 2013, I awoke in the basement of a stranger’s house; wishing I were dead. Foggy dawn was peeling the walls of the room, as much as it could from the tiny Plexiglas window in the corner. The white brick walls and the man next to me were unfamiliar but the overwhelming disappointment was the same; I had blacked out again.
But this time was different; the deep seeded hate for myself had uprooted and the pain was unbearable. As I buried my face in my hands exactly one thought hit my mind: I need to go to AA.
Despite never having the notion that I am an alcoholic, it was suddenly so clear. That morning when I felt like dying was actually the first day I started living.
I’m 26 years old, and this is my story…bum bum bummm…