People with drinking problems didn’t look like me. There were no rock bottoms here; I was fine and dandy. I wasn’t eating out of a dumpster or injecting heroin behind the 7-Eleven. I wasn’t selling my body for a hit of crack or passed out on a park bench with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s clenched to my chest. I was a mum who deserved a break, a binge drinker, a partier who got shitty hangovers. But, secretly, I thought I was fading away, disappearing between the cracks. I felt trapped in a cycle with no way out. I was stuck in a pinot gris purgatory. I was sitting in a place where people couldn’t
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