It’s true that as far as public alcoholic antics go, mine weren’t particularly exciting. I told secrets (mine and others’). I drove when I shouldn’t. I closed down bars on several continents and put myself in risky or just inane situations. I didn’t wreck my car, or get arrested, or fuck other people’s husbands. But the more sober time I racked up, the more clearly I saw that those unimpressive fuckups and lost evenings had been acts of aggression against myself. I’d hurt myself over and over.
.
