The first time I got drunk, at thirteen, I felt as Eve should have after tasting the apple. Or as a bird hatched in a cage would feel upon being unexpectedly set free. The drug provided physical relief and spiritual antidote for the persistent restlessness I’d been unable to identify or share. An abrupt shift of perspective coincident with guzzling half a gallon of wine in my friend’s basement somehow made me feel sure that both life and I were going to be all right. Just as light is revealed by darkness, and joy by sorrow, alcohol provided powerful subconscious recognition of my desperate
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