I kept going though, all sense of reason and sanity completely gone from my being.
I had a few bouts of sort of "forced" recovery, and swore off the hard stuff, but the moment I would take another seemingly harmless drink, I was off and running for whatever the mean streets had waiting.
The highlight of every evening was seeing a band play out somewhere locally.
Dying my hair colors that are not ever found in nature, hanging out and using at a tattoo shop, punking out to the max.
I was afraid to live, as I feared going back to the drink. My family and new AA sponsor helped me get into a county program for people who had been victims as I had, and also were alcoholics and addicts.
I felt that I would never be able to stop, even in the midst of all the horrors I had faced. I had a great psychiatrist who specialized in treating people with medications that would not become addictive or interfere with a person in recovery.
I would wake up in the night screaming my head off, looking in closets and behind the sofa for a predator, and even in the oven. Icertainly did not want to ever pick up a drink again.
He became very fanatical out of fear for my future, and exposed me to church experiences where they hollered and laid hands on, which scared me as a kid.
Alcohol helped me get "in" with the "punk" crowd which I admired for their "creativity".
I still had a place to lay my head at grandma's, but I would spend days if not weeks living out of my old car, wandering from flop house to flop house, drinking and drugging.
He was extremely militant with his punishment (the belt-- spare the rod and spoil the child was his favorite verse), and was one minute furious, and the next, very loving.
He bought me show horses to compensate for his temper, and also so he could keep an eye on me. I was an artist and into music, and would spend a lot of time alone studying science books and magazines. Started college intending to do nothing there but party, and so I did.