I have never felt so lost and forgotten

In the humid presence of mid-morning, the shrieking howl of the Steamboat Natchez was my daily reveille. Noisome refuse washed up by the Mississippi would induce in me a sensation of nausea, which would linger until, clambering out of my living quarters beneath the wharf, I had procured a bottle of whiskey and drained it of its contents. This instantaneously filled me with the warmth of inebriation, and pouring sweat as a sun unthwarted by clouds oppressed me, my day would proceed as such: meander about the Vieux Carré, scouring the streets for a prospective hustle to collect enough money to manage my alcoholism; stare blankly at happy passers-by, and shout out verses of Dada poetry. I have never felt so lost and forgotten. I was swept up into that proverbial vicious cycle of drinking, despair, and then more drinking as the only trusted remedy to assuage my mounting woes. All my thoughts, once the train of their flawed logic was exhausted, directed my attention to seeking help; and so I surrendered my life over to the auspices of Bridge House, and ever since I have been engaged in the task of restoring my health and well-being. At Bridge House, I am a part of a diverse community of recovering addicts and alcoholics, who openly share their experiences, strengths, and hopes with each other to foster an environment of mutual growth and self-discovery. My actions are now imbued with purpose, and my life an example of authentic spiritual transformation. Nicholas B.

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