“I
am crunched tight in the fetal position, whimpering pitifully on a
piss-stained carpet covered with a layer of crushed plastic Wild Oak
Cider bottles. I have ended pretty much every day for the last decade
in this fashion. It is May 1999, I am 31 years of age, a skeletal
eight and a half stone, my teeth medieval and I smell a little like a
pet shop in summer. I am emotionally desolate, haunted by a profound
sense of sadness, a thousand nameless fears and the threat of some
terrible impending catastrophe. I believe I am ugly and worthless. I
hurt all over. My drinking is killing me. My thinking is killing me.
My behaviour has made everybody who knows me want to cry or punch me.
I have become a peculiar fusion of fox and snake, saloon-bar ponce
and high-street pest. My mind is vicious in its pursuit of alcohol. I
will steal your wallet and help you look for it. In the previous week
I have begged, borrowed, manipulated, collapsed in the street
carrying the last of my record collection to the pawn shop, drunk my
poor mum’s bingo money and carried out countless other charmless
acts of ruthless deviousness. It is a relentless, degrading,
endlessly humiliating existence. Everything I held dear has gone and
I am close to the end. Trapped. Compelled to harm myself. Day in and
day out. Hello, my name is Frank and, though I do not know it at the
time, I am an alcoholic and my head has very nearly broken my heart”
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