“Yesterday, six years ago, I was drinking vodka out of a Sprite bottle.”
“Just over a month ago, I could see,” Kaylee Muthart writes. “Or maybe I should put it this way: I had both my eyes, but they didn’t help me notice how dangerous my life had become. Then, on February 6, my world went black.”
Alcoholism knows no boundaries.
It doesn’t show favorites.
It doesn’t care if you live in a 1 bedroom apartment or a half-a-million dollar home at the end of a cul-de-sac.
It doesn’t care if you are working for minimum wage only to spend your entire paycheck on vodka or making six figures with a stocked wet bar in the basement.
It will grab anyone within its reach with one specific purpose.