“Yesterday, six years ago, I was drinking vodka out of a Sprite bottle.”
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“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.”
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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.