I held my older brother in my arms as he died. He had drunk himself to death. The night he died, he was in a hospice because of liver failure. He was only 45. His last breath is forever burned into my mind.

 That could have been me. I had quit drinking 17 years earlier, when I was in my late twenties. I had found my bottom, which alcoholics and addicts need to do. The beginning of the end for me was an acid trip during which I did a number of exceptionally stupid things.

The following month was pretty hardcore, even by my standards. I had “the buzz” down to an art form. I knew how much I needed to drink so that when I smoked the weed, I found the perfect oblivion.