Alex Whietfield

Staying sober during chaos feels like sitting beside a glass of water while storms howl outside hard, sometimes lonely work. Each urge to drink pricks at you, sharp as nettles. Coltrane’s sax and Turner’s wild brushstrokes become lifelines through turbulent moments. I remember New Orleans’ humid air, bourbon once seeming like medicine a dangerous illusion that nearly consumed me. Recovery is messy: feeling the itch, naming fears, breathing through emotional aches that pulse like distant traffic. Some mornings doubt creeps in, whispering old temptations. Whoosh then hope arrives, soft as sunlight on a cool glass, fragile yet unbreakable.