After twenty-five years of sobriety, I’ve learned that recovery isn’t a finish line — it’s a way of living. My story took place in suburban New Jersey and the gay party scene of New York City, but the disease of alcoholism doesn’t care about zip codes. It strikes people in every small town, city, and countryside. Addiction knows no borders.

Growing up, my dad was the alcoholic in our house, and my mom was what we in recovery call an “untreated Al-Anonic.” My first drink was with neighborhood kids and on church youth group trips to Puerto Rico to help nuns. From there, it escalated — parties, bars, and eventually, the late ’80s and ’90s gay nightlife in New York City. At first, it was all fun. Then it was fun with problems. Then it was just problems.