The time I left our slanted rooftop apartment in San Francisco’s Castro district with its stained yellow tiles and foggy view of the city to ride in an ambulance to a psyche ward, I kicked meth for good. Twenty years later and still clean, I devour stories about addiction and redemption as hungrily as I once craved speed. Fiction and nonfiction stories about overcoming addiction and escaping death made me want to live in a way that no relentlessly optimistic self-help slogan could.
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