My nuclear family has an inglorious history with medication and self-medication that has rippled through the generations. How many generations exactly, I can't be sure. My grandpa James Ross Wingate was a drinker, and my dad was a drinker. By the time my brothers and I came along, drink was no longer the only popular option for self-desecration, and we took advantage of that to desecrate ourselves in new and exciting ways. 

There's so to cover much in this path––which seems thin at first glance, because it only contains three sub-paths––that it feels appropriate to only say a single, over-arching thing here: how incredibly thankful that I got the family disease of addiction in its weakened form. If it had come to me in even a few percentage points stronger of a dose, I wouldn't be writing this. I might not even be here to write at all. 

1. BOOZEHOUND
2. THE FAMILY PROBLEM
3. FEARS FOR THE KIDS