A darkly funny literary memoir from the only one who survived to tell the story.
I used to think this was a book about addiction. It isn’t.
For almost twenty years, I buried myself in drugs and alcohol, surviving everything from arrests to overdoses with the desperate belief that there would always be one more chance to get my life back together.
Along the way, I found myself surrounded by people the rest of the world had mostly forgotten. Addicts, criminals, gangsters, dealers, friends, lovers, sons, daughters. We got sober together and relapsed together. We lied to one another, stole from one another, forgave one another. And for a while, in the isolated little worlds we built together, we were all we had.
Most of them are dead now.
The Bones of My Ghosts is an ode to those who didn't survive, a love letter to the family who never stopped caring about me, and a meditation on the guilt of being alive to tell the story.