The first event I identified as deeply spiritual was almost dying.

I had been drinking essentially nonstop for two and a half years. One night, I discovered that alcohol solved all my problems, and I didn’t stop for even one second after that—sometimes waking from sleep to drink.

Then I began having horrible withdrawal episodes. The worst happened in September 1999, and it ended in a grand mal seizure.

I woke lying face-down on a pillow while my aunt Sughra stroked my hair.

“Do you know what happened?” she asked as I opened my eyes.

I didn’t answer because I didn’t know.

“You had a seizure.”

The paramedics came. In the strange euphoria I felt afterward, I was loose, limp, and happy to surrender control to these tough, take-charge people who were saving me.

The next morning, in the hospital, I looked out the window at steam rising from vents on the roof. I can still see that steam: thick, white, billowy, still.

I thought, This is your one shot at life. You can’t keep trying to kill yourself. Do what you want—now.

My doctor, Stephen Diener, came in to check on me. He was incredibly gentle and kind. Tall, blond, wearing glasses, experiencing male-pattern baldness, and Jewish—my dream man!

He told me I would have to eat things like applesauce and warm bread until my tongue healed from having bitten down on it so hard during the seizure. He also assured me it was normal for my entire body to be sore—and I mean head to toe. My muscles had undergone quite a workout as they convulsed for lack of alcohol, my constant sedative for two and a half years.

I was on Librium, the first-choice benzodiazepine for treating alcohol withdrawal, and it made me loopy. Everything anyone said sounded like wavy poetry—beautiful music.