The brain of a chronic alcoholic is small, shriveled – like something left to dry out but forgotten. It’s far more terrifying to look at than the Alzheimer’s brain, which looks exactly like I thought it would. Like something that’s just stopped working.
I try not to think of my own brain as a wadded up towel in the driveway, something that served its purpose but had done the job so many times that it was starting to fray and grow threadbare in patches where it had been really ferociously applied. I’d like to think I stopped in time.