I couldn't shake it, you know?  That sick, cloying, self-ignited smell of sadness, of burn-out, of defeat and depression.  Waking from a tortured sleep, drifts of the last nightmare still smudged my mind, I realized dully that a life had been lost, again, to the power of addiction.

Despair and grief took a firm grip on me.  I was shaken and exhausted by the efforts that I'd made for the past week, in a losing battle.  The woman who had fought so hard to overcome her addiction, in part through me, had succumbed.  I only knew this because she never called me back after we split, nor her girlfriend, nor the old neighbour who'd put her up, temporarily.

I was supposed to go with Cricket to the shore today.  But the concept of even making words come out of my mouth was daunting.  I wanted nothing to do with people.  Nothing to do with the excitement of a holiday that isn't even mine.  I wanted nothing, but to be alone and lick my psychic wounds.  I wanted that ephemeral space that is not granted to those in need.  I wanted hope.

I went and had a terrible meal at the Mexican Post.  I should have stayed in my neighbourhood, where the food is authentic, cheap and great.  I next went and spent mad money at Head House Books, because this brand of escapism seems reasonable right now.  I moved onto Atlantic Books next, relentless in my persuit of other people's lives, other people's visions, other people's perfection.

I have an obscene ability to read.  I devour works on paper as a starving creature eats.  I've tried to curb my reading appetite by reading books of volume, complex concepts and even "quitting".  Of the latter, I would say that this was instrumental in creating this blog.  A frustrated reader attempting to write.

Speaking the truth is a quality that I have learned over the years.  It's a value that I have embraced, maybe to the discomfit of others.  The problem is, is that though the truth may set you free, some still are wrapped in the false promise that addiction states.

Addiction, like a mental illness, wants you to believe that you are well, regardless.  It, like mental illness, bares the odd fruit of desire, for it's effects.  It makes you believe that even though it has made you depraved, it is your best friend.  I believe that it induces that most confusing of diagnoses: Stockholm Syndrome.  How can one not help but fall for the drug or alcohol that at first made us feel everything that we had longed for?

The problem is, of course, ourselves.  Our mind and body have been usurped by a silent predator:  Desire.  The wish to be normal, fit in, feel O.K. about ourselves, to be beautiful, be happy, accepted, loved and painless.  For the addict, alcohol/drugs become a gateway to these desires, but ultimately backstabbing, lethal and relentlessly violent, the alcohol/drugs slam doors shut.  The only option left is surprisingly hard.

Death, or a sober life?

I believe that my first Major Depressive Episode happened when I was in High School. I woke up one beautiful day, the sun was shining as I looked out of the window. But I felt dry, hollow, dead inside. I eventually was diagnosed as having Bipolar II Disorder, but my journey there was long and hard. Even then, it took me years of spiraling downward, ever more crazed, my illness gaining some sort of incredible force each episode, until I finally sought the kind of help that I'd needed decades before.

My parents had been told by the British School of Brussels, that if I were to remain enrolled, I would be required to see a psychologist. Being the sensible Brits that they were, they offered me the choice of that, or attending a boarding school, then named Wadhurst College for Young Ladies. I was ten and opted for the latter.

It took them until the third time that I was institutionalized to visit me in the hospital. By this point, I was undergoing Electro-Shock-Therapy, which I'd elected whilst in a mental ward suffering from suicidal depression. It was not a choice I would make normally. After twenty-two "treatments" I was still a mess. Only I couldn't remember anything, which took many months of hard work to repair.  To this day, there are massive holes in my memory. This would be the only visit my parents would make, despite many stays over the next eight years.

I know two young women who are fighting mental illness with everything that they can bring to it. In their case, they are blessed to have their deeply concerned families along to help them.

My friend "Nola" was 302'ed (involuntarily committed) recently and ended up in what I can only say was a fabulous ward at Pennsylvania Hospital. When I went to visit her, I met her parents, who'd driven in from Chicago to be by her side. She's been released, and went to stay with them until she's stable enough to return to Philadelphia.

My other friend, "Ellen", left Philadelphia to be in the care of her family. Her illness is dark, complex and twists her mind into hearing and believing things that aren't of this reality. Right now, this has created too much stress for her to be able to function without support.

My path to wellness was only possible because I have incredible friends in Cricket and Betty the Siggi. Betty once gave me a corny plaque, which stated, "Friends are our chosen family". In my case, this is bittersweet and so very true.