Like most people who think they have a drinking problem, I took an online assessment one day:

Q: Do you drink to deal with your feelings?

A: Of course.

Q: Do you drink alone?

A: Yes, I live alone.

Q: Have you had blackouts as a result of your drinking?

A: Doesn't everybody?

Although the Web site told me without a doubt that I was an alcoholic, I had my doubts. Severe doubts. Sure I drank all day, but I had a great job in finance, nice apartment, wonderful boyfriend. I hid my drinking because my bosses wouldn't understand, and they didn't need to know, did they? It was my performance on the job they loved—a performance that, to me, was only possible under the influence.

I hadn't been a boozer my whole life. Because my father drank heavily, I saw the destruction that alcohol could do, and thought I had better sense than he did, I was smarter … I would stay away. But at the same time, my father would bring me into bars with him at a very young age, and I would see the camaraderie, smell the rum and Cokes, hang out at the jukebox. And it didn't seem all that bad.

From then on alcohol had an attract/repel affect on me. I was a good kid, hated to get in trouble, and behaved myself even in college. My nickname in college was "Marmee" the name the March girls gave their mother in Little Women. It was a byproduct of my level-headedness and need to make sure my friends got home at night and didn't let their drinking get the best of them. But there were cracks in the armor. I didn't spend my time in college completely dry, and I had my share of lousy hookups and massive hangovers. Still, I thought, I was stronger than alcohol. Look at me compared to my father. Look at me compared to my friends! My behavior was nothing like theirs.

It wasn't until years later that alcohol really took hold of me. I was despondent over a broken relationship and bad career moves, and had just moved alone into a tiny studio. Others in my situation might have picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, sang I Will Survive a thousand times, and dived right into a new life. But not me—I thought my life was over at 26, and I'd failed. So I did what I had been taught to do years before. I drank. The sadness would go away for awhile, and I'd feel I was capable of anything. (This was not a feeling I could manufacture while sober.) Soon I was either passed out or (gasp!) sobering up and needing some refills before all the doubts and insecurities came quickly creeping back.

In no time I reasoned that if I felt this good in the evenings while drinking, I should start a bit earlier. And by "a bit," I meant as soon as I woke up. Before long I was having a few glasses before I left the house for work, kept a bottle of wine in my car, and would go down to the garage and guzzle some every 45 minutes or so. A healthy dose of mints kept my breath from advertising my secrets, but no amount of eye drops could cover the blood red eyes I got from lack of sleep (my addiction would tap me on the shoulder about 2 a.m. for a refill, and I'd then be wide awake until it was time to get ready for work). I'd stick my head under the sink to wash my hair, and that was about the extent of my bathing. I put on weight even though I only had liquid breakfasts, lunches and dinners. But my real downfall came in the form of vodka.