Alcoholism is so insidious that it gently, seductively, puts thoughts in your head that are preposterous, but make perfect sense to you. For me it was the decision to drink alone, then in the mornings, and then the realization that (of course!) I should switch from wine to vodka. I had never been a liquor fan—it hadn't even occurred to me to try it. I thought the stuff tasted terrible. But the progression of my disease was so swift that I lost the ability to care about taste. All I wanted was effect. And vodka had effect all over wine. Cheap vodka gave me such a feeling of calm and warmth like I never had before. It also made me so dependent on it that I could not go more than a couple hours without drinking before it happened—withdrawal.

I can only describe alcohol withdrawal as feeling like you're possessed by the devil. It starts with the hands shaking, then the sweats, then constant vomiting. And if you can't get your hands on more booze the terror can go on for days, sometimes accompanied by hallucinations and seizures and even death. And it never gets better—in fact, withdrawal episodes get worse until eventually you lose your mind.

I believe that if a nonalcoholic went through one bout of withdrawal they would run screaming away from booze. But it only made this alcoholic more determined not to go without. My drinking made me pass out everywhere—the airport (I missed my flight home for Thanksgiving); the subway platform; my desk. I once drove to a convenience store for emergency wine—at 6 a.m., with a car that had a broken transmission.

Yet still I wasn't sure I was an alcoholic. I thought I just had really good tolerance.

My last drink happened three years ago. It was a lovely Sunday morning, and I had been drunk on rum all weekend. It was one of those miserable binges drunks get where they can't get drunk. And I was trying my darndest. But sometimes, it just doesn't happen. I didn't remember trips to the liquor store, but there were bottles all around me, so I must've gone. I hadn't walked or fed my dog since Friday. I needed a drink. But there was nothing home. I had drunk everything. I looked in the bathroom and saw I had even drunk the mouthwash. Then the shakes started as I realized liquor stores were closed, and my car was going nowhere.

Somehow in one of my greater moments, I had met and fallen in love with a wonderful man, who had actually fallen in love with me. He knew nothing of alcoholism, and just thought I liked to drink and tell bawdy jokes. So intent was I on not letting him know my secret that I would hide flasks in my purse so I would always stay "even" around him, and never stayed over lest my 2 a.m. need for a drink aroused suspicion. (He thought I was playing hard to get.)

But the jig was up and I called him. I told him what was going on—I must've been somewhat drunk to get up the courage—and that I was going to kill myself today if I didn't get help. In no time I was in rehab.