I didn't cause it. I can't control it. I can't cure it.

How can both Nics, the loving and considerate and generous one, and the self-obsessed and self-destructive one, be the same person?

How innocent we are of our mistakes and how we responsible we are for them.

Why does it help to read others' stories? It is not only that misery loves company, because (I learned) misery is too self-absorbed to want much company. Others' experiences did help with my emotional struggle.

At my worst, I even resented Nic because an addict, at least when high, has a momentary respite from his suffering. There is no similar relief for parents or children or husbands or wives or others who love them.

I am becoming used to an overwhelming, grinding mixture of anger and worry.

Openness is the first step toward recovery... addiction remains a secret because of the overwhelming shame associated with it.