I think I would like to go to rehab.

I didn’t go to rehab when I got sober in 1998. I went to the local AA clubhouse, which was a former Shriner’s clubhouse with a spiffy wood bar (promptly converted to a coffee shop) and a meeting room that seemed large  enough to drive around in little cars. I love my AA clubhouse and have had some wonderful times there. It had a major overhaul a couple of years ago and now features a nice pool table, a flat, large screen television above a fireplace, pin ball machines, a public access computer, and a lovely little cafe. Did I mention the coffee? We have cappuccino, too.

Still, I think it might be kind of nice to go to rehab. I don’t need it but I hear other recovering alcoholics talk about their rehabs like they’re sororities or  spas and I think I could use 30 days to “work on myself” … and my tan. I got the idea while trying to plan a vacation. I wanted to find a resort or spa for recovered alcoholics. A place where we could go and continue and expand our programs with lectures and seminars and yoga and massages and pedicures and really great healthy food. Meetings morning, noon and night. Movies. Tennis. Group meditations and long walks on the beach. Wouldn’t that be great?

Step 9: ”Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”

What I heard Tiger Woods say today was not a ploy to win back his wife, kids and sponsors. It was not penance. It was not superficial. It was a 9th step.

I have no proof that Tiger is in a 12-step treatment program besides what I have seen and heard. Tiger was in a Mississippi treatment center for 45 days. Among the staff is a renown expert in sex addiction whose treatment plan is based on a 12-step program. By going live on international TV, Tiger made  ”direct” amends to his legions of fans, critics, business partners, employees and  friends. He could have taken an easier, softer way and made an amends via a press release, email or blog. But that would not have been a “direct” amends. A “direct” amends is humbling and often humiliating.

A 9th step prohibits laying blame on others. You won’t hear a “yeah, but …” in a 9th step. It is about honestly assessing our role in a wrong and taking responsibility for what WE have done and not the harm others have done to us. So if your wife comes at you with a golf club and bashes in the back window of your SUV after she learns that you have had multiple affairs during your marriage, you don’t blame her. You look at YOUR side of the street and the harm YOU have done.

I interviewed conservative talk show host Larry Kudlow on Tuesday night, about 10 minutes after he finished his prime time show, The Kudlow Report, on CNBC. Kudlow is speaking in Palm Beach on Saturday night at a black-tie benefit for Gratitude House, a local treatment center for women – many who are off the streets and could never afford the kind of long-term residential treatment they get there.

I am not a big fan of talk shows – radio or television – whose hosts cover current events like they are fans at a hockey game – taunting each other’s beliefs with insults, threats and misinformation. I think these shows encourage viewers to draw a line in the sand – you are either on their side or you are not.

On the rude-o-meter Kudlow is nowhere near Palm Beach’s own Rush Limbaugh. Regardless of what you think about Kudlow’s beliefs,  the guy is brilliant and he has a resume that blows all other talk show hosts out of the water: Chief economist at Bear Sterns, Paine Webber and the OMB under Reagan. His is an author and regular contributor to The National Review. He was a member of the Bush Cheney transition team and advisor to Jack Kemp.

Personally, I don’t agree with some of Kudlow’s beliefs but he knows what he is talking about. He is NOT just another talking head.

What does any of this have to do with depression?

Kudlow is a fellow recovered alcoholic who speaks openly about his illness.

What does that have to do with depression?

I am one of those alcoholics who also has depression. I am dual diagnosed, like about half the other alcoholics out there. I don’t know if Kudlow is dual-diagnosed but I admire and respect the hell out of his 15-years in recovery. Unlike his TV persona, Kudlow –  the recovered addict and alcoholic – is soft-spoken, calm and humble when he speaks of his respect for his illness and 12-Step program.

He regularly attends meetings. He still reads his program’s literature every morning. He still prays. He still …

Please tell me that Steven Tyler’s relapse last year was not the cause of his splitting from Aerosmith this week. Tyler got clean in 1986 – when the band was in a drug and alcohol induced free-fall. Eventually the rest of the band got clean and sober and reunited for rock-n-roll’s biggest comeback ever. The new and improved, clean and sober Aerosmith united generations – with kids listening to their parents’ music and proved that sobriety did not mean a lifetime of musty church basements and bingo games on Saturday nights. In sobriety you can party without a drink, go to concerts and – best of all – remember it all in the morning. In other words, I can still have fun. And if sobriety is not fun, you probably won’t stay sober.

So, why am I writing about Tyler in my depression blog? Because I am triple-diagnosed. I have depression, bipolar and alcoholism. Aerosmith was the music of my high school days back in the mid-70s and I met Tyler in my favorite bar in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Aerosmith’s music was so tied to my drinking days that I did not know if I could ever listen to their music without craving a drink.

When I learned that the entire band had gotten clean and sober, I listened without worry. If they could MAKE that kind of music while sober, I could certainly LISTEN to it sober. The band gave me hope. It was cool to be sober and getting sober was the best thing I could do for my depression. For many years I turned to alcohol – a depressant – to self-medicate my depression.

But as we addicts and alcoholics know, sobriety it is a one-day-at-a-time program. After 20 years of sobriety Tyler relapsed on pain pills he began using after surgery on his throat. He checked into rehab in May 2008. Little has been said about whether Tyler has remained clean and sober but Tyler has been keeping his distance from his band mates. The band cancelled several shows in August after Tyler fell off the stage during a concert.  Since then Tyler hasn’t returned …

I had another “drunk dream” last night. After eleven years of sobriety I do not have them as often but I do still have them and probably always will. “Drunk dreams” are the dreams of recovered alcoholics. In our drunk dreams we relapse. In my drunk dreams I never actually drink or am drunk. My drunk dreams are always after the drink, the awful realization of what I have done and what I must now do.

Last night’s dream was especially disturbing. In it I tried to rationalize my relapse. I had not gotten fall-down, stupid, dance-on-the-bar drunk. I was just a couple glasses of wine. It really wasn’t like the horrible relapses you hear about. It was just a few glasses of wine on a few occasions. Of course, it was never like that in real life. It was always a few bottles of wine on every occasion.

But there I was, at a meeting, realizing that I would have to tell everyone that I had relapsed. I would have to walk to the front of the room and pick up a “white chip” – a poker chip that represents surrender for a newly sober alcoholic.  Oh the embarrassment! Oh the humiliation! Oh the gossip! (Obviously I still have some pride issues to work on…) In my dream my alcoholic brain was fast at work: “You know, no one here knows that you relapsed. No one saw you drinking. You really don’t need to tell everyone you drank. Just keep it to yourself. No one will ever know.”  Then the dream ended.

Now it is 6 am and a mild case of anxiety has settled in my chest. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like that my dream ended like that. I don’t want to feel like this. But this is the emotional chain-reaction that every dual-diagnosed alcoholic and addict lives with. The illnesses play with each other. And when one cannot come out to play, the others bang on the door of your subconscious until the other comes out to play.

Depression and alcoholism are twins that I must keep separated. I cannot let them play …

I got sober within hours of my husband and I splitting up. That was 11 years ago. Our daughter was 6. She is about to turn turn 18 and we are in college application hell. For the mentally ill parent – especially those of us who are dual diagnosed – this is our judgment day.

For many of us, we stare at the ACT and SAT scores, the transcripts and the lack of extra-curricular activities and we think, “Man, did I screw up. I failed her and now she will have to pay the consequences for my alcoholism, depression and bipolar.”

Could I have pushed her harder to join a club, try out for a team and study more? Yes. Could I have worked fewer hours and spent more quality time with her? Yes. Could I have been stricter, more disciplined and encouraging? Yes. Should I have gotten help for my alcoholism, depression and bipolar sooner? Yes. I could go on like this for hours, beating up myself for things I could and should have done.

I know a very wealthy woman with no children who blasts recovering addicts and alcoholics for continuing to use our illnesses as excuses for bad behavior. Is that what I am doing now? Am I using my alcoholism, depression and bipolar as excuses for the mistakes I have made as a parent – even as a sober parent? I want to shout – “I was trying to stay sober! My parents were terminally ill! I got divorced (again)! It was hard being a newly sober and single working parent!  I didn’t know I had depression or bipolar back then!”

But another voice shouts back: “Come on, you have been sober, in therapy and on your medications for awhile now. Your parents died years ago. Clearly, you could have been a better parent but you chose to use your illnesses as an excuse.” I simultaneously sit on my pity pot and beat myself up.

I know that all parents make mistakes. But for those of us with mental illnesses – especially alcoholism and addictions – there is a fine line between using our illnesses as …

There are those, too, who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest.

Chapter 5, How it Works, from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous

I had heard this sentence a thousand times at meetings before my diagnosis and never gave it a thought. Now I do. I believe it was written for us alcoholics and addicts who have a companion mental illness, such as depression, bipolar and schizophrenia. I have depression and bipolar along with alcoholism. Now, when that sentence is read, I hear it.

At first I could not figure out what it meant. Capacity to be honest? What does that mean? I am honest. I’m from Wisconsin. We’re terminally honest, don’tcha know? And why does it say “capacity to be honest” instead of just “honest.” Heck, I have the capacity for a LOT of things – you should have seen how much beer I used to drink.

So, what does that sentence mean? For me, honesty means accepting that I – alone – am powerless over all my mental illnesses – alcoholism, depression and bipolar. I cannot get better all by myself. I need to take off my cape and ask for help – and I HATE asking for help.

Honesty means I have to accept that all the meetings and 12th Step work in the world are not enough to make me well – I need medication. Honesty means I have to tell the truth – the whole truth – to my nurse practitioner. I must tell her that I am an alcoholic and I do NOT want any antidepressants, mood stabilizers, anti-anxiety or sleeping pills that could get me high – especially benzodiazepines.

Honesty means I have to treat ALL my mental illnesses – always. I cannot stop going to meetings just because I am taking my medications as prescribed. It does not mean that I can stop taking my medications because I think I am well and don’t need …

I have an illness that tells me I do not have an illness. I am an alcoholic. It is one of three mental illnesses that I have – along with depression and bipolar. I have not touched alcohol – not so much as mouthwash or cold medicine – in 11 years. I still go to meetings several times a week and volunteer to work with other recovering alcoholics. But sometimes I forget how bad it was. That is a very, very dangerous place to be if you are an alcoholic, especially an alcoholic with depression and bipolar.

I was a blackout drinker. At some point when I was drinking my memory would stop recording what I was doing. I did not have blackouts every time I drank. I would blackout without warning. Could be after one drink or after two bottles of chardonnay or not at all. I did not know I was in a blackout when I was in a blackout. You probably would not have known either. I could still talk, walk, dance on the bar, drive a car or have sex. You would see a drunk woman making a fool of herself. I would have no memory of any of it.

No matter how hard I tried to remember there was no memory. I would remember walking into a bar or restaurant, or opening a bottle of wine in the kitchen and then nothing until I woke up the next day. I am not capable of describing the fear, embarrassment and shame that follows a blackout, especially when it is paired with an epic hangover. Where is my car? Did I or didn’t I sleep with him? How did I get that bruise? What did I say to her to make her look at me like that? Nothing will stoke your depression like an unknown amount of alcohol coupled with unknown behavior.

It had been a long time since I had thought about my blackouts – until last night. I was blissfully sitting on the couch with my dog – “Dog” – watching an episode of Law & Order. A young, handsome, well-to-do professional woke …

In the last 24 hours I have watched two television programs depict recovery. I am pretty sensitive to portrayals of mental illness on television – from Quiznos commercials to the emmy award winning program Intervention. I am a recovering (some would say “recovered”) alcoholic.

Last night I watched the season premier of House. I like this program. No one can do narcissism and anti-social personality disorder like actor Hugh Laurie, who plays a brilliant doctor addicted to pain pills and being rude. Laurie makes a fine addict, especially when he stole the prescription pad from another doctor – also his best friend, who refused to write Dr. House any more prescriptions for pain killers. That is real. We addicts and alcoholics do things like that. Even addicts who are well-educated and well-to-do.

Last night’s portrayal of Dr. House’s withdrawal from pain killers was real, too. He vomited and hallucinated. He writhed and convulsed and ended up tethered to his bed. He looked like hell. He looked like someone in detox. It was a brilliant performance. The only part I did not like was the depiction of the mental ward where Dr. House was locked down. Straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, with Dr. House playing Jack Nicholson.

Tonight I watched another one of my favorite mentally ill characters: Dexter, the vigilante serial killer. I have known two serial killers in my career and neither were like Dexter.  Tonight’s episode had Dexter getting mixed up with his Narcotics Anonymous sponsor. I did NOT like this episode. It did NOT portray recovery – especially the sponsor/sponsee relationship – well. In fact, it did a huge disservice to the 12-step program.

To most people 12-step programs are a mystery. The 12-steps are like a secret initiation rite that no one talks or inquires about. They know that there are meetings and that we say “Hi. My name is Christine and I’m an addict/alcoholic.” They may have heard about sponsors but they do not know the sponsor’s role.

Which is why I got ticked off tonight at the portrayal of Dexter’s relationship with his sponsor. There are no rules in 12-step programs …

On my bedside table there are stacks of books, most on depression. On the table next to my beside table, there are stacks of book, most on depression. I have not read any of them. Sometimes I read a few pages from one. Then I put it back on the stack.

I did not buy these books. My friends gave them to me. I appreciate every one of those books. Each book represents someone trying to help me. I am grateful and touched by each book. That is why I keep them on my beside table and the table beside my bedside table.

The oddity of this struck me upside the head yesterday. I accepted an invitation to have lunch with a group of journalists to discuss the fate future of journalism. Someone asked me about writers who have influenced me. I easily named other hard-core news journalists whose work I admire. But mental health writers, I could only think of one: Sylvia Plath – my teenage role model)

It is not because there are no good writers writing about their struggle with mental illness. I mean, William Styron was a brilliant writer. But I only read a couple dozen pages of his classic, Darkness Visible, and then put it down. I haven’t even cracked Kay Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind or Noral Vincent’s Voluntary Madness. I really should read these books. I really want to read these books. I can’t seem to do it.

I don’t want to read about another person’s misery right now. Been there. Done that. Don’t want to read about it. Believe me, I get the irony. Using my own logic, why would anyone want to read my writing? Good question.

I know this: I could not read or write – two of my greatest passions – when I was depressed and that scared the hell out of me. I could not read the newspaper I had been writing for over 20 years. I asked over and over, “It’s going to come back, right? I’m going to be able to read and write again, right?”

“Yes,” my therapist and nurse practitioner assured …